Chapter 22 Good Girl （Eden）
GOOD GIRL (EDEN)
Dinner should have been harmless. Grilled chicken, quiet conversation, Nate keeping things infuriatingly light. But every smile, every rumbling chuckle, every lingering brush of his gaze chips away at my walls.
And then dessert arrives.
One bowl. Vanilla gelato drowned in espresso. Two spoons catching the candlelight.
My eyes widen. I glance at him, and he only lifts an eyebrow, daring me to speak. But words desert me—verbs and nouns refusing to line up.
Seriously? Who ordered this, and why are we sharing like we’re…a couple?
I freeze, staring at the melting swirl, mind scrambling. Do I call it out? Decline? Pretend it’s no big deal?
Nate doesn’t give me the chance. He smiles, eyes locked on mine, and he scrapes his chair closer. He scoops up a spoonful and holds it steady at my lips.
“Open up.”
My pulse spikes. “I can feed myself.”
“I know you can.” His words wrap around me, devastating in their quiet certainty. “But you’re going to let me take care of you, aren’t you?”
An electric shiver tears down my spine. My rational mind seems to have fled entirely.
“Open up, baby.”
The endearment hits somewhere deep, curling through me with dangerous warmth. Ridiculous—it’s just ice cream.
And still, my fingers curl obediently in my lap. Slowly, as if I’m stepping into fire, I part my lips. Silken vanilla cream hits first, chased by the dark bite of espresso. Nate watches me swallow, night bleeding into his pupils.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
The words detonate inside me, molten, devastating. My thighs press tight beneath the table, the reaction automatic, traitorous. His gaze flicks down, that smirk spreading.
I reach for the second spoon, desperate to claw back some control.
But his hand closes over mine—large, warm, unyielding.
He slides the utensil out of reach without breaking eye contact, then lifts my hand instead.
His mouth brushes over my knuckles, a featherlight kiss that sends fire searing up my arm.
His breath grazes my skin, and my whole body stutters, caught between panic and surrender.
“Let me set the pace,” he murmurs, soft as velvet but threaded through with command. My body already knows the answer before my brain can form it. My eyes widen, and I nod.
The next bite is slower. He lingers at my lips, the spoon skimming the corner before slipping in. The cold steals a gasp, and his gaze doesn’t budge—dark, hungry, probably imagining my mouth in other places.
Without meaning to, my eyes flick down. Biting my lip, I catch the outline straining against his pants. Panic jolts; I look back up fast.
But he caught me.
His eyes are bleeding darkness. “You want to touch me, Trouble?” The words drag across my skin. “Be good for me, and maybe I’ll let you.”
Someone dropped me straight into a volcano. Every nerve ending burns, restless and wanting.
A rivulet of espresso slips from the corner of my mouth, icy against overheated flesh. I flinch at the contrast, but Nate’s already leaning in, thumb brushing the streak away before his mouth follows, tongue sweeping over my skin.
The shock of cold and heat colliding steals my breath, my brain stalling out entirely. Part of me is mortified, the rest of me is shattering under the weight of how natural he makes it feel.
“You’re making a mess of yourself,” he rasps, as if licking me clean in public is the most casual thing in the world.
My heartbeat is a wild thing in my chest. My skin buzzes, and I can’t decide if I want to crawl under the table or climb across it into his lap. No one’s ever made me feel this undone—with a spoon, a word, a flick of a tongue.
Before I can catch my breath, Nate shifts even closer. The scrape of his chair makes my pulse stutter. His hand snakes across the table, fingers curling around my right wrist. Gently—deliberately—he guides it behind my back.
“I didn’t think you’d enjoy vanilla,” he says. “But here you are, taking it without complaint.”
I jerk in surprise, but his grip is steady, unhurried. His other hand finds my left wrist and follows, drawing it to meet the first.
Then with terrifying ease, he gathers both into one large palm. His grip is light and doesn’t hurt, but also firm enough that I couldn’t pull free if I wanted to.
My chest tips forward, my body reacting to the restraint. Helpless. Exposed. My heart pounds so hard, I swear he can hear it.
“The bitter espresso made it…interesting,” I manage.
He smirks and leans in, gaze locked on mine, words a rough rumble. “This what you like, baby? A bit of bite to go with the sweet?”
The table, the restaurant, the risk of being seen—all of it fades. It’s just his hand at my wrists and the dizzying realization that I don’t want him to let go.
My throat works, but no words come.
“Would you let me tie you up?” His tone drops, softer now, dangerous. “Do whatever I want with you?”
