Chapter 8 #2
I’ve scarcely straightened her clothes when the car approaches the gate to its underground garage.
I know the routine like I know how to brush my teeth—the pause on the ramp as Curtis lowers his window to enter a code, the smooth move forward after the metal door rises.
Without my asking, Curtis stops in front of the private elevator that takes me to my penthouse.
He opens the car door on Aeryn’s side and offers a hand to help her out.
“Thank you, Curtis,” I say. “We’ll stay in for the rest of the night. In fact, go ahead and take off tomorrow. We don’t have plans for Christmas Eve.”
“Yes, sir!” he says, his face brightening past his usual professional discipline. “Merry Christmas, sir!” He ducks his head toward Aeryn, who still clutches her bottle of water. “Ma’am,” he says, touching an imaginary cap.
I have her in the elevator before Curtis has parked the Rivian in its designated slot, and I punch in the code that takes us to the thirty-third floor. Another six digits let us move from the private elevator landing into the condo’s formal foyer.
A wall of windows looks out over the Brooklyn Bridge. The Empire State Building glows in the distance, its spire lit in red and green for the holiday.
“Oh my God,” Aeryn breathes.
“A little different from Beach Avenue, isn’t it?” I take her coat and hang it in the closet. She gapes at the maple cabinetry, at the snow-white couches and the sculpted chairs arranged in clusters of three and four. She’s drawn to the panoramic windows like a steel needle to a magnet.
“This is amazing,” she says. Her gesture takes in everything—the wall of hardback first editions and the stereo system worth my entire rookie-year salary, the shimmering wet bar with more bottles than most restaurants.
“I’ll give you the full tour in the morning,” I say.
She starts to demand one now, but her jaw cracks into a yawn. She laughs and says, “I’ll hold you to that.”
I take her hand as I walk her down the hall. We pass four guest rooms, each with a king-size bed and an ensuite bath, each decked out with thousand-count cotton sheets and towels the size of a hockey net.
She’d be comfortable in any one of them. Safe. Secure. But I don’t want her hidden behind a closed door. I want her next to me. Under me, if I thought she was in any shape to take it.
“Get rid of those things,” I say, nodding toward her shoes as we reach the master bedroom.
I switch on the lamp on the nightstand. She sighs as she steps out of those red-soled torture devices, then offers a grateful little mew.
I almost miss her exhausted smile because I’m digging in the chest of drawers.
Tossing things on the bed, I turn back to catch her swaying on her feet. “Easy there,” I say, steadying her with a palm to her elbow.
I gather her hem in my hands, skimming the soft green wool over her body.
Without my asking, she raises her arms, slipping free from the dress, which I drape over a chair by the window.
She reaches behind to unclasp her bra, but I get there first. I ease the straps down her shoulders, peeling away the lace to drop it on top of her dress.
Her tits are as perfect as ever and another night, I’d already have one in my mouth to see if I can still make her come with just the scrape of my teeth. But gooseflesh is rising on her arms, and she’s chewing on her lower lip like she owes me some decision.
Turning to the bed, I retrieve the Aces T-shirt I tossed there.
It’s tight on me, which means she ends up wearing it like an artist’s smock, the hem hanging halfway down her thighs.
I tell myself not to stare at the stylized playing card splayed across her chest, at my team’s name written in teal-and-purple script.
She stands still while I toe off my shoes and socks. My trousers fall over the chair next to the one holding her dress. My bowtie, too. I scrabble at cufflinks and studs before I yank the shirt over my head and drop it on the pile.
Modeling my black silk boxers, I consider getting her a pair as well. But she’s in no condition to balance on one foot, then the other, pulling them on. And despite my very best intentions, I don’t trust myself to kneel in front of her and pull them up myself.
Besides, her well-spanked ass doesn’t need another layer of cloth.
I walk her over to the bed and pull back the covers. She climbs up with the simple faith of a child. I settle her on her side, head on one down pillow, another hugged to her side like a teddy bear.
Turning off her lamp, I walk around the bed in the dark.
I hear her catch her breath as I climb in beside her, and she holds it while I turn to my side.
I’m the big spoon, taking care not to press too close to her ass, but I gather her hair off her neck and work my fingers along the tight muscles of her nape.
She sighs and relaxes against me, her spine curving toward my chest.
We should talk. We have ten years of missing conversations to catch up on, a decade of pain to boil off. We need to go over this evening—why I left her name at the front desk, why she chose to come to the club, all the things I made her do, and all the reasons she did them.
Impossibly, I’m still her Dom. I need to keep our lines of communication open. I need to keep her safe.
But that’s the very reason she needs to sleep tonight. We can talk tomorrow.
So I brush my lips against her shoulder. I whisper, “Thank you. For everything.”
I wait for her to whisper something back. But she’s already settled into the steady, deep breaths of sleep.