Forty-Six
When we reach the suite, he swipes the key card, pushes the door open, and walks us inside. The moment the door shuts behind us, silence settles again.
It’s suffocating.
I can’t breathe.
I should say something, make a joke, lighten the tension, but my heart hammers too loudly, my breath coming too fast.
Nathan turns to face me.
I know what’s about to happen because his eyes are hooded, blazing with a hunger I’ve never seen before. When he steps toward me, I don’t back away, don’t run. I lift my chin, meeting him halfway.
His voice is strained when he says, “I thought you said we weren’t doing this again.”
I nod, every inch of me burning for his touch. “I lied.”
That’s all it takes.
His hands are on me in the next breath. They’re firm and claiming. His fingers slide into my hair, tilting my head back as his mouth crashes down on mine. There’s no hesitation or teasing lead-up, just pure, unrestrained desperation. He kisses me with a hunger that knots my stomach and sets every nerve on fire, his tongue delving into my mouth like he’s done waiting, done pretending this thing between us isn’t real.
His hands drop to my waist, walking me backward in slow, calculated steps.
My body isn’t my own anymore.
It’s his.
The backs of my legs hit the bed, and before I can catch my breath, he’s gripping my hips and lifting me onto the mattress. A sharp inhale snags in my throat as I land, staring up at him.
Nathan fucking Calloway, the man who once took me to his penthouse and ruined me in every way. But this is different because it isn’t just sex. It’s scarier than that. It’s something deeper that we both feel but won’t dare name.
He stands there, chest rising and falling, pupils blown wide, then slides his hands up my thighs, bunching the silky fabric of my dress in tight fists.
“Tell me to stop,”
he rasps, voice ragged with fraying restraint.
When have I ever?
I shake my head. “No.”
“Tell me this is a bad idea,”
he murmurs, dragging the dress higher, knuckles grazing the sensitive skin at the top of my thighs.
I exhale sharply. “I can’t.”
A dark, possessive sound rumbles in his chest. He grips the fabric and tugs, yanking my dress up and over my head in one swift motion. Cool air hits my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the fire raging through me as his gaze devours my bare breasts, my flushed skin, the lace panties that are already damp for him.
I expect him to pounce, but he doesn’t.
He kneels.
Large hands slide up my thighs, parting them with a grip that’s reverent, like he’s unwrapping a gift. In the next fractured breath, he’s there, mouth on me.
A strangled sound tears from my throat as his tongue drags a slow stripe over my panties.
He groans, the vibration making my legs tremble.
“Christ, Sienna,”
he mutters, pressing his lips to my inner thigh, teeth grazing sensitive skin.
He hooks a finger into the lace and tears it. Not slides it off. Tears. Then his mouth is back on me, and I lose everything.
Coherent thought, breath, self-control.
He licks and sucks, tongue working me open, owning me with every filthy drag of his mouth. He grips my thighs, holding me down when my body jerks, my hands flying to his hair, pulling hard.
He groans like he wants that, like he wants me to use him. My head tips back, moans ripping past my lips as he teases me up, up, up until I’m so tight, so close, so fucking gone.
“Nathan,”
I gasp, voice raw and needy.
His grip tightens. “Say it again.”
I open my mouth, but all that comes out is a choked cry as his tongue flicks just right on my clit, the pressure perfect, pushing me over the edge.
“Oh my God,”
I manage, body locking up as I shatter, pulsing against his mouth. My vision goes white, pleasure crashing down in waves that steal my breath. He doesn’t let up. He drags his tongue through every aftershock until I’m trembling and pleading.
When he finally pulls back, lips glistening, chest heaving, I barely get a second to recover before he’s gripping my hips and flipping me onto my stomach. A surprised gasp rips from me as he yanks me up on my knees. Exactly how he wants me.
“Nathan,”
I pant, pulse a frantic staccato as his hands glide over my ass, squeezing, owning.
My limbs are boneless, my mind a fog of pleasure so thick that I barely register the rustle of fabric, the shuffle of movement behind me. Somewhere in the haze, I hear him rummage in his bag, the quiet rip of foil that should make this feel real, but my mind is too wrecked to fully comprehend it.
It’s not until I feel him—hot, thick, pressing against me—that his words finally cut through the static.
He leans in, his breath scalding against my ear. “No more pretending.”
With those words, he thrusts.
I almost collapse from the stretch of it, but he keeps me on my knees.
His movements turn rougher, each push of his hips erratic, driven by something deeper than lust. It’s possession. It’s claiming. He’s branding himself into me, making sure I’ll never forget him.
As if that were possible.
He takes my hips in a bruising grip, hauling me back against him as if he needs to crawl under my skin.
“You feel that, Sienna?”
he says, one hand on my throat, his other palm pressing firm on my lower stomach right where he’s buried inside me. “Feel me right here?”
A whimper escapes me, my body clenching around him.
Nathan snarls, lips scraping my jaw. “No one else gets to have this,”
he growls, driving deeper with a deliberate, punishing thrust. “No one else fucks you like this.”
