Chapter 10
ten
. . .
Alexander
The firelight flickers across her skin like it's afraid to touch her—which is fucking ridiculous because I can't stop touching her. Alice perches on the edge of my leather couch, her worn uniform replaced with the silk dress I insisted she wear, and she looks like a prayer I never knew I needed to say.
My fingers itch to trace the curve of her neck, but I force myself to wait. Tonight isn't about taking. Not yet.
"Are you warm enough?" I ask, though the fire roars high enough to heat half the mansion.
Alice nods, her fingers twisting in the expensive fabric pooling at her thighs. "It's beautiful here," she says, her voice barely rising above the crackling flames. "I've never seen anything like it."
Of course she hasn't. Just days ago, she was pouring coffee in a grimy downtown café, bags under her eyes and worry lines etched between her brows. Now she's here, on my private island, because I couldn't stand another day without claiming her.
"I wanted you to see it," I tell her, pouring us both another glass of wine. Mine remains untouched. I need clarity tonight. "All of this means nothing if I can't share it."
Her eyes dart to mine.
"Mr. Grant?—"
I don’t know why, but hearing her revert to my surname again causes panic to rise within me. She’s been calling me Alexander all the time, so the lapse worries me that I’m losing her already.
"Alexander," I correct, the word sharp. "When you're wearing my clothes, sitting in my home, you use my first name."
A blush stains her cheeks, and my cock stirs in response. God, her innocence is like a drug.
"Alexander," she tries again, the syllables awkward on her tongue. "I appreciate everything—the plane, the clothes, helping with my mother's medical bills—but…but…" she trails off.
I move closer, the leather sofa creaking beneath my weight. There's a significant gap between us still, but I feel her heat like a brand. At thirty-eight, I've learned patience. At twenty-two, she embodies impatience, even in her stillness.
"Because you're the first real thing I've encountered in decades." I take a sip of wine, finally. "Do you know what it's like to grow up in a mausoleum? Everything preserved, perfect, untouchable?"
Alice shakes her head. "We lived in a two-bedroom apartment. Nothing fancy enough to preserve."
"My father built this empire from nothing. Made his first million before thirty. But empires require caretakers, not children." The memory surfaces like a bruise being pressed. "When I was eight, I broke a vase playing inside. Eighteenth-century Chinese. Worth more than most people's homes."
She leans forward slightly, her eyes no longer darting away from mine. I've hooked her.
"What happened?"
"My father didn't yell. That would have been easier." My voice remains level, but something inside me trembles. I never tell this story. "He sat me down and explained, in excruciating detail, how my carelessness had destroyed something irreplaceable. Then he had the housekeeper collect every toy from my room. Said if I couldn't respect valuable things, I didn't deserve to possess anything of my own."
Alice's eyes widen. "For how long?"
"Six months." I smile without humor. "I was allowed books. Educational toys only, under supervision. My mother disagreed, but she never contradicted him to his face."
"That's horrible," she whispers, and the genuine outrage in her voice does something to my chest—creates a warm spot in a place I'd thought permanently frozen.
"It was effective. I never broke anything again."
Her hand reaches toward mine, then falters. I capture it before she can retreat, her skin soft against my calloused palm. Another contradiction—I've never worked manual labor, but I've spent hours in my private gym, punishing my body into submission just as my father taught me to punish my mind.
"Is that why you have all this?" she asks, gesturing with her free hand to the cavernous room with its museum-quality art and carefully curated furnishings.
I laugh, the sound breaking against the vaulted ceiling. "Perceptive. I built all this because I could, because it's what a Grant does. Then I realized I'd created my own fucking mausoleum."
Her fingers tighten around mine. It's instinctive comfort, not calculated. That's the thing about Alice—everything she does comes from a pure, uncontaminated place. It's why I noticed her in the first place, this waitress with tired eyes and a real smile, not the plastic ones I've collected from models and socialites over the years.
"Until I saw you," I continue, my thumb tracing circles on her palm. "Watching you move through that cramped space, smiling even when customers were assholes. Real smiles that reached your eyes."
"I wasn't smiling for you," she protests weakly.
