Chapter Twenty-Two
Nico
The door to her bedroom is cracked open, a warm stripe of light spilling into the hall.
A lamp is on inside.
I stop at the threshold for half a beat, still in my suit, because I don’t have anything else and I’m not sure how Erica would feel about me walking around her house in boxer briefs.
I nudge the door open with my knuckles and step in.
Erica is in bed, duvet pulled up to her neck like armor, reclined against her pillows with her phone in her hand. The second she sees me, she locks the screen and hugs it to her chest like I caught her doing something she shouldn’t.
Her face goes red fast.
Interesting.
I shut the door behind me and lock it—habit—and keep my movements deliberate as I cross the room. The lamp throws a soft glow over everything, blurring the edges, making the space feel smaller and more intimate.
“What were you doing?” I ask casually, like I don’t care.
She clears her throat. Doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Nothing.”
That makes me want to smile. I don’t.
Her gaze flicks down my suit like she’s clocking it for the first time, and then she winces, the apology already forming.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I—I don’t have anything that would fit you.”
“I know,” I answer.
It’s not the first time I’ve had to make do. If I didn’t suspect she’d be uncomfortable, I’d strip down, get into bed, and call it a night.
But I have a feeling that wouldn’t go over the way I’d like. Or maybe it would, and I should just do it.
I glance at the bed again—big, at least. Big enough, tall enough, that I can actually fit. I had a moment earlier where I pictured some narrow college mattress, and her practically on top of me out of necessity.
It would’ve been highly appealing.
I step to the chair in the corner and start with my shirt, unbuttoning the rest of the way. The cool air hits my skin.
Erica takes a quick, sharp breath.
Not loud.
But I hear it.
In the mirror above the dresser, I see her eyes drop down to her phone like it’s suddenly urgent.
I don’t comment.
I shrug the shirt off and toss it over the chair.
My tie and belt have been gone for hours. Just the pants left.
I unbutton them and unzip, slow and unhurried, because I’m not going to pretend I’m not aware of her watching me. She thinks she’s being subtle.
She isn’t.
I glance at the bed—at the duvet pulled tight to her chin, at the way she’s tucked herself in like she’s trying to disappear under the fabric.
And I wonder, briefly, what she’s wearing under there.
I don’t see any evidence yet of clothes, but I’m not stupid. She’s not naked.
The things I’d do to her if she were naked…
All bets are off if she’s naked. Even I don’t have that kind of control.
I find myself hoping. A man can dream, right?
I strip my socks off first, then as I step out of my pants, I slip off the holster and weapon strapped to my calf with subtlety earned from years, with Erica none the wiser. In seconds, they’re folded neatly into my pants, which I lay on top of my shirt. Practical.
When she’s asleep, I’ll move everything within arm’s reach of the bed. There is security stationed in the neighborhood, but I prefer to have a hands-on approach to my own safety as well.
Then I turn back toward the bed.
Now that I’m down to boxer briefs, Erica’s eyes go wide for a fraction of a second as her eyes drop down to my bulge before she snaps them away, like she burned herself.
As if she hasn’t already seen my cock.
As if she hasn’t already had it inside her.
As if she hasn’t already begged for it.
She grips her phone tighter against her chest, knuckles paling.
Won’t be long until you do again, I promise silently.
I keep my face neutral and my voice even.
“I need to be closer to the door,” I murmur, nodding toward the side I’m standing on.
Either she knows why, or she doesn’t care. But she says, “Yeah. Yeah—of course.”
She scoots over quickly, duvet shifting with her.
And for a second—just a second—I catch a glimpse of her under it.
A very thin, very small tank top. Very small shorts.
The kinds that do nothing to hide that body from me.
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
Erica drags the blanket higher like she realizes what she showed me and wants to take it back.
I pretend I didn’t notice.
She pretends she didn’t.
It’s the only way this works tonight.
I sit down carefully on the edge of the mattress, closest to the door, keeping space between us even though the bed is big enough for that not to be an issue.
But it feels like an issue.
The air is thick with unspoken things, with the memory of her hands on me, of the taste of her mouth, the way she sounded when she came—muffled, desperate, right next to my ear. The space between us is so heavy it feels alive. And I know she feels it too, because she’s holding herself so still.
But I told myself I wouldn't push her.
After her breakdown today, she has a few things to work out, especially when it comes to her submission and her acceptance of it. Pushing her now would be a mistake.
