Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
Skye
A week has passed since Dom took me to the cave, and I've been living in a dream that feels too perfect to be real.
During the day, we play at being normal—hanging at the beach, swimming laps in the crystal-clear pool, going out for casual dinners where we sit across from each other like any ordinary people who aren't fucking.
But at night? At night I transform into someone I never knew existed inside me, someone hungry and desperate and alive in ways that terrify and thrill me.
Every single night, I slip into his room like I belong there, and he makes me feel like I do.
He keeps showing me new things, peeling back layers of who I thought I was and revealing this raw, needy creature underneath.
The time I dropped to my knees without being asked and crawled across his bedroom floor to him—I've never seen his eyes go that dark before, like storm clouds gathering.
He pet my head with such reverence, called me his good girl in that low, rough voice, and then I worshipped his cock with my mouth until he rewarded me by covering me in his release, marking me as his.
He's tied me up with silk scarves and rope, made me orgasm so many times I lost count, so many times the pleasure bordered on pain and I almost used my safe word—cherry—just to catch my breath.
We've experimented with toys I didn't even know existed, and now he's told me I have to wear the butt plug for two hours a day, every day, to prepare me.
I do exactly what he says, following his instructions like gospel.
Sometimes I don't tell him when I have it in, wearing it like a secret.
But other times, I wear it out to dinner and l whisper that I have it inside me while we're sitting in some upscale restaurant.
It drives him absolutely crazy, his jaw tightening and his hands clenching on his napkin, and I love making him crazy because at night he comes undone completely—wild and possessive like some beautiful, dangerous animal.
And God help me, I fucking crave when he's like that. I crave the way he loses control, the way he takes me apart piece by piece until I'm nothing but sensation and need.
Harper has had me covering for her constantly this last week.
She's met someone but won't talk about him yet, which isn't like her at all.
Usually she tells me everything, but this time she's keeping secrets, and I can see something different in her eyes—softer, more distracted.
Tonight she's going to Obsidian, and I can tell that this isn't just another night out.
When Dom emerges from his home office and asks if we want to go out to dinner, Harper shakes her head without looking up from her phone.
"I think Wren and I are going to the clubs tonight," she says with practiced casualness, though I know she's lying through her teeth.
She already asked me earlier if I wanted to come along, and when I said no, she agreed a little too easily, saying she'd just tell her dad she was going with Wren.
"But you two should still go," she adds, motioning between us with an encouraging smile. "Don't let me ruin your night."
"You're not going out?" Dom asks me directly, and there's something hopeful in his voice that makes my stomach flutter.
"Nah," I say, trying to match Harper's casual tone even though my pulse is racing. "Not really up for that scene tonight." The truth is, I'd rather spend every possible moment with him before this perfect dream has to end.
"Oh," he says, and I can see the pleased surprise flicker across his features before he schools his expression. "Well, would you like to go to dinner with me? Just us?"
"Yeah, sure." I bite back the urge to sound too eager, but my heart is hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. "That sounds nice."
"Leave in thirty minutes?" he asks, already mentally planning, and I love how organized he is, how he thinks three steps ahead of everyone else.
"Sounds perfect. I'll go get ready."
"Me too," he says, and there's something intimate in the way he says it, like we're a real couple making real plans. He disappears toward his bedroom, and I have to resist the urge to follow him.
"Thanks," Harper says the moment he's out of earshot, her voice dropping to that conspiratorial whisper we've perfected over years of friendship.
"For what?" I ask, though I think I know.
"For hanging with him tonight. For keeping him company." Her expression grows serious, almost protective. "He's always alone, you know?"
"Oh." My throat tightens with all the things I can't tell her.
"Yeah, I don't mind spending time with him.
" The words feel so inadequate, like calling the ocean damp.
I want to tell her everything—how I love the way he holds me afterward, how he brings me coffee in the morning exactly how I like it, how he listens when I talk about my art like it actually matters.
How he's not lonely at all when we're together, how he makes me feel like the most important person in his world.
I wish I could say it all and that she would be happy for us, that she would understand.
