Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Dominic
When I go to the bathroom and the room is spinning, the floor undulating beneath my feet like I'm on a ship at sea, I figure it's time to call it quits and get home.
I take a piss, bracing one hand against the wall to steady myself, and make my way back to the table, gripping the backs of chairs for support.
"I think I need to go home," I announce, the words slightly slurred, my tongue feeling too thick for my mouth.
"Yeah, I think you're right," Ethan says, studying me with barely concealed amusement. "I haven't seen you drink this much in years. Not since that time in Vegas after the Richardson project."
"I don't remember the last time I did," I agree, running a hand through my hair, feeling it stand on end beneath my fingers. "Or the last time I felt like I needed to."
"You're going to feel it tomorrow," Logan warns, shaking his head with the wisdom of someone who's been there too many times.
I groan, already dreading the hangover, the pounding head and dry mouth that await me. "Come on, I'll drive you home," Logan says, standing up.
"Me too," Ethan adds, finishing his beer in one long swallow.
"Why did I agree to being the DD?" Logan whines, but there's no real complaint in his voice, just the familiar banter that's carried us through two decades of friendship.
The three of us make our way out to the parking lot after we pay the tab and pile into my truck because Logan has a sports car that can barely fit his own lanky frame, let alone all three of us.
The night air hits me like a physical blow, crisp and sobering, and I realize just how drunk I am—drunk enough to temporarily forget about green eyes, about innocence and performances, about all the contradictions embodied in one small woman currently living under my roof.
But not drunk enough to silence the voice in my head telling me I'm completely and utterly screwed.
The world tilts and sways as Logan helps me navigate from the truck to my front door.
I fumble with the keys, dropping them once before finally managing to slide the right one into the lock.
As the door swings open, a strange sound filters through the house—a female voice rising and falling rhythmically.
"What the fuck is that?" I mutter to Logan, my drunk brain struggling to process what I'm hearing.
Logan tilts his head, listening. "I think she's singing... or rapping?"
We move further into the house, and the sound becomes clearer.
Skye's voice carries through the open layout, sweet but with surprising confidence as she raps along to what must be playing through her headphones.
The lyrics are suggestive, playful, and hearing them in her voice sends a jolt of heat straight through me.
Then I see her.
She's in the kitchen, back to us, completely oblivious to our presence.
Her hips sway in perfect rhythm, the movement hypnotic and fluid.
She's wearing those damn sleep shorts that her ass eats in the most perfect way, paired with a cropped tank top that reveals a strip of pale skin at her waist. Her hair is piled messily on top of her head, a few strands escaping to curl against her neck.
My eyes are glued to her every movement as she continues rapping, hitting every word of Shoop by Salt-N-Pepper perfectly while stirring something in a bowl. The alcohol in my system amplifies everything—the sway of her hips seems deliberately seductive, the flash of skin at her waist an invitation.
I become suddenly aware that Logan is watching her too, his eyes tracking the same movements mine are. Something primal and possessive flares in my chest.
"Take your eyes off of her," I growl, low enough that Skye can't hear over her music.
Logan chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Already leaving," he says, backing toward the door. "I'll get your truck back tomorrow."
The door clicks shut behind him, and I turn my attention fully back to Skye. She's still completely unaware of my presence, lost in her music and movement. I should announce myself—startling her would be cruel—but I can't seem to make myself interrupt.
She grabs the bowl—ice cream, I realize—and dances her way to the dining room where she's set up what looks like an art station.
Papers and supplies are spread across the table, and a half-finished drawing sits in the center.
She stands there, hip cocked to one side, still swaying gently as she studies her work and takes a spoonful of ice cream.
The motion of the spoon sliding between her lips, the way she unconsciously licks a drop from the corner of her mouth, the gentle rhythm of her body never quite stopping even as she concentrates on her art—it's the most innocently erotic thing I've ever witnessed.
I'm suddenly, painfully sober, every sense heightened and focused entirely on her. This is dangerous territory, and I know I should turn around, go upstairs, lock myself in my room until this madness passes. I'm drunk. She's nineteen.
Instead, I stay rooted to the spot, unable to look away.
And then she bends over the table, reaching for a pencil, her ass perfectly outlined in those thin cotton shorts, and something inside me snaps.
I'm moving before I can talk sense into myself, crossing the room in four long strides.
She doesn't notice me—still lost in her music, her hips swaying slightly as she sketches.
I stand directly behind her, close enough to smell the sweet scent of her shampoo, and let my fingers rake up her inner thighs.
She yelps, spinning around so fast she nearly loses her balance. Her back hits the table, her wide eyes locked on mine as she rips her headphones off. The sound of 90s hip-hop leaks from the headphones.
"You scared me," she gasps, one hand pressed to her chest, her breathing rapid.
"Sorry," I say, though I make no move to step back from her. Our bodies are inches apart, the heat between us palpable.
"How long have you been there?" Her voice trembles slightly.
"A while."
"Oh god." She groans, burying her face in her hands, embarrassment radiating from her.
"Look at me." My voice comes out deeper than I intended, rough around the edges.
