Chapter 10
Ezra
The couch was a wreck.
The leather cushions were skewed, the throw blanket was on the floor, and the air in the living room was heavy with the scent of sex—musk, sweat, and the lingering sweetness of Amara’s perfume.
We lay tangled together in the aftermath of the crash. My heart was still hammering against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with the hockey game and everything to do with the girl currently resting her head on my chest.
Amara Vane. My enemy. My problem. My…
I didn't have a word for what she was anymore. Fake girlfriend felt like a lie. Mistake felt like blasphemy.
She shifted, her hand splaying over my pectoral muscle, her fingers tracing the ink of the tattoo on my ribs. She let out a soft, contented sigh that vibrated through my sternum.
“We should move,” she whispered sleepily. “Your knee needs ice. And this couch is starting to feel less like furniture and more like a crime scene.”
I chuckled, a low rumble in my chest. I ran my hand down the smooth curve of her naked back, savoring the friction of skin on skin.
“You’re right,” I said.
But I didn't move. I couldn't.
Because if we moved, the moment broke. If we moved, we had to put clothes on. We had to face the reality of the morning, the dinner, the father who viewed human connection as a weakness to be exploited.
For the last hour, in the dark of this room, I hadn't been Ezra Sterling, the Heir. I had just been a man. A man who wanted a woman so badly it felt like starvation.
“Ezra?” Amara lifted her head. Her hair was a wild, platinum halo around her face. Her lips were swollen, bitten red. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and soft.
She looked wrecked. And I had done it.
A surge of possessive pride roared through me, drowning out the rational part of my brain that was currently screaming about consequences.
“We’re not sleeping here,” I said.
I sat up, gritting my teeth against the sharp protest of my left knee. I ignored it. Pain was just information. Right now, the information was irrelevant compared to the need to get her into my bed.
“Can you walk?” she asked, reaching for her discarded jersey.
“Leave it,” I commanded.
Her hand froze. She looked at me, her eyes widening.
“I’m carrying you,” I said.
“Ezra, your leg—”
“Is fine.”
I stood up. It wasn't graceful, and a bolt of white-hot agony shot up my thigh, but I locked my knee and shoved the pain into a box in the back of my mind. I reached down and scooped her up.
She weighed nothing. She wrapped her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck, burying her face in the crook of my shoulder.
“You’re stubborn,” she murmured against my skin. “And stupid. And incredibly strong.”
“Compliments won’t save you,” I growled.
I carried her down the hallway. Past the grey guest room where she had slept for the last week. Past the art on the walls that cost more than most houses.
I kicked open the door to the master suite.
My room was different from the rest of the penthouse. The living area was glass and light. My bedroom was a cave. Blackout curtains. Dark wood. A massive bed with black silk sheets that swallowed the light.
And the mirrors.
I had designed the room for acoustics and visuals. A floor-to-ceiling mirror lined the wall opposite the bed. Another hung on the ceiling directly above it.
It was a room designed for vanity. For control.
I walked to the bed and placed her in the center of the mattress. The black silk contrasted sharply with her pale skin, making her look like a pearl resting on velvet.
She looked around, taking in the room. Her eyes landed on the mirror above the bed.
She swallowed.
“Wow,” she whispered. “This is… intense.”
“It’s honest,” I said.
I limped to the edge of the bed and sat down, dragging my bad leg up. I leaned back against the headboard, watching her.
“Come here,” I said.
She crawled toward me. The movement was fluid, feline. She stopped when she was kneeling between my legs, her hands resting on my thighs.
“We already…” she started, her voice breathless. “I mean, on the couch… that was…”
“That was a reaction,” I said. “That was adrenaline and panic and three days of holding back.”
I reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. My hand lingered on her jaw, my thumb brushing her lower lip.
“This,” I murmured, “is deliberate.”
I saw the shiver run through her. I saw the way her pupils dilated, swallowing the brown.
“What do you want, Ezra?” she whispered.
“I want to see you,” I said. “Every inch. I want to map you. I want to know exactly where to touch to make you fall apart, and exactly how long I can keep you on the edge before you beg.”
She gasped. “You’re… you’re terrifying.”
“Does it scare you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
She looked at me. It was the moment of truth. She could end this. She could pull back, put on the jersey, and go to the guest room. We could pretend the couch was a one-time mistake.
She shook her head. A slow, definitive movement.
“No,” she said. “Don’t stop. Never stop.”
That was it. The surrender.
The last wall between us crumbled to dust.
“Good girl,” I praised.
