Chapter 8
Natalie
Iwake up before the sun because my body has decided sleep is less important than emotional damage.
For one soft, floating second, I think I am still dreaming.
It would explain the sheets. The quiet. The faint smell of cedar and expensive soap. The enormous bed. The fact that I am naked in a presidential suite with a very specific ache between my thighs and a memory reel in my head that should probably require a warning label.
Then the arm around my waist tightens.
Jordan.
Heat crawls up my neck.
Yes, I am naked. He is naked.
This feels like important information my body should have prepared me for before waking up pressed against him.
His chest is against my back, warm and hard. One heavy thigh is tangled with mine beneath the sheets. His hand is spread low on my stomach, possessive even in sleep, like some part of him decided I might wander off and needed securing.
I should move carefully.
I do not.
I shift a little, trying to ease my hip away from the ache between my thighs, and my backside brushes against him.
Jordan goes still behind me.
Fully still.
The arm around my waist tightens again, and something thick and hard presses against me.
My breath catches.
His voice comes rough with sleep against the back of my neck. “Natalie.”
That single word should not make my thighs press together.
It does.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I whisper.
“You moved.”
“I am allowed to move.”
“Not like that.”
My pulse trips.
His hand slides up my stomach, stopping just below my breasts. He does not touch them. Somehow that is worse. His mouth brushes the side of my neck, and my entire body remembers last night with alarming enthusiasm.
I turn carefully in his arms.
He lets me, but his hand stays on my waist as I roll to face him.
His hair is mussed. His jaw is rough. His eyes are half-lidded and dark in the early morning, and he looks less like the CEO who orders rooms and wardrobes and more like the man who took me apart in this bed and put me back together against his chest.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“I am gathering data.”
His mouth almost softens. “At dawn?”
“I’m dedicated.”
His hand flexes on my waist. “You sore?”
A blush burns through me. “A little.”
“Then I’m not taking you again this morning.”
The disappointment that drops through me is deeply inappropriate considering the topic is my recently introduced body parts staging a small protest.
“Oh,” I say.
His eyes sharpen. “Do not make that sound.”
“What sound?”
“The one that makes me want to break my own word.”
I bite my lip.
His gaze drops there.
The room seems to heat around us.
I should say something normal. Good morning, perhaps. Or thank you for the life-altering activities. Or please direct me to the nearest coffee.
Instead, my hand slides under the sheet.
Jordan’s body goes tight.
“Natalie.”
“I think I need another lesson,” I whisper.
His eyes go very still.
My fingers brush his stomach first, over hard muscle and warm skin. Then lower, following the dark line of hair until I reach him.
His cock is hot and heavy in my hand.
Bigger than memory.
My whole body turns molten.
Jordan’s grip on my waist turns almost punishing before he eases it. “Careful.”
“I am being careful.”
“Are you?”
“Very.”
His jaw flexes.
I wrap my fingers around him, uncertain at first. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, and the sound gives me courage I have absolutely not earned.
“Show me,” I say.
His eyes burn into mine. “You want me to teach you how to touch my cock?”
My face goes nuclear.
“Yes.”
The word comes out barely there.
His hand covers mine, firm and warm. “Tighter.”
I obey.
His eyelids lower.
The sight of Jordan Richmond losing even that much control because of my hand makes something bright and reckless bloom in my chest.
“Like that?”
“Like that.”
He guides me slowly, his hand over mine, showing me the rhythm, the pressure, the way his breathing changes when I twist my wrist just right.
My nerves fade beneath fascination.
A strange, reckless kind of power blooms in my chest. Jordan Richmond wants me badly enough that I can feel it in my hand, and every rough breath he takes makes me braver.
I lean closer and press my mouth to his chest. His hand falters over mine.
“Don’t start something you’re not ready to finish,” he says.
“I thought you were teaching me.”
“I am trying to survive you.”
That sends a thrill through me.
I slide lower before I can talk myself out of it. His hand drops from mine and fists in the sheet as I kiss his stomach, then lower. I look up at him once.
His face is hard with restraint.
“Open your mouth,” he says, voice rough.
I do.
“Tongue flat.”
I follow the order, licking him slowly, and he makes a sound so deep and broken that my entire body clenches in response.
“Again.”
I do it again.
His hand slides into my hair, guiding me.
“Take the head into your mouth.”
