Chapter 6
Luke
Akiss.
One kiss.
That’s all it’s supposed to be. Hell, it wasn’t even supposed to be this.
Believe it or not, kissing her isn’t why I followed her into her room.
I’d had no intention of doing this right now. None.
Sure, I’ve been drooling over this woman all damn day, ever since my eyes first landed on her. She’s beautiful—gorgeous, actually—with wavy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and curves that hit every weakness I’ve ever had.
But that’s not all.
At first, it was her sharp wit and that daring, unflinching gaze. God, I love a bold woman—someone who can look you straight in the eye and let you know she wants you.
Then I heard she was coming to the retreat, and that gave me pause.
Most of our guests show up with a mountain of emotional baggage and unresolved trauma.
To help them, we keep distance—professional, emotional, ethical.
Transference is real. People mistake safety for attraction. It’s our job not to exploit that. Ever.
For that reason, I don’t hook up with guests. It’s a line I don’t cross.
But Sierra isn’t here for therapy. She’s here to spy. No client–practitioner dynamic. No blurred lines. She’s not paying me for my professional service, and in my mind, that makes her fair game.
And then there’s the fact that she fascinates me. Her blunt honesty only makes me want her more.
Then there’s whatever happened between her and Reid. Something big. Something that still has its claws in both of them. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at her—like something inside him broke and never healed right.
So yeah, I came to check on her. Maybe calm her down.
But I should’ve known myself better.
The moment my lips touch hers—and she opens for me—every rational thought disappears.
She tastes… divine. Addictive. One kiss and I’m hooked.
The way her tongue tangles with mine goes straight to my head, lighting temptation like a match to gasoline.
I try to slow the kiss. She doesn’t let me. She turns it hotter, dirtier.
Her tongue fights mine for dominance. I grip her hair just enough to pull a moan from her throat.
She likes that. Hell yes.
But it’s not enough for her. If anything, it pushes her further.
Her fingers fly over my shirt buttons, unfastening them like she needs me naked now. She presses her whole body against me, vibrating with need.
Is it me she wants… or escape? Does it matter?
My cock doesn’t think so. It’s throbbing hard against my zipper, demanding release. I can barely think… but I cling to the last scrap of restraint.
“We should stop,” I rasp.
She ignores me. Completely. Her mouth moves down my neck, her tongue sliding lower. My brain short-circuits.
Fuck it.
She doesn’t want to talk. She wants to fuck, and I want it just as badly. Need it—need her—with a hunger I haven’t felt in years.
I grip her hips, lift her, and pin her against the wall. She gasps and wraps her legs around me instantly, clinging tight, kissing and licking my neck like she’s starving.
My shirt is already open. She drags it off my shoulders and lets it fall.
She grinds against me, and the friction pulls a groan from my throat. I’m painfully hard now. I need to be inside her.
My hands slide up her back under her shirt. Fuck—she’s burning. Her urgency pours off her, her nails digging into my shoulders. I’d give anything to feel those nails down my back while I’m inside her…
But not yet.
Don’t rush this.
I kiss her again, slower this time, deeper. My hands move down, gripping the curve of her ass. She reacts to everything—every touch, every shift—her body chasing friction, desperate for more.
I need more.
Her skin.
Her heat.
Her wrapped around me.
I carry her to the bed and lower her onto it. I guide her hands above her head and lace my fingers through hers, pinning them there. Her chest arches, pressing against her shirt, her nipples already hard beneath the fabric.
She lifts her hips, inviting me in.
I shake my head.
I’m in control now.
And if we’re doing this, it’s happening at my pace.
She writhes beneath me, begging for the release she knows I can give her, but I’m not giving in. My cock presses against the heat between her thighs, and I have to close my eyes, drawing slow breaths so I don’t lose it completely.
Eventually, I wrestle back enough control to touch her the way I want to.
I lower my mouth to her neck, licking along her throat, tasting the mix of sweetness and sweat on her skin.
She moans, pleading with her body, her eyes, her lips.