The answer should be no. Every sane part of me screams it should be no.
And yet, I nod. Small. Shaky. Helpless.
His mouth tilts up, pleased. But he doesn’t release me yet. With his free hand, he scoops another spoonful of gelato, holding it steady at my lips.
“Open up.”
This time, I obey right away. Sweet, bitter cream slides over my tongue, but all I feel is the weight of his hand locking me in place, the darkness in his eyes while he feeds me.
Then he sets the spoon aside and leans in.
His tongue traces the seam of my mouth—coaxing, tasting, stealing the last of the espresso. A shiver cascades down my spine, and I open for him without thinking.
The kiss deepens; our tongues find a rhythm that steals my breath. Heat skims my skin, every point of contact sparking. The slick press of his mouth turns feral, but he won’t hurry. He sets the pace—patient, intent—proving his point with every stroke until I’m trembling, undone, clutching at him.
By the time he finally pulls back, I’m breathless. Every inch of me is on fire.
Only then does he free my wrists, as if he’s granting mercy. My hands fall to my lap, useless, while I try to remember how to breathe.
Nate reclines, unruffled, lips curved in quiet satisfaction after wrecking me with a spoon and a scoop of ice cream.
“Time to head back,” he declares quietly.
The words are simple. Ordinary. But the way he says them—sure, absolute—leaves no doubt in my mind.
I’ll follow him anywhere.
Nate rises, and without another word, I’m on my feet too.
The air outside is cold and sharp, but it doesn’t cool me down. Electricity hums under my skin. From the kiss, from the way he held my wrists. I can’t shake the memory of it—how I nodded before I even thought.
We walk side by side through the snow-dusted street. My pulse refuses to settle. Meanwhile, his stride is measured and composed. He has all the time in the world and nowhere better to be.
“You did good,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath skims my ear. “Didn’t take you long to figure out how sweet it is to let go.”
My knees wobble, but his hand is firmly on my waist, steadying me.
“You liked pleasing me,” he continues, his tone a lazy rasp that slides under my skin. “Liked those pretty wrists pinned down. All that fire and strength, and yet you melted for me willingly, loved that I took your choice away.”
My throat is parched. Words fail.
Half a block from the hotel entrance, he stops dead, tugging me in so I collide with his chest. One hand braces at my hip, the other curving around the back of my neck as he bends close. His lips brush the shell of my ear as he whispers, “And you’ll let go for me again.”
I should shove him away, hiss at him to remember where we are. But instead, my knees weaken, my head tips toward his shoulder, and for a moment, I forget about consequences, about reputations, about everything but him.
The hotel glows ahead, golden light spilling onto the sidewalk. Inside, the elevator doors slide open with a chime. We step in, the hush wrapping around us. I press myself against the back wall, trying to gather air, but it’s useless with him filling the space.
His hand brushes mine. A reminder that he’s not done with me.
“You’re shaking,” he observes, almost conversational. “And I’ve barely touched you.”
The doors close, trapping the words between us. My stomach drops.
He glances at me, mouth curving. “Sometimes all it will take is telling you what to do.”
My breathing quickens.
He leans in, his heat bleeding into me. “You opened so sweet for me tonight. Mouth, wrists, every part of you ready to take me.” His eyes rake over me. “Bet it’ll be the same when I tell you to spread those thighs.”
The elevator dings. I jolt. The doors part, and I stumble forward, but his hand finds the small of my back, guiding me gently down the hall.
“Keep walking,” he murmurs.
We reach his door. Nate swipes his card, the lock clicking open. He pushes it wide, one hand braced against the frame.
“Inside,” he says, tilting his head. Soft, simple, threaded with steel.
My feet move before my brain catches up. The door clicks shut behind us, and the thick silence of his room folds around me. I hover by the wall, heart rattling in my chest, while he turns toward me. His gaze finds me—and holds.
“Look at you,” he says, eyes dragging over me. “So obedient. You like this, don’t you? Someone you trust giving the orders. Deciding what comes next.”
Heat flares in my belly. My core clenches, fluttering around nothing.
“You love rules,” he says, voice low and rough. “Me being in charge.”
A helpless sound slips out of me. His fingers circle my jaw, brush my mouth.
“Tell me, Eden.” Steady. Unyielding. “What do you want?”
The words stall in my throat. I swallow, chest tight, and let the truth out on a whisper. “I want you. I want you to take the lead.”
His gaze darkens. “Say what that means.”
“Show me how to let go.” My pulse kicks. “Tell me where you want me. Tell me what to do.”