"Exactly." My grip tightens. "Not for me, not for my money, not for my name. Just because that's who you are. Do you have any idea how rare that is in my world?"
The fire pops and hisses, casting dancing shadows across her face. She's close enough now that I can smell the subtle floral scent of the soap I had stocked in her bathroom, mingled with something uniquely her. Something I want to taste.
"I'm not special," she insists. "I'm just trying to take care of my family."
"Your mother's medical bills are paid." I state this as a fact, not a reminder of my generosity. "Your brother's college fund is secured. You don't need to worry about them anymore."
Her eyes flash. "I didn't ask you to do that."
"No. You would never ask." I shift closer, eliminating more of the distance between us. "That's what makes you different."
We're breathing the same air now. Her pupils dilate, her lips part. She's scared, but not of me. Of what's happening between us—this gravitational pull that defies explanation.
"I don't fit here," she whispers. "In this world."
"You're the only thing that belongs here." My hand slides up her arm, feeling goosebumps rise in its wake. "Everything else is just...decoration."
When I kiss her, it's gentle at first—a contrast to the violence of my wanting. Her lips are soft, hesitant, then suddenly hungry. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat that shoots straight to my groin. I cup her face, angling her head to deepen the kiss, and she melts against me.
I trace her lower lip with my tongue, and she opens for me like she's been waiting for this her whole life. Maybe she has. Maybe we both have. Her inexperience is evident in the tentative way she responds, but there's nothing tentative about the way her body arches toward mine.
"Alexander," she breathes when we break apart, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Tell me you want this," I demand, my voice rough. "I need to hear it. Not that you’re just submitting because you think you have to. Becuase of our bargain. Fuck our bargain. I need to know that you really want this, Alice."
Her eyes meet mine, clouded with desire but clear with decision. She hesitates for a moment before she nods. "I want this. I want you."
That's all I need to hear.. I gather her against me, lifting her onto my lap. The silk dress rides up her thighs, and I palm the soft skin revealed there. She shivers, pressing closer. Through the expensive fabric, I can feel the heat of her, the perfect weight of her body against my hardness.
I run my hand reverently over her.
"I'll take care of you," I promise, my hands roaming her body with more restraint than I knew I possessed. "I'll make it good for you."
I kiss her again, deeper, hungrier, swallowing her little gasps and moans. My hands find the zipper of her dress, slowly lowering it, giving her time to stop me. She doesn't. Instead, her fingers fumble with the buttons of my shirt, her touch burning through me.
The dress slips from her shoulders, revealing simple cotton underwear beneath—another jarring reminder of the worlds between us. I groan at the sight of her, soft curves and pale skin glowing in the firelight.
"Perfect," I murmur against her throat, trailing kisses down to her collarbone. "Fucking perfect."
Her head falls back, exposing more of her neck to my mouth. I suck gently at her pulse point, feeling it race under my tongue. My hands cup her breasts through the thin cotton, thumbs brushing over hardened nipples. She jerks against me, a small cry escaping her lips.
"Sensitive," I observe, repeating the motion and watching her squirm. "I'm going to learn every inch of you, Alice. Every spot that makes you gasp, every touch that makes you beg."
"Please," she whispers, though I'm not sure she knows what she's asking for.
I stand, lifting her with me. She weighs nothing in my arms. I could carry her upstairs to one of the many bedrooms. That’s been the plan. To take her in a bed, but dammit, I can't wait that long. Instead, I lay her on the plush rug before the fireplace, the flames casting golden light across her skin.
My shirt joins her dress on the floor, then my pants. Her eyes widen at the sight of me, equal parts fear and fascination in her expression. I lower myself beside her, not on top of her—not yet. My hand strokes down her body, from sternum to navel, then lower, over the cotton barrier between us.
"I'm going to touch you now," I tell her, my voice barely recognizable. "Tell me if you want me to stop."
She shakes her head. "Don't stop."
I slip my hand beneath the elastic, finding her wet and ready. The knowledge that she wants this—wants me—as badly as I want her nearly undoes me. I circle my finger against her, watching her face as pleasure overtakes her. Her hips rise to meet my touch, instinctively seeking more.