His words tear a moan from my throat as the pressure coils, my entire being locked on the sensation of him.
Because tonight—just for tonight—he owns me, and I own him.
We can play pretend about that for a little while longer.
He slides his hand between us, finding that spot that makes me see stars. My hips jerk, legs shaking, pleasure building in thick, shuddering waves.
“Come for me, baby,”
he rasps, thrusts desperate and messy. “Come while I’m inside you. Let me feel it.”
That’s all it takes. My body convulses, orgasm slamming through me so hard I cry out, nails biting into the skin of his arm. My vision splinters in white, pleasure annihilating every thought.
He jerks, curses, slamming himself deep one last time. A guttural groan rattles his chest as he finds his release, body shaking, heart thundering.
We both collapse, but neither of us moves for a long beat. We just breathe. It’s ragged, uneven, limbs shaking.
Eventually, he shifts, lifting his head to look at me. Gentle fingers brush damp hair from my face with slow, tender strokes. The intimacy of it feels like a punch to the gut. This was never supposed to happen again, but I don’t let go, and neither does he.
He inhales, then scoops me up with him as he stands. I let out a startled noise, legs wrapping around his waist. My entire body’s sore, thighs shaking, but I cling to him anyway, not wanting to lose his warmth.
He carries me into the bathroom, flicking on the shower. Steam billows around us, and still he doesn’t break the eye contact that’s so unnerving.
This isn’t just sex. We’re both past that.
He steps under the spray, his arms around me as water pelts my skin. The heat soothes the ache, washing away sweat and the mess we made. I cling to him, exhaustion mixing with an impossible tenderness.
He gently sets me on my feet, placing his hands on my waist to keep me steady. His expression flickers with something almost pained when he reaches for the soap before starting to wash me.
I watch him, still breathing hard, my body still trying to figure out what the hell just happened between us.
He wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I wasn’t supposed to let him be like this.
Yet I don’t stop him.
I don’t stop him as he drags his hands over my skin, rubbing soft, soapy circles over my shoulders and down my arms. I don’t stop him as his fingers graze over my ribs, skimming the curve of my waist, smoothing over my stomach.
I should stop him.
I should say something.
But I don’t.
Because he’s still looking at me.
And I love the way he looks at me.
His touch is gentle. Almost reverent. Careful over the places where I’m still throbbing, where I’m still his. He drags the soap lower, smoothing over my hips, the tops of my thighs, making sure I’m clean—so fucking clean—and yet every touch of his fingers sends a fresh wave of heat pooling between my legs.
I hate that my body reacts to him so easily.
I hate that I let my eyes flutter shut, that a soft sound escapes my lips when his hand lingers a second too long between my legs.
I hate that he hears it.
He lets out a low hum, his grip tightening on my hip for just a second before he steps behind me, gathering my hair, wetting it under the spray. His fingers glide over my scalp, massaging as he lathers the shampoo into my hair, washing away the sweat, the mess, the memory of what we just did.
But he is the memory.
I can’t wash him away.
He smirks, but there’s a softness in his eyes that damn near breaks me.
His palms splay over my belly, pulling me back against his chest, cradling me there, the steam curling around us like a secret.
His fingers trace circles on my skin. Lower. And lower. I moan in surprise. My eyelids flutter shut, but he turns me in his arms and catches my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“Eyes on me,”
he says, voice thick with need.
I don’t look away. I can’t. Because the intensity in his eyes consumes me.
His fingers slide against my clit once more, sparking fresh waves of pleasure that steal my breath. My nails bite into his chest, but he doesn’t flinch. He keeps his eyes locked on mine, coaxing moan after moan from my lips, unraveling me all over again.
My body quakes under his touch, and I know there's no going back from this. We’ve crossed every line and destroyed every boundary.
He watches me shudder under him, pressed against wet tile, tension spiraling in my core like a live wire.
The water beats down on our tangled bodies, soap bubbles still sliding in rivulets along my waist. The difference of hot water and the cool air on my skin sends goosebumps rippling across me. He inches his mouth closer, breath ghosting over my temple. A wave of self-consciousness flickers—standing here, pinned to the wall, arms braced on his shoulders, practically undone by his touch.
But the second his thumb circles that sensitive bundle of nerves, everything inside me stops thinking. My head drops back, teeth catching on a yelp, and I hear the low, satisfied grunt he makes at the sound.
“Look at me,”
he repeats, voice strung tight with desire.
Shuddering, I peel my eyes open, forcing them to lock onto his. The primal satisfaction in his gaze sears my last coherent thought. I see it flicker across his face. The sliver of something else that rattles my heart.
He dips his head, biting gently at my jawline as he presses me harder against the tile. The friction of his chest grazing my nipples sends another jolt straight between my legs.
His voice is an unsteady rasp. “Christ, Sienna.”
He pushes two fingers inside me, curling them, and my body squeezes in response. “You—fuck, you drive me insane.”