She slowly lowers her hands, her green eyes meeting mine with a mixture of embarrassment and something darker, more primal. The alcohol in my system removes any filter I might normally have.
"Why did you put your virginity up for auction?" I bring my hand to the sliver of exposed skin at her stomach, letting my finger trace lazy patterns there. Her skin is impossibly soft, warm beneath my touch.
Her breathing becomes heavier, but she doesn't break eye contact. "Skye," I prompt when she doesn't answer.
"I needed money," she finally says, so quietly I almost miss it.
"What for?" I press, continuing my exploration of that strip of skin.
"Do you really care?" A flash of defiance crosses her face. "I don't want to talk about this." She places her hand on my chest and starts to push me away.
I grab her wrist, then the other one, pulling them both behind her back and holding them there with one hand. My other hand moves to her neck, fingers wrapping loosely around her throat.
"Answer me," I command.
She sucks in a sharp breath, and I don't miss how her nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of her tank top. The guys were right—she might be into some of my darker tastes after all.
"My dad abandoned us," she confesses, her pulse racing beneath my fingers. "Mom is struggling with the bills. I need to help pay for my brother's special school and the rest of my college tuition."
I loosen my grip on her throat, sliding my hand down to brush my thumb over her nipple through her shirt. She whimpers, wiggling in my hold, the friction causing heat to pool low in my stomach.
"They'll give you the option to take the next highest bid," I tell her, watching her face carefully for her reaction. Her pupils are dilated, lips parted. "Are you going to take it?"
"Are you going to take it?" I repeat, my voice deepening with each syllable, the words hanging between us like a physical presence.
"They'll give me another option?" she asks, her voice breathless, uncertain, the innocent question making my blood run hotter.
I nod slowly, deliberately, watching the conflict dance across her features. She's transparent in the most enchanting way, every flicker of emotion visible in those wide, expressive eyes—fear, desire, confusion, need—all warring for dominance.
"I don't know. Maybe," she says, the words so quiet they barely disturb the air between us.
Something dark and possessive rises within me, clawing its way up from depths I didn't know existed.
The whiskey has stripped away my carefully constructed walls, dissolving years of restraint, leaving only raw, primal instinct in its wake.
I lean down, my lips brushing against the delicate shell of her ear, feeling her tremble against my chest.
"What if I don't want you to?" I whisper, my breath scorching against her skin, each word a brand of ownership.
"You don't?" The question escapes her on a shaky exhale, surprise mingling with something that sounds dangerously like hope.
"The thought of anyone else touching you makes me crazy." The confession tears free before I can cage it. "I want it to be me." I drag my tongue up the column of her neck, savoring the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse leap beneath my mouth like a frightened animal.
She sucks in a sharp breath, her body tensing momentarily before surrendering against me. "Mr. Grayson," she whispers, fingers clutching desperately at my shirt, "we can't."
I groan, the sound rumbling from deep in my chest as I bring my free hand back to her throat, applying just enough pressure to feel the frantic flutter of her pulse against my palm—not to hurt, never to hurt, just to control.
"What did I tell you about calling me that?" My voice emerges rough, gritty with barely leashed desire.
A small whimper escapes her, the sound hitting me like a physical blow, straight to my already throbbing cock. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, eyes wide and dark with unmistakable want.
I release her wrists and throat only to slide my hands beneath her, cupping her ass firmly.
In one fluid motion, I lift her onto the table, setting her directly on top of her abandoned artwork, beside the bowl of now-melting ice cream.
She doesn't spare a glance for the ruined drawing, her attention fixed entirely on me as she presses a trembling hand against my chest.
"Are you taking it now?" she asks, looking impossibly innocent yet devastatingly seductive—a combination that threatens to bring me to my knees.
"Can I still have it?" The question emerges as a primal growl. I tangle my fingers in her hair, pulling with calculated force to expose the elegant line of her neck. The sight of her throat bared, vulnerable yet trusting, nearly shatters my remaining control.
"Yes," she breathes, the single word wrapped in a moan that resonates through my entire body.
"Fuck," I groan, bringing my mouth to her neck, kissing and tasting with barely restrained hunger. The knowledge that she still wants me to claim her virginity makes my cock pulse painfully against my zipper.
Her skin tastes of sweet fruit and something uniquely, intoxicatingly her. I drag my teeth across her racing pulse point, feeling it thunder beneath my lips. She arches into me, a soft, desperate sound escaping her parted lips.
"I'll make it good for you," I promise against her flushed skin. "Take care of you. Show you everything."
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, nails biting even through the fabric of my shirt. She responds to each touch, each kiss with a new, delicious sound—a symphony of desire I've never experienced with anyone else. It's utterly addictive, a drug I already know I won't be able to give up.
I pull back just enough to study her face—cheeks flushed with arousal, lips swollen and parted, eyes clouded with naked want. Despite the whiskey coursing through my veins, I've never felt more lucid, more certain about what I need.
And what I need, what I crave with every fiber of my being, is her. All of her. Every inch, every sound, every breath.