The words acted like a physical caress. Her shoulders dropped. Her head tilted back. She leaned into my hand, chasing the contact.
“Turn around,” I commanded.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then turned, presenting her back to me. She sat on her heels, facing the mirror on the wall.
I moved behind her. I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her flush against my chest.
“Look,” I whispered, nodding toward the glass.
In the mirror, we were a study in contrasts. My tanned skin against her pale porcelain. My dark hair against her platinum. The sheer size of me engulfing her.
“Look at yourself, Amara.”
She lifted her eyes to the reflection.
“What do you see?” I asked.
“I see…” She faltered. “I see a mess. My hair is crazy. My lips are swollen.”
“I see a masterpiece,” I corrected. I ran my hands up her ribcage to cup her breasts. “I see chaos theory in human form. Beautiful. Unpredictable.”
I pinched her nipples.
She cried out, her back arching, her head falling onto my shoulder.
“Watch,” I ordered. “Keep your eyes open.”
I bit the sensitive cord of her neck, watching her expression in the glass. I watched the way pain and pleasure mixed on her face, the way her brow furrowed, the way her lips parted.
“You like this,” I murmured against her skin. “You like being held. You like knowing you can’t move unless I let you.”
“Yes,” she hissed. “Yes, Sir.”
The title hit me like a drug.
I moved one hand down her stomach. Flat. Soft. I traced the line of her hip bone.
“You’re so responsive,” I whispered. “Like a finely tuned instrument. All I have to do is play the right note.”
I slid my hand between her legs.
She was still wet. Slick with me. Slick with her own desire.
I didn't enter her. Not yet.
I found her clit. It was swollen, hypersensitive from the last round. I circled it lightly, barely touching.
She whimpered, bucking her hips, trying to force more pressure.
“Ah,” I tutted. “Patience.”
I held her hips still with my other arm, locking her in place.
“We’re going to take our time now,” I said. “We’re going to erase everything else. The game. The dinner. The ledger. There is nothing but this room. Nothing but my hand.”
I increased the speed, just a fraction.
She watched herself in the mirror. She watched my hand moving between her legs. She watched her own unraveling.
It was the most erotic thing I had ever witnessed.
“Ezra,” she panted. “Please. I need…”
“What do you need?”
“I need you inside me.”
“Not yet.”
I kept teasing her. I kept her right on the edge of the cliff, letting her look down, but refusing to let her jump.
Her breathing turned ragged. Sweat sheen on her skin.
“You’re cruel,” she sobbed.
“I’m thorough,” I corrected.
I moved my hand away.
She let out a cry of frustration, slumping back against me.
“Turn around,” I said. “Face me.”
She turned. Her face was flushed, her eyes wild. She looked like she wanted to hit me or kiss me, or both.
I lay back against the pillows.
“Ride me,” I said.
She blinked. “Your knee…”
“My knee is fine as long as I don’t move it. You do the work, Amara. You take what you need.”
She didn't hesitate this time.
She crawled over me. She straddled my hips. She looked down at me, her hair cascading over her shoulders like a silver curtain.
She reached down and guided me.
As she sank onto me, our eyes locked.
This wasn't the frantic friction of the couch. This was slow. Deep. Every inch was a negotiation. Every inch was a confession.
I am here. I am yours. I am terrified.
When she was fully seated, she paused. She placed her hands on my chest, right over my heart.
I could feel her pulse in her fingertips.
“You’re so deep,” she whispered.
“I want to be deeper,” I said. “I want to be part of you.”
She began to move.
It was agony. It was heaven.
She rode me with a rhythm that was all her own—chaotic, passionate, beautiful. She ground down, hitting spots that made my vision white out.
I reached up and grabbed her hips, helping her, guiding her.
“Look at me,” I commanded. “Don’t close your eyes.”
She stared down at me.
And in that moment, I saw it.
I saw the fear behind the lust. I saw the vulnerability she hid from the world with designer clothes and bratty comments.
She was trusting me with her body, yes. But she was also trusting me with her self-worth. If I hurt her now… if I treated this like a transaction… I would destroy her.
The realization hit me harder than the check into the boards.
I hold her life in my hands.
And for the first time, I didn't want to leverage it. I wanted to protect it.
“Amara,” I groaned. “You’re undoing me.”
“Good,” she gasped. “Let go, Ezra. Let go of the control.”
She increased the pace. She was relentless.
I felt the pressure building. The coil tightening in my gut.
“I’m close,” she warned. “Ezra, I’m close.”
“Go,” I said. “Take it. It’s yours.”
I reached up and played with her clit as she rode me.
That was the spark.
She screamed.