Chapter 22
SOPHIE
The cab pulled under the porte-cochère of the Belmond Charleston Place, and the doorman opened my door before I even reached for the handle.
Warm light spilled out from the lobby, gold and inviting, but all I could feel was the heat of Wyatt’s hand still wrapped around mine in the backseat—like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.
We stepped out together. The night air was warm, thick with jasmine and salt, but it did nothing to cool the flush crawling up my neck.
Wyatt paid the driver without looking away from me, then guided me through the revolving doors with his palm low on my back. Possessive. Steady. The kind of touch that said mine without a single word.
I absolutely loved it.
At the front desk, he slid that black card across the marble like it was nothing. The concierge didn’t blink—just smiled the practiced smile of someone who’d seen a thousand nights like this and knew better than to ask questions.
“Governor’s Suite, please,” Wyatt said, voice low and rough from bourbon and want. “If it’s available.”
It was.
Of course, it was.
The elevator ride up was torture. Twelve floors felt like twelve miles.
We stood side by side, shoulders brushing, neither of us speaking. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears, loud enough that I wondered if he could, too. His thumb traced slow circles over the back of my hand, and every pass sent a fresh pulse of heat straight between my legs.
When the doors opened on the top floor, he didn’t wait for me to step out first. He scooped me up—arm under my knees, other around my back—like I weighed nothing. I gasped, then laughed, the sound shaky and surprised.
“Wyatt—”
“Been waiting too damn long to walk through a door with you in my arms,” he murmured against my temple. “Not stopping now.”
My arms wound around his neck. His scent filled my lungs. I pressed my face into the crook of his shoulder and let him carry me down the hallway like I belonged there. Like I’d always belonged there.
The suite door clicked open with the key card. He kicked it shut behind us without setting me down.
Inside, it was exactly as the older woman had promised: soaring ceilings, cream-and-gold everything, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering harbor.
A massive four-poster bed dominated the bedroom, visible through open double doors.
Candles had already been lit—someone had anticipated romance tonight—and soft jazz drifted from hidden speakers.
Wyatt finally lowered me to my feet, but he didn’t let go. His hands framed my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones, and he looked at me like he was trying to memorize every freckle.
“Sophie,” he said, and my name in his mouth sounded like prayer and promise and possession all at once. “Tell me you’re sure. This will change things between us.”
I reached up, slid my fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck, and pulled him down until our foreheads touched.
“I’ve been sure since we kissed at Dusty’s,” I whispered. “I just didn’t know how to say it then.”
His exhale was ragged. Then his mouth was on mine.
Not gentle. Not tentative.
Hungry.
Years of restraint cracked open in that kiss.
His tongue swept past my lips like he’d been starving for the taste of me, and I met him with the same desperation. My hands fisted in his shirt, tugging him closer, needing him against every inch of me.
He groaned into my mouth—a low, broken sound that vibrated through my chest—and backed me toward the bedroom.
We didn’t make it far.
Halfway there, he lifted me again, this time pinning me against the wall beside the doorway. My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. The hard length of him pressed right where I ached, and I whimpered against his lips.
“God, Soph,” he rasped, breaking the kiss just long enough to drag his mouth down my throat. “You feel so fucking good.”
His teeth grazed my pulse point. I arched, offering more, and he took it—sucking hard enough to leave a mark I knew would bloom purple by morning. The thought of wearing his claim sent a fresh wave of wetness between my thighs.
He carried me the rest of the way to the bed, laid me down like I was something precious, then stepped back.
Just looked.
The emerald satin of my dress had ridden up my thighs. My breasts rose and fell with every shallow breath. My hair spilled across the white duvet like fire.
Wyatt’s eyes darkened. “You’re so goddamn beautiful, it hurts.”
I reached for him. “Come here.”
He stripped first—methodical, unhurried, like he wanted me to see every inch he was giving me.
Sport coat. Shirt buttons undone one by one, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of old scars, the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath his belt.
Boots kicked off. Belt unbuckled with a soft clink that made my core clench.
When he shoved his jeans and briefs down in one motion, I couldn’t look away.
He was thick. Long. Heavy. Already leaking at the tip.
My God.
My mouth watered.
He crawled over me, caging me with his arms, and kissed me again—slower this time, deeper, like he was pouring every unsaid word into it. His hand slid down my side, found the slit in my dress, and pushed the fabric up until it bunched at my waist.