One I’m not willing to make.
I lie back slowly, deliberately, until my head hits the pillow.
The sheets are cool on my back.
From here, I can see the line of her shoulder in the dim light. The way she’s twisted away from me, curled into herself. Like she’s trying to make herself as small as possible.
I can still taste her.
My cock stirs, a slow, heavy throb against the fabric of my briefs.
I need to get that under control.
But it’s hard. Literally. When she’s right there.
I shift, trying to get comfortable. Trying to adjust without making it obvious.
The mattress dips with my weight, and I feel the fabric tug under me. She tenses again. I watch her breathe. In. Out. The rhythm of it is shallow. Too fast.
She’s nervous.
I don’t blame her.
I wait a long moment, letting the silence stretch. Letting her get used to me being here.
She’s going to have to because I won’t be letting this go so easily.
Then, I shift again—deliberate this time—letting my arm brush against her back through the duvet.
Just a whisper of contact.
Just a reminder.
Erica jerks slightly, a tiny, aborted movement like she’s been shocked.
Her breathing hitches.
I don't move away, letting her think it was an accident, though I'm not sure she'd fall for that. I want her to feel the heat of me there, so close to her skin, only fabric separating us.
Another minute passes.
Her back is still rigid against my arm, but she doesn't move. Doesn’t pull away.
I let my fingers flex slightly against the duvet, feeling the texture of it, the way it drapes over the curve of her spine. I don't grab. I don't hold. I just rest them there, getting her used to my proximity.
After a beat that feels like forever, she relaxes. A small, subtle movement that makes the duvet on her back fall slightly, gaping.
She’s curled on her side, facing away from me, with her tank top exposed. My gaze drops to it, tracing the delicate strap of it, the smooth skin of her shoulder. I could trace it with my tongue. I could taste her there. I could feel her shudder.
My cock thickens, straining against my briefs.
I take a slow breath, trying to rein it in.
I can feel her heat through the thin fabric of the duvet, and I’m hit with a memory so vivid it's almost like it's happening now: the heat of her bare skin under my hands in that hotel room, the way she felt moving against me, squirming and writhing desperately.
Her moan in my ear as I held her down, pinned her with my body, and ordered her to come for me.
My hand flexes again, thumb pressing gently into the duvet, right over the dip of her lower back.
I watch her body react.
A shiver runs through her, starting at the point of contact and rippling outwards.
She shifts her leg, and I hear the soft whisper of skin on skin.
I don't know what she’s doing under there. But I can picture it.
My imagination runs wild.
I wonder if she’s wet.
I wonder if she’s thinking about the night of the auction.
Because I am.
I’m thinking about the scent of her, sweet and musky and all mine. I’m thinking about the way she looked, spread out for me, begging me to fuck her, take her virginity.
I’m thinking about how easy it would be to flip her over right now, to peel back the covers and claim her again. To make her mine.
To make her admit she wants it.
And she would. Oh, she would.
So naturally submissive and responsive to my touch, to my dominance. Her body, a perfect instrument tuned to my desire.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
I would prefer her to come to me.
I want her to need this as much as I do.
I wait.
The only sounds in the room are our breathing—hers shallow and uneven, mine deeper, more controlled.
My arm starts to ache from the awkward angle, but I don’t move.
I don’t want to break the spell.
I wait another minute. Two.
Then, I feel it.
A tiny, almost imperceptible shift.
She leans back.
Just a fraction of an inch.
Just enough to press her back more firmly against my arm.
Encouragement.
An invitation.
My lips curve into a smile in the darkness.
But it's not enough.
Taking her again, before she's ready to accept her submission, before she's ready to admit how much she wants it, would only lead us right back to the same place.
With Erica unable to deal with her feelings of shame and guilt. With her running from me.
With her on the floor, in tears.
And that is the last thing I want.
So, I keep my arm where it is.
And I wait.
She shifts again.
This time, it’s less subtle.
She arches her back slightly, a silent plea for more contact.
My cock jumps at the gesture.
I’m so hard it’s painful.
I want to roll over and press it against the soft curve of her ass.
I want to feel her move against me, to hear her moan and call me "Sir."
Instead, I let my fingers curl, just slightly, against the duvet.
And I wait.
Finally, after a few moments that feel like an eternity, I feel the bed shift as she rolls over.
She’s on her other side now, facing me.
Her eyes are wide, and she looks terrified.