"That's it," I encourage, increasing the pressure slightly. "Let yourself feel it."
Her hands clutch at my shoulders, nails digging into skin. The slight pain grounds me, reminds me to go slow. This isn't about my pleasure—not yet. I work her with my fingers until she's panting, trembling on the edge of release.
"Alexander," she gasps.
"Let go," I tell her. "I've got you."
She comes with a cry, her body arching beautifully, inner muscles clenching around my fingers. I watch her face, memorizing every detail of her surrender. This is mine now. She is mine.
Before she can fully recover, I remove the last barriers between us, positioning myself between her thighs. The head of my cock nudges at her entrance, and her eyes fly open, locking with mine.
I’m dripping precum, my cock kissing her entrace, salivating at the thought of finally being inside her.
"This will hurt," I warn her, stroking her face. "But then it will be good. I promise."
She nods, trust in her eyes that I've done nothing to earn except be honest about my wanting. I push forward slowly, feeling the resistance of her body, the incredible tightness. She winces, and I pause, dropping kisses across her face, her neck, her breasts.
"Breathe," I instruct, and when she does, I thrust forward in one smooth motion, breaking through the barrier.
She cries out, tears springing to her eyes. I hold perfectly still, though every instinct screams at me to move, to claim, to possess.
"The worst is over," I murmur, kissing away a tear that escapes down her temple. "Stay with me."
Gradually, the pain in her expression eases. I begin to move, shallow thrusts that allow her body to adjust to mine. The feeling is indescribable—tight, hot, perfect. Better than anything I've ever felt. When her hips start to move with mine, I know she's ready for more.
I increase the pace, driving deeper, watching her face transform as pain gives way completely to pleasure. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer, deeper. I'm lost in her, drowning in sensation, and I never want to surface.
"You're mine," I growl against her ear, unable to contain the possessive words bubbling up from some primitive part of my brain. "Do you understand? Mine."
"Yes," she gasps, her body tightening around me as another orgasm builds. "Yes, Alexander."
The sound of my name on her lips as she comes undoes me completely. I follow her over the edge, emptying myself inside her with a roar that sounds torn from my soul. In that moment of complete vulnerability, of total connection, something shifts in me—a tectonic movement that rearranges everything I thought I knew about myself.
Afterward, I gather her against me, unwilling to break our physical connection. She's dazed, trembling slightly, her body bearing the marks of my passion. I trace them with gentle fingers, a strange mixture of pride and tenderness filling me.
"I'm obsessed with you," I confess, the words emerging raw and unfiltered. "You're perfect. Everything about you is perfect."
She blinks up at me, uncertainty creeping back into her expression. "Alexander, I don't know what this means. What happens now?"
"Now?" I laugh softly, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her swollen lips. "Now I take care of you. Forever. You never have to worry about money again. You never have to wait tables or wear out your shoes walking to work or count pennies for groceries."
"But—"
"No buts." My tone hardens slightly. "You're mine now, Alice. I worship you. I'll give you everything you need, everything you want. But you can't leave me. Ever."
Fear flickers in her eyes, but beneath it is something else—a recognition of the truth between us, this inexplicable bond that formed the moment I saw her across that dingy café.
"I should be scared of you," she whispers.
"But you're not." I stroke her hair back from her face. "Because you feel it too. This isn't normal. This isn't something that happens to people like me, people with my resources, my control. I've never needed anyone. But I need you."
She doesn't respond with words. Instead, she curls closer, her head finding the hollow of my shoulder as if it was made for her. In the glow of the fire, with her breathing evening out into sleep, I make plans. Plans for us, for the empire I'll rebuild with her at its center. She doesn't realize it yet, but she's just become the most powerful woman in my world—the only person who can touch me, the only one who can see past the wealth and name to the damaged man beneath.
I watch the firelight play across her peaceful face and feel a strange sensation in my chest—a warmth that has nothing to do with the flames. I've acquired companies, destroyed competitors, built skyscrapers bearing my name. But this—this slip of a girl from nowhere—is my greatest possession. And unlike that vase from my childhood, I will never let her break.