Chapter 5
five
. . .
Alexander
I watch Alice's eyes widen as we pull through the gates of my estate, her small hands twisting in her lap. The same hands that served me coffee, hands I've imagined on my body countless times. She looks so fucking breakable sitting there in my Bentley, swallowed by leather seats worth more than she makes in a year. Every instinct screams at me to pull her into my lap, to taste her mouth, to make her mine in every way possible. But I grip the door handle instead, my knuckles whitening. I've waited this long. I can wait a little longer.
"This is...all yours?" she whispers as the mansion comes into view, three stories of limestone and glass perched on the edge of the cliffside, the ocean stretching endlessly behind it.
"Yes." One word. That's all I trust myself to say right now. Something about the way the morning light hits her face makes my chest ache. I've never wanted anyone the way I want her. It's a physical pain, a constant throb that's settled in my bones since the first time I saw her nervously carrying a tray at that rundown café.
The car stops at the front entrance. My driver opens Alice's door before I can come around, and I stifle the irrational surge of jealousy when she smiles politely at him. Mine. The word pulses through me with each heartbeat. Soon, she'll understand that. Soon.
"I don't belong here," she murmurs as we step into the foyer, her worn sneakers silent against the marble floor. The chandelier above us catches in her hair, turning the strands to liquid gold.
"You belong exactly where I want you to be," I say, and immediately regret the harshness in my voice when she flinches. Softer, I add, "And I want you to be comfortable. Let me show you around."
She follows me through the house, a step behind, like she's afraid to get too close. Smart girl. If she comes any closer, I might forget all my careful plans. Her wide eyes take in the artwork, the vaulted ceilings, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. I've never looked at my home through someone else's eyes before. Never cared to. But now I find myself watching her reactions, hungry for every small gasp, every widened glance.
"This place must have a hundred rooms," she says, her voice barely audible.
"Twenty-two," I correct her, fighting a smile. "And only one matters today."
Her face pales. Fuck. Wrong thing to say.
"The spa," I clarify quickly. "I've arranged for you to be pampered today. Starting with a massage."
Relief visibly washes over her. "Mr. Grant?—"
"Alexander," I interrupt. "Please." I need my first name in her mouth. Need to hear how it sounds shaped by her lips.
"Alexander," she corrects, and my cock stirs at the sound. "You don't have to do all this.”
I step closer, unable to help myself. She smells like vanilla and coffee and something uniquely her. "I want you to relax. To understand what your life could be like."
With me. Forever. But I don't say that part out loud. Not yet.
I lead her to the spa wing of the house, where Martine, my most trusted massage therapist, is waiting. I'd been explicit on the phone. Female only. No male staff anywhere near Alice today. No way in hell I’m letting another man put his hands on her—not even a professional massuese.
"This is Alice," I tell Martine. "Take exceptional care of her."
Alice looks between us, her cheeks flushing. "I've never had a professional massage before."
The confession sends a dart of possessiveness through me. Another first I get to give her. I've made a list of them in my head. All the experiences I want to be the first—the only —man to share with her.
"I'll leave you in Martine's capable hands," I say, forcing myself to step back. "I'll see you in ninety minutes."
I walk out before I can change my mind. Before I can stay and watch. The thought of anyone touching her—even Martine—makes my jaw clench. I retreat to my office, trying to focus on work, but my mind keeps drifting to the woman currently being rubbed down two floors below. What sounds is she making? Are her eyes closed? Is she thinking of me?
Ninety-seven minutes later—not that I'm counting—there's a knock at my office door.
"Mr. Grant? The stylist has arrived."
I straighten papers I haven't actually been reading. "Send her up. And bring Ms. Clark to the dressing room."
The dressing room is actually an entire suite, a converted bedroom with three walls of closets, a raised platform surrounded by mirrors, and enough space to host a small fashion show. I've had it prepared with racks of clothing in Alice's size—information I obtained weeks ago, planning for this day.
When she walks in, her hair is damp at the edges, her skin flushed from the massage. She looks softer somehow, the tension drained from her shoulders. Something fierce and tender unfurls in my chest at the sight.
"Feel better?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended.
She nods, offering a small smile that hits me like a physical blow. "Thank you. That was...incredible."