“These,” he muttered against my lips, fingers tracing the lace edge of my panties, “are in my way.”
I lifted my hips. He hooked his fingers under the sides and dragged them down my legs, tossing them somewhere behind him. Then he settled between my thighs, spreading me open with gentle pressure.
“Look at you,” he breathed, voice reverent. “So wet for me already.”
His finger brushed my clit—once, feather-light—and I jolted, a broken moan escaping me.
“Please,” I whispered.
He didn’t tease. Didn’t make me beg more than that.
He lowered his head and put his mouth on me.
The first lick was slow. Exquisite. From bottom to top, tasting me like I was the sweetest thing he’d ever had. I cried out, fingers tangling in his hair, holding him there. He groaned against me, the vibration sending sparks up my spine.
He ate me like a man who’d waited a lifetime for this meal.
Licking. Sucking. Circling my clit with the flat of his tongue until my hips bucked. Then two thick fingers slid inside me—curling, stroking that spot that made stars burst behind my eyelids.
“Wyatt—oh, God—”
“Come for me, Sophie, babe,” he murmured against my folds. “Let me feel you.”
I shattered.
The orgasm hit hard and fast, rolling through me in waves that left me trembling, gasping his name like a prayer. He didn’t stop until I was whimpering from overstimulation, thighs quivering around his head.
I shifted beneath him, sliding one leg between his, and felt the heavy length of him drag across my skin. A low groan rumbled in his chest.
“My turn,” I said, breathless.
His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide. “Soph—”
I didn’t let him finish. I pushed at his shoulders until he rolled onto his back, taking me with him.
The satin of my dress was still bunched around my waist. I straddled his hips for a moment, just looking down at him—chest heaving, abs clenched, that thick cock lying heavy against his stomach, flushed dark and glistening at the tip.
God, he was beautiful like this. Vulnerable in a way he rarely let anyone see. The same boy who’d once tackled me into a pile of hay to make me laugh was now a man who’d carried wars on his back, and yet here he was, letting me have him.
I slid down his body slowly, deliberately, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the way—his collarbone, the flat plane between his pecs, the dip of his sternum. I paused to flick my tongue over one flat nipple, smiling when his hips jerked and a rough curse slipped out.
“God. Babe …”
I kept going. Lower. Lower. Until I settled between his spread thighs, hands braced on the hard muscle there. I wrapped my fingers around the base of him—hot, velvet-smooth skin over steel—and gave one slow, firm stroke.
He hissed through his teeth, head falling back against the pillow. “Fuck.”
I leaned down and licked a long, wet stripe from root to tip, tasting the salt of him mixed with the faint sweetness of my own arousal still on his skin. He groaned deep in his throat, one hand fisting the sheets, the other reaching for my hair but stopping short, like he was afraid to pull.
I didn’t give him the choice.
I took him into my mouth—slow at first, lips stretching around the thick head, tongue swirling over the slit to lap up the bead of precome there. He was big—bigger than I’d imagined—and the weight of him on my tongue felt perfect. Heavy. Real. Mine.
I hollowed my cheeks and slid down further, taking as much as I could until he bumped the back of my throat. His hips bucked once, involuntarily, and he cursed again—low, wrecked.
“Christ, Soph … your mouth …”
I hummed around him, the vibration making his thighs tense under my palms.
I loved this—loved the way his stoic control cracked the second I had him like this. Loved watching the muscles in his stomach ripple, the way his abs clenched every time I sucked harder. Loved the way his breathing turned ragged, the quiet groans he couldn’t hold back.
I bobbed my head, slow and deep, one hand stroking what my mouth couldn’t reach, twisting gently at the base. My other hand cupped his balls, rolling them lightly, feeling them draw up tight.
He was close—I could tell by the way his cock throbbed against my tongue, by the way his fingers finally tangled in my hair, not guiding, just holding on like I was the only thing keeping him tethered.
I wanted to see him fall apart. Wanted to feel him lose it because of me. Wanted to drink him down and know I’d given him this after all the years of waiting.
I sucked harder, faster, cheeks hollowed, tongue working the sensitive underside. His hips started to move—small, helpless thrusts he tried to control but couldn’t.
“Sophie—fuck—babe, I’m—”