But I can't, because when this summer ends, so do we.
This perfect, impossible thing we've built will crumble the moment I step on that plane back to Pennsylvania.
The best thing that has ever happened to me has an expiration date, and we're racing toward it faster than I want to admit.
"I need to go get ready," I say, grabbing my phone before she can see the emotion I'm struggling to hide.
"Okay, have fun tonight."
I escape to my bedroom and immediately go to my closet, running my fingers along the clothes I bought until I find the perfect dress—a cream-colored slip dress that skims my curves without being obvious about it.
I pull a matching bra and panty set from the dresser, the silk feeling like luxury against my fingers.
I choose the cheeky panties instead of a thong because I have plans for tonight, plans that involve the gift he's been training me to take.
I grab the black plug from where I keep it hidden in my nightstand—it's bigger than the others, and this will be my first time wearing this size.
My stomach flutters with nerves, but I know he'll be pleased.
The thought of his reaction, the way his eyes will darken when I tell him, makes the anxiety worth it.
In the bathroom, I take my time preparing, using plenty of lubricant and breathing through the initial stretch.
The plug is intimidating—substantially larger than what I'm used to—but I'm determined.
I bend over the marble counter, watching myself in the mirror as I work it slowly inside.
It doesn't hurt at first, just feels foreign and full, so I continue pushing it deeper until I reach the widest part.
That's when I feel the real stretch, the burn that makes me pause and grip the counter.
"Shit, that's big," I whisper to my reflection, my cheeks flushed and eyes wide.
I'm stretched so completely full that I'm beginning to second-guess this decision.
Maybe I should save this size for when we're at home, when he can help me through it.
But then I imagine the look on his face when I lean across the dinner table and tell him what I'm wearing for him, and my resolve hardens.
I take a deep breath, force my body to relax, and push the plug the rest of the way in until it settles completely.
The sensation is overwhelming—I feel so full. I'll finish getting ready and see how it feels. If it's too much, I can always change my mind.
I slip into the pink lingerie, the silk cool against my heated skin, then carefully pull the dress over my head.
The fabric settles perfectly over my curves, and I add a few loose waves to my hair with the curling iron, going for effortlessly beautiful rather than overdone.
I keep my makeup natural—just a hint of mascara and some lip gloss—because I know he prefers me like this, likes to see my freckles and the natural flush in my cheeks.
I grab my favorite chunky Mary Janes from the closet, the ones that make me feel confident and put-together, and slip them on. One final check in the mirror, and I'm ready. I can do this. I can walk normally, act naturally, and save the revelation for the perfect moment.
When I emerge from the bedroom, Harper looks up from her phone and her eyebrows shoot up.
"Um, hello hottie," she says with an appreciative whistle.
I laugh, heat rising in my cheeks. "I didn't really even do my hair or makeup."
"Doesn't matter. You're naturally gorgeous," she insists, and there's no trace of jealousy in her voice, just genuine affection. "Honestly, Skye, you're stunning even when you roll out of bed. It's actually annoying how effortless you make everything look."
"No, I think you're confusing us," I deflect, uncomfortable with compliments as always.
She rolls her eyes. "Trust me, I'm not confused about anything. You're very hot, especially when you're not trying so hard. My look takes serious work and strategic planning," she says with a self-deprecating laugh. "You just exist and people lose their minds."
"Shut up, you're going crazy," I protest, but I'm smiling despite myself.
"You ready?" Dom's voice cuts through our conversation, and I turn to see him walking into the living room.
He's wearing perfectly tailored charcoal slacks and a crisp white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, and my mouth goes completely dry.
The man could make a garbage bag look like haute couture, but seeing him dressed up and knowing it's for our dinner together makes my heart race.
"Uh, yeah," I manage, standing up and trying to walk normally despite the constant reminder of what I'm wearing for him. Every step sends little jolts of sensation through me, and I have to concentrate on keeping my expression neutral.
"You two have fun and don't get into too much trouble," Harper says with a smirk as I make my way over to Dom, fighting to keep my gait steady.