"Good." I gesture to the clothes. "This is Vivienne. She's brought some options for you to try."
Alice's eyes widen as they take in the racks of designer clothing. "I can't accept all this."
"You can. You will." I step closer, unable to help myself. "Please, Alice. Let me do this for you."
She looks up at me, and there's confusion in her eyes, but something else too. Curiosity, maybe. Or the first flickering of desire. I'd give everything I own to know what she's thinking.
"Why?" she asks simply.
Because I've watched you work yourself to exhaustion. Because I've seen the worry in your eyes when you check your phone between tables, no doubt looking for messages about your sick mother. Because your hands shake sometimes when you're tired but you never stop moving. Because I need to possess you so completely that the thought of another day without you makes it hard to breathe.
"Because I want to," is all I say.
Vivienne clears her throat, reminding us of her presence. "Shall we begin, Ms. Clark?"
For the next two hours, I sit in a chair in the corner, pretending to work on my tablet while Alice tries on outfit after outfit. Each one is more devastating than the last. A simple white sundress that makes her look like an angel. Tailored trousers that hug her ass in ways that make my mouth water. Silk blouses that drape over her breasts, hinting at the softness beneath.
I've built empires. Crushed competitors. Multiplied my inheritance a hundred times over. And yet nothing has required more self-control than sitting here, watching Alice transform before my eyes, without touching her.
When Vivienne holds up a sapphire blue dress—short, with thin straps and a neckline that dips just low enough to be tantalizing without being vulgar—I know immediately it's the one for tonight.
"Try that one," I say, the first direction I've given during the session.
Alice takes it, disappearing behind the dressing screen. When she emerges, I have to adjust myself beneath my tablet. The dress clings to every curve, highlighting the delicate slope of her shoulders, the fullness of her breasts, the narrowness of her waist. She looks uncertain, smoothing her hands down the fabric.
"Is it too much?" she asks.
"It's perfect," I manage to say, though my throat feels tight. "Wear it to dinner."
After Vivienne leaves, taking with her measurements for additional pieces to be delivered tomorrow, I show Alice to her room. Or rather, the room she thinks will be hers.
"You can rest before dinner," I tell her. "Or explore the grounds if you prefer. I'll have someone come for you at seven."
She hesitates at the doorway, looking smaller somehow despite the expensive new clothes hanging in the closet behind her. "Thank you, Alexander. For all of this."
I reach out, unable to stop myself, and brush a strand of hair from her face. Her breath catches, and I swear I can feel her pulse jump beneath my fingertips.
I force myself to walk away, to give her space. To stick to the plan.
By seven, the balcony is ready. Candles flicker on the table, the ocean stretches out beneath us, and Chef Marco has prepared his signature seafood risotto—a dish worth the outrageous sum I pay him annually. I've changed into a simple black shirt, open at the collar, and dark trousers. Casual but expensive. I want her to see the man beneath the billionaire facade tonight.
When she steps onto the balcony, I nearly drop the wine glass in my hand. The blue dress is even more stunning in the twilight, her hair loose around her shoulders, her lips tinted a soft pink. She's wearing the diamond studs Vivienne included with the outfit—small, tasteful, but unmistakably valuable.
"Alice." Her name falls from my lips like a prayer.
She tucks her hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture I've seen a hundred times at the café. "Is this okay? For dinner?"
"You're beautiful." The words come out raw, honest in a way I hadn't intended. I clear my throat. "Please, sit."
Dinner progresses with a strange, dreamlike quality. The sun sets over the ocean, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. Alice tells me about her mother's illness, the mounting medical bills, her brother's dreams of college. I already know all of it—I've had her thoroughly investigated—but I listen as if hearing it for the first time, captivated by the fierce love in her voice when she speaks of her family.
"You'd do anything for them," I say. It's not a question.
She nods, taking a sip of wine. "They're all I have."
"And what about you, Alice? What do you want for yourself?"
The question seems to surprise her. She blinks, setting down her glass. "I don't think anyone's asked me that in a long time."
Something hot and protective surges through me. "Tell me."
"I used to want to be a teacher," she says after a moment. "Elementary school. I love children. But then Mom got sick, and..." She trails off, shrugging. "Dreams don't pay bills."
