Chapter 10 Tessa
TESSA
Waking up in a strange bed usually starts with a moment of panic. The disorientation. The frantic search for a phone. The sudden, crushing weight of regret.
But waking up in Owen Branson’s bed doesn’t feel like panic.
It feels like… sinking.
The mattress is so soft it swallows me whole. The sheets are high-thread-count cotton, cool against my bare skin. And it smells like sweat, sex, and stale breath. It’s in the pillows. It’s in my hair. It’s even seeping into my pores.
I keep my eyes closed to stop the morning light from ruining the illusion, pretending for a few seconds I’m just a normal twenty-five-year-old woman who went home with a hot guy from a bar.
I can pretend I didn’t just sleep with my boss.
I can pretend I didn’t just cross a line that my best friend drew in the sand years ago.
I shift my legs. My muscles ache—a deep, heavy soreness that reminds me of exactly what we did. My lips feel raw and bruised.
“Don’t frown,” a raspy, sleep-rough voice murmurs right next to my ear. “You’ll get wrinkles.”
My eyes fly open.
Owen is propped up on one elbow, watching me.
His hair is a chaotic mess of dark waves sticking up in every direction. There’s a pillow crease on his cheek. He looks sleepy, rumpled, and unfairly devastating. The sheet is pooled at his waist, leaving his broad, sculpted chest completely bare.
I spot a scratch mark on the hard slab of his pec—a red, angry line.
I did that.
Heat rushes up my neck, flooding my face.
“I wasn’t frowning,” I lie, my voice cracking. “I was… processing.”
“Processing?” Owen grins. It’s a lazy, wicked grin that makes my stomach flip. “Is that the corporate term for ‘regretting the best sex of my life’?”
“You’re very confident for this early in the morning.”
“I have reasons to be confident.” His gaze drops to my chest. The sheet has slipped, exposing the curve of my breast. He doesn’t look away. He looks at me with a hunger that shouldn’t be possible after what we did last night. “You were loud, Tess. I think my neighbors probably hate us.”
I groan, pulling the sheet up to my chin. “Oh god. Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I never joke about noise complaints.”
He reaches out, his large, warm hand cupping my cheek. His thumb brushes over my bottom lip. The playfulness in his eyes dims, replaced by something darker. Something intense.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly.
“I’m…” I pause. Am I okay? My career is hanging by a thread. My friendship with Harper is currently a lie of omission. And I am naked in the bed of one-third of the Phantom Trio. “I should be freaking out.”
“But?”
“But I’m not.”
“Good.” He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “Because you have nothing to freak out about. I told you. I’ve got you.”
“You have me,” I repeat.
“I do.”
His hand slides down from my cheek to my neck, his thumb resting on the pulse point there. He traces the line of my throat, down to my collarbone, and then lower, slipping beneath the sheet I’m clutching.
His fingers brush my nipple.
My body betrays me instantly, arching into his touch.
“Owen,” I whisper. “We can’t. I have to go. I need to call an Uber.”
“I’ll drive you later,” he murmurs, his eyes tracking the movement of his hand under the fabric. “Right now, I need to check on something.”
“Check on what?”
“My work,” he says. “I need to make sure I did the job thoroughly.”
He yanks the sheet down.
The cool air hits my skin, followed immediately by the heat of his gaze. He looks at me like I’m a feast. He looks at the bruises beginning to form on my hips from his grip. He looks at the bite mark on my neck.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs.
He moves over me, his body heavy and solid, settling between my legs. I feel him against my thigh. He’s hard. Rock hard.
“Again?” I gasp. “Owen, it’s morning.”
“Morning wood,” he says against my lips. “It’s just the morning effect. Don’t overthink it.”
He kisses me, not like the desperate kiss of last night. This is slow. Deep. Possessive. He tastes of salt and warm morning breath, cut by a sharp hit of mint. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming it, tangling with mine in a rhythm that mimics what he’s about to do to the rest of me.
My hands slide up his chest, gripping his shoulders. His skin is hot.
He breaks the kiss, dragging his open mouth down my jaw, down my throat. He lingers on the bite mark he left, soothing it with his tongue before gently scraping his teeth over it again.
“You taste so good,” he groans, the vibration rumbling against my skin. “Better than the champagne.”
He moves lower. He kisses the slope of my breast, swirling his tongue around the nipple until it hardens into a painful, sensitive peak. Then he takes it into his mouth, sucking hard.
I cry out, my hips bucking up off the mattress.
“Yes?” he asks, glancing up at me, his eyes dark with lust.
“Yes,” I pant. “More.”