I push up her shirt and use my teeth to tug at her bra, never looking away from her, letting her see everything I intend to do to her—everything we could be if either of us stopped fighting this.
“Hurry,” she gasps.
“That’s not my style, darling,” I whisper, kissing the skin just above her bra before gripping the fabric with my teeth and pulling it upward. “You wanted me. You’re going to get all of me.”
I free her soft, trembling breasts, her pink nipples already tight. I lower my mouth and trace a slow circle around each areola. She arches toward me, desperate for more, but I keep it maddeningly gentle—just enough to make her shiver, stretching the tension second by second.
Small, desperate cries slip from her lips. Her toes curl, her legs kick out, and the impatience burning through her is unmistakable. She wants me inside her—now—and when I finally lick her nipple, she cries out and arches off the bed, her entire body trembling.
“Please,” she moans, hoarse and needy, but I ignore it.
I take my time, suckling each peak slowly, dragging my teeth across the sensitive bud. My hips move against her parted thighs in slow, controlled strokes, and I feel every flinch, every tremor, every desperate sound she makes.
I want to see everything.
I want to uncover every part of her.
But fuck if I know how long I can hold out.
My whole body burns. My cock throbs, leaking, aching for her. I’m a pleaser by instinct—I like making sure a woman is undone before I even think about taking her—but seeing her like this is tearing my control apart.
Then one of her hands slips free of my grip and wraps around my cock, squeezing hard.
“Oh fuck!” I groan, eyes clenching shut.
Yeah. That’s it. I’m gone.
“Fuck, Sierra.”
“You like that?” she whispers, wicked and breathless. “Then fuck me. Now.”
Damn it. I thought I was in charge. Turns out she’s had me exactly where she wanted me this whole time.
She drags my zipper down and frees me, and that’s the end of foreplay—I’m a dead man. Even before she guides me to her slick, tight entrance, squeezing me in her hand, I know I’m done for.
Lust hits hard and fast, and I give in instantly. I spread her open and thrust into her in one deep stroke. Buried to the hilt, I savor her scream, bite down on her shoulder, and lose myself as everything crashes through us.
“What’s this?”
Sierra’s fingers drift along my arm as she catches her breath, and I’m so blissed-out I don’t register what she’s touching until she reaches the jagged ridges near my wrist.
Instinctively, part of me wants to pull away, hide my scars—but I force that urge down. Healing means honesty. Facing the shame that never fully leaves. I let her touch them. I let her explore the marks that will never fade.
I feel the exact moment she understands what they are. Her breath hitches softly.
“What happened?” she asks, her voice small now.
I smile. “I’ll tell you mine when you tell me yours.”
She stiffens. “You mean Reid and me? Nothing much happened. It was no big deal. We dated, and then he ghosted me.”
“Really? That’s all it was?”
She nods.
I shake my head. “Yeah, I’m not buying that for a second.”
“Why not?”
“Because, mon cher, you’re not the type to cry like that over some guy ignoring you. You’re more the type to cuss him out and move on, and maybe punch him in the throat if you should ever bump into him somewhere.”
She snorts softly. “Well, I did cuss him out. In my head.” Then she pauses. “Did you just speak French to me?”
“Yeah. One of the things they teach you in chef school is how to speak French with a very pretentious accent.”
“That’s a joke, right?”
“Yeah, but I do actually speak French. Went to culinary school there. Was even on a TV show and everything.”
“Nice.”
I wonder if she’s putting the pieces together yet. Most people on social media know who I am, and I’ve dropped enough hints… but either she hasn’t caught on or she simply doesn’t care. Honestly, either way works for me. I prefer women who don’t give a damn about my résumé.
She yawns. “You have food here?”
“Yeah. It’s gotta be dinner time… I’m starving. Wanna come?”
“Nah, I think I’ll grab dinner in here. Is there room service?”
“Not usually, but I can get something brought up for you—if you’re not fussy about what shows up.”
“Thanks,” she says, squeezing my hand, looking at me with a sincerity that hits deeper than I expect. “For everything.”
I nod and tell myself the feeling in my chest is nothing. Just an itch. Nothing more.