"They can," I say quietly. "With the right support."
She looks at me then, really looks at me, and I can see her turning over the implications in her mind.
I lean forward, setting aside my plate. "I want to take care of you, Alice. And your family. Your mother's medical bills, your brother's education. A comfortable place for all of you to live. A chance for you to pursue teaching, if that's still what you want."
Her eyes narrow slightly. "And what do you want in return?"
Everything. All of you. Forever. "Your company," I say instead. "For now."
"My company," she repeats slowly. "You mean..."
"I mean I want you here, with me. Not as a servant or an employee. Not as a prostitute, if that's what you're thinking." I see the relief in her eyes and continue. "I want to know you, Alice. I want to give you the life you deserve."
"Why me?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. "You could have anyone."
I don't know how to explain the obsession that's gripped me since the first time I saw her. How her gentle smile cracked something open inside me that I thought had died years ago. How the sight of her working so hard, caring so deeply for a family that depends on her, awakened a need to protect and possess that I didn't know I was capable of feeling.
"Because it has to be you," is all I can say.
The night air grows cooler. I offer her my jacket, and she accepts, drowning in the expensive fabric. We talk more—about her childhood, about the café, about safe, neutral topics that don't require me to reveal too much of the intensity of my feelings for her. Not yet. I don't want to frighten her away when I've only just gotten her here.
When her eyelids start to droop, I suggest we turn in for the night. Her nervousness returns as we walk through the house, up the grand staircase to the master wing.
"My room was back that way," she says, gesturing toward the guest wing where I showed her earlier.
"No," I say simply, opening the double doors to my bedroom. "It's here."
She freezes in the doorway, her eyes taking in the massive bed dominating the center of the room, the wall of windows overlooking the moonlit ocean, the door leading to a bathroom bigger than her entire apartment.
"I don't—" she begins, but I cut her off.
"I won't touch you, Alice. Not until you want me to." The words taste like ash in my mouth, but I force them out. "But I need you to sleep here. With me."
She looks torn between relief and confusion. "Why?"
I step closer, close enough to smell her perfume—something expensive Vivienne must have spritzed on her—mingling with her natural scent. "Because I need to hold you. Because I've dreamed of having you in my bed since that first moment you spilled coffee on me, and even if all we do is sleep, it will still be more than I had yesterday."
Color floods her cheeks. "I don't understand you."
"You will," I promise.
In the end, she agrees, disappearing into the bathroom with a silk nightgown I've provided. When she emerges, hair brushed, face scrubbed clean of makeup, looking young and vulnerable in the pale blue silk, it takes every ounce of control I possess not to cross the room and take her mouth with mine.
Instead, I take my turn in the bathroom, changing into pajama pants, forcing myself to take deep breaths. I usually sleep in the nude, but I’m sure that would scare the shit out of a young virgin, so I’ll cover my goods for tonight. What good it will do.
When I return, Alice perched on the edge of the bed, looking small against the expanse of the mattress. My cock instantly jumps.
I slide under the covers on the opposite side, giving her space. "Come here, Alice."
Hesitantly, she lies down, leaving a careful distance between us. Not good enough. I reach for her, gently but firmly pulling her against my chest, her back to my front. She stiffens for a moment, then gradually relaxes as I simply hold her, one arm draped over her waist.
"See?" I murmur against her hair. "Just sleep."
She doesn't respond, but after a few minutes, her breathing deepens, her body growing heavier against mine. I lie awake, listening to her breathe, feeling the softness of her pressed against me. My cock is painfully hard, but I ignore it, focusing instead on the miracle of having her here, in my bed, in my arms.
Fuck, it feels amazing. She feels amazing.
This is just the beginning. Tomorrow, we'll talk more about arrangements, about expectations. I'll make her understand that this isn't temporary. That I have no intention of ever letting her go. That from the moment I saw her, she was mine, whether she knew it or not.
But for tonight, this is enough. Her warmth against me, her scent filling my lungs, her life temporarily entrusted to my care. I press my lips to the crown of her head, so lightly she doesn't stir.
"Mine," I whisper into the darkness, a promise to us both. "Forever."