I gasp, nails raking down his arms. The corner of his lips twitch, a triumphant smirk, before he plunges in deeper, hooking in a way that makes me see white.
“Oh God,”
I choke out, pleasure building impossibly high again, my core seizing with renewed tension.
He swears under his breath, free hand sliding to grip my thigh, hauling it higher around his hip.
“That’s it,”
he breathes, thrusting his fingers in a relentless rhythm.
My mouth drops open, and a sob of near ecstasy rattles out of me as the coil within me tightens, tighter, tighter…
The orgasm hits like a sledgehammer, ripping a raw cry from my throat. My head tilts back against the tile, knuckles whitening where I fist his hair. The aftershocks make my knees wobble, and he holds me, watching every trembling second of my release with intense satisfaction.
I’m still in the throes of it when he lifts me, arms hooking under my knees. My legs drape around his waist again, water slapping at our joined bodies, steam swirling. His gaze is locked on mine, unsmiling, determined.
“Please,”
I whisper, though I’m not entirely sure what I’m asking for. Maybe more, maybe mercy, maybe both.
He kisses me then, swallowing whatever word was about to leave my lips. The kiss is messy, bruising, tongues tangling in a battle of want. He grips my ass, aligning me until I feel the hard length of him at my entrance. Everything inside me clenches in anticipation.
We break the kiss, panting, foreheads pressed together.
Then he surges forward, burying himself in me with one powerful thrust.
It’s too much. I’m still raw from the first wave of pleasure, and the stretch hits me deep. I cry out, nails digging into his shoulder blades.
Slowly, he begins to move, each thrust jolting me higher, water splattering across our joined bodies.
I meet his gaze, heart hammering so hard I feel lightheaded. His expression is an exquisite blend of agony and ecstasy, a quiet storm unraveling behind those dark eyes. Every slam of his hips sends me arching, toes curling, heat licking up my spine. I cling to him like a lifeline, letting out small keening sounds with each thrust.
“I’m not stopping,”
he warns, voice taut. “Tell me—tell me if it’s too much.”
He’s relentless, but somehow, I want more. My back presses into the cold tile, thighs trembling from the brutal pleasure. “Don’t stop,”
I gasp, tightening my legs around him. “Nathan, don’t stop.”
I gasp, my whole body tightening.
He doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t look away.
And that’s what does it.
Not his hands. Not his fingers. Not his cock.
His eyes.
The way he watches me. The way he memorizes me. The way he makes it impossible to pretend that this is still just sex.
I hate him for it.
I hate him.
But I can’t stop.
Because I’m falling apart for him, because he’s inside me, because my body knows his, because my breath catches and my spine arches and my head tilts back.
He grips my chin and pulls my face back to meet his. “Don’t you fucking look away from me.”
So I don’t.
I can’t.
Because I know.
I know this is the end of something neither of us bargained for.
A ragged curse rips from his throat, and his pace quickens, hips snapping in an erratic rhythm. My eyes roll back as another orgasm builds, impossibly soon, coiling tight in my belly.
He holds me through it, face twisted with need, until at last he tenses, a deep groan ripping free as he succumbs. His body shudders, each pulse of release surging warmth through me, and I cling to him with trembling arms, the shower still beating down, the entire world collapsing into the echo of our heartbeats.
We stay like that, trembling in each other’s arms, water washing away the evidence of our sin, yet leaving behind something we can’t wash or pretend away.
Eventually, his eyes drift to mine. We share a look that says everything words can’t.
We went too far.
We’ve wanted it this way for too long.
No matter how we try to spin it, we’re changed.
Gently, he lowers my legs. My feet touch the slick floor, and he braces me until I can stand. I watch him turn off the water, the hush of the pipes leaving us in thick silence. We help each other out of the shower with careful steps and lingering touches before he grabs a towel from the rack and wraps it around me with the same tender care.
Then we stand there, dripping, hearts pounding, not saying a word. What can we say? The lines are gone, the illusions shattered. We both know it.
When he bends, he presses his forehead to mine. Our damp hair clings together in a messy tangle. He’s bare, strong, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes is too real.
When we finally leave the bathroom, it’s as though we’re crossing some threshold we can’t retreat from. We slip into the suite’s dim bedroom, the bed waiting, sheets rumpled from earlier. My throat constricts because for all our pretense, for every vow that this was just temporary, we’ve gone and turned it into something else.
He releases my hand. I expect him to pick up his clothes, to get dressed, to keep a shred of distance.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he settles onto the bed, crooking a finger at me. My pulse skitters. Without hesitation, I drop the towel and climb in next to him, letting him pull the covers over us, enveloping us in warmth and leftover steam.
No more words are spoken. We lie there, pressed together, my head on his chest, his arm locked around my waist. The silence holds the weight of a million questions we can’t bear to ask.
Whatever tomorrow brings—whatever regrets or excuses we conjure—right now, in this moment, all that matters is that he’s here. Maybe that’s enough.
Maybe.