He chuckles, a dark, satisfied sound. He moves his hand down my stomach, flat palm pressing against my skin, lower and lower until he grinds his palm against my pussy, forcing my thighs wider.
“Wet,” he whispers approvingly. “You’re already wet for me.”
“You talk too much,” I gasp, throwing my head back against the pillow.
“I told you. I like to be vocal.”
He slides two fingers inside me.
My vision blurs. It feels incredible. He knows exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure to use. He curls his fingers, hitting that spot deep inside that makes my toes curl.
“So tight,” he grits out. “You feel so good, Tess.”
He pumps his fingers in and out, setting a rhythm. I’m moving with him, my breathing turning into ragged gasps. I’m close. I’m so close.
“Owen,” I beg. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Inside. I need you inside.”
He withdraws his fingers. I whimper at the loss, but then he’s shifting, positioning himself. He grabs a condom from the nightstand—god, he really is prepared—and sheaths himself in one fluid motion.
He lifts my hips, his hands gripping my waist firmly.
He grinds the wet, blunt head of his cock against my slit. He holds it there, teasing me, letting me feel the size of him, the threat of him.
“Stay with me, Tess,” he urges.
I force my eyes open.
He’s hovering over me, his biceps straining as he holds his weight. His face is stripped of all the playful, boy-next-door charm. This isn’t the nice brother—this is the man who built an empire and takes what he wants.
“Say my name,” he says.
“Owen,” I whisper.
He pushes in.
Slowly. Steadily. He stretches me, filling me completely, inch by inch. I gasp, digging my nails into his shoulders. He’s big. He feels even bigger than last night.
When he’s fully seated, hilt-deep, he stops.
We stare at each other, breathing hard, connected in the most intimate way possible.
“Mine,” he growls.
Then he starts to move.
The bed frame slams rhythmically against the wall, a hollow, mechanical beat. The sound of wet skin slapping together fills the quiet room.
He sets a punishing pace, withdrawing almost completely before slamming back in, hitting my cervix, making me see stars.
“Owen!” I scream.
“I know,” he pants, sweat dripping from his forehead onto my chest. “I know, baby. Take it.”
He grabs my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. With the other, he reaches down between our bodies, finding my clit.
It’s too much. It’s sensory overload. The fullness of him inside me, the friction of his thumb, the dominant grip on my wrists.
My world narrows down to this. The friction. The heat. This man.
“That’s it, Tess,” he urges in my ear.
I break, cumming hard as my body spasms. I scream his name, arching my back and clamping down on him.
He groans, his control snapping. He releases my wrists and wraps his arms around me, driving into me hard and fast, one, two, three times, before he stiffens.
He grips my hips so hard his fingers dig into my skin, his head snapping back as he finishes deep inside me.
We collapse.
He stays inside me for a long time, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his heart thundering against mine like a war drum.
I run my hands down his sweaty back, tracing the dip of his spine.
My mind is blank. No guilt. No fear. Just the bliss of endorphins and the solid, heavy reality of Owen Branson.
He pulls out and presses a slow, lingering kiss to my mouth.
“Good morning,” he whispers.
I smile, though my body feels like jelly. “Good morning.”
The shower is small, but we make it work.
Owen insists on washing my hair. It’s a tender, intimate gesture that scares me more than the sex. Sex is just bodies. Washing someone’s hair? That’s care. That’s relationships.
We stand under the spray, the steam curling around us. He massages the shampoo into my scalp, his eyes closed, humming a tune I recognize from the lo-fi playlist in the creative studio.
“You realize,” I say, my voice echoing off the tile, “that this complicates everything.”
Owen opens his eyes. Green meets hazel. “Does it?”
“Monday. The office. Ethan will be there.”
“Ethan isn’t the boss of my bedroom,” Owen says, rinsing the suds from my hair. “And he isn’t the boss of yours.”
“He’s the boss of my paycheck.”
“Tessa.” Owen turns off the water. He grabs a towel and wraps it around me, tucking the end in securely.
He doesn’t wrap one around himself. He stands there, gloriously naked and unashamed, his dick dangling and dripping water onto the bathmat.
“Stop worrying about Monday. It’s Saturday.
We have forty-eight hours before we have to be professional. ”
Forty-eight hours. The number feels like a countdown.
“Give me the weekend,” he says. “Just the weekend. No titles. No NDAs. Just us.”
It’s a dangerous offer. It’s a cliff edge.
But I’m already falling.
“Okay,” I whisper. “The weekend.”
He grins, that blinding, sunny grin returning. “Great. Now, let’s go get coffee. I make excellent coffee. And then we are going to figure out how to sneak you out of here without Asher seeing it on the satellite feed.”