My cheeks flame, but I obey. He is heavy on my tongue, salty and hot, and the way his body reacts makes embarrassment dissolve under a wave of hunger.
“That’s it,” he says. “Slow.”
I hollow my cheeks because I read books, thank you very much, and Jordan’s hips jerk.
“Natalie.”
I pull back quickly. “Bad?”
His laugh is a rough breath. “Too good.”
My confidence nearly floats me off the bed.
I take him again, deeper this time, while my hand works what my mouth cannot. He guides me with low, broken instructions, telling me when to slow down, when to use my tongue, when to take more.
“Eyes on me.”
I look up.
His grip tightens in my hair.
“Good girl.”
The words go straight through me.
I moan around him.
Jordan curses.
“Say that again,” I whisper when I pull back for air.
His chest rises hard. “Good girl?”
I shake my head, cheeks burning so hot they may never recover. “The other thing. The eyes thing.”
Something dark crosses his face.
“Eyes on me.”
My stomach flips. “Yes, sir.”
His entire body jerks.
Oh.
Oh, that is information.
His eyes go black. “Natalie.”
I do not know where the bravery comes from. Lack of sleep, probably. Possibly sexual possession. Maybe the strawberry tart altered my blood chemistry.
I say it again, softer. “Yes, sir.”
His control snaps.
His hand tightens in my hair, and he groans my name as I take him back into my mouth.
He does not force me. He does not need to.
His restraint turns rough around the edges, his instructions darker, his praise lower, and I follow every word because making Jordan Richmond come apart feels like discovering fire and deciding to keep it.
“That’s it. Use your hand. Just like that.”
I do.
His breathing breaks.
“Do not stop.”
I do not.
He comes with a harsh groan, one hand gripping the sheet, the other tangled in my hair, and I swallow what I can while my body shakes with the knowledge that I did that to him.
When I pull back, my lips feel swollen, my cheeks are hot, and Jordan looks at me like I have ruined him.
He reaches for me.
I squeak when he drags me up his body and kisses me hard, filthy and grateful and possessive.
“You,” he says against my mouth, “are trouble.”
“I learned from a very troubling man.”
His mouth finds mine again, and for a few minutes, the world is warm skin, tangled sheets, and his hand stroking down my back with surprising tenderness.
Then he shifts, and I wince before I can stop myself.
His expression changes immediately.
“Shower,” he says.
“I am beginning to notice you enjoy commands.”
“You enjoy obeying them.”
My face heats.
He carries me to the bathroom because walking seems optional when Jordan Richmond has opinions. The shower is enormous, with stone tile, glass walls, and too many silver fixtures. Warm water spills over us a minute later, and I sigh as it hits sore muscles.
Jordan’s hands are gentle as he washes me.
That should make this less intimate.
It does not.
His palms move over my shoulders, my arms, my back. He turns me under the spray and lathers soap over my stomach, my hips, my thighs. When his hand moves between them, I catch his wrist.
“I’m sore.”
“I know.”
His eyes hold mine.
“No penetration,” he says.
Then his thumb strokes lightly over me.
My knees weaken.
“That is still unfair,” I whisper.
“That is the point.”
My back meets the cool tile. Jordan goes down in front of me, water running over his shoulders, his hands firm on my thighs.
“Jordan.”
“Hold on to me.”
I slide my fingers into his wet hair.
He lifts one of my legs over his shoulder and puts his mouth on me.
The world disappears.
There is only the water, the tile against my back, and Jordan licking me with slow, devastating focus.
He avoids anything that makes me flinch and finds every place that makes me gasp.
He uses his tongue over my clit, firm and patient, while his hands hold me open for him like he has all morning and every intention of using it.
I tremble.
He looks up at me.
“Eyes on me.”
My breath breaks. “Jordan.”
“Say it.”
My whole body burns. “Yes, sir.”
His mouth returns to me, and I come so fast I nearly sob, pleasure rolling through me while he holds me steady against the tile.
When my knees finally give out, he catches me.
He rises, wraps me in his arms, and lets the warm water run over both of us.
I press my face to his chest, breathing hard.
“I think this lesson needs a warning label,” I mumble.
His hand moves over my wet hair.
“You’ll get used to it.”
I lift my head. “I don’t think so.”
His eyes are dark, possessive, and far too awake for this early in the morning.
His thumb brushes my lower lip, still swollen from him.
“Breakfast?”
“Please.”