Chapter 21
Olivia
A fter dinner, we go back to Alexander’s apartment, dizzy from the champagne and anticipation.
In the elevator, we stand inches apart—close enough that I can smell his cologne, yet neither of us reaches across that careful gap between us.
There’s so much gravity in the silence, I almost have to hold onto the handrail to stay vertical.
When Alex finally closes the door behind us, and the sound echoes in the silence. For a moment, we just stand there, eyes locked. His jaw tightens, the sharp angle of it catching the light, and I can see the pulse in his neck throbbing, fast and uneven, betraying the calm facade.
And then, he snaps.
One second, he’s across the room. Next, he’s pressing me against the mirror by the entryway, his mouth scorching mine.
I gasp, laughter tangled with surprise as he traces fire down my throat and along my collarbone, lips urgent—almost desperate.
My body answers before my mind can bargain: I arch into him, hands skimming over the elegant lines of his suit, feeling the tension in his shoulders, the tight coil of energy in his chest.
He tastes like champagne and sugar, like hunger. The mirror chills my back but my skin is burning, hypersensitive to every movement—each breath, each shift of his hands as they glide from my waist to my hips, anchoring me in place.
He breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead to mine, both of us gasping. “Tell me to stop,” he begs, voice hoarse as gravel. When I don’t answer, his lips find the edge of my ear. “Or I’m going to fuck you right here, standing up.”
There’s a flicker of me that wants to laugh at how cliché it all suddenly feels, but instead I say, “Don’t you dare stop.”
And he doesn’t.
His hands slide under my skirt, and before I can process what’s happening, he rips my panties clean off. The sound of fabric tearing sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust straight to my core.
“Alex,” I whimper, my voice trembling, my nails digging into his chest as he spreads my thighs wide.
He’s already hard—so hard I can feel the thick ridge of his cock straining against his slacks, pressing into my pussy through the thin fabric of my dress. I’m wet, so wet, and I can tell he knows it by the way his eyes darken, his jaw tightening with barely restrained want.
He doesn’t waste time. He shoves his pants down just enough to free his cock, and I gasp at the sight of it—thick, veiny, and perfect.
Then he turns me around and bends me over the hall table, my hands bracing instinctively on the cold glass.
The edge bites into my hips, the shock of it slicing through the cloud of lust, making everything sharper, more urgent.
His hands are everywhere—splaying my legs further apart, hitching my skirt obscenely high, grabbing my wrists and pulling them behind my back so I’m utterly at his mercy.
The press of his body pins me down, and I feel the hard length of his cock dragging against the slick heat between my legs.
“My fiancée.” He lines himself up at my entrance, his tip brushing against my soaked slit, and I’m already writhing, desperate for him to fill me. “My pretty little wife.”
With one brutal, gorgeous motion, he’s inside me, stretching me wide.
The sudden fullness wrings a gasp from my lips.
His left hand closes over both my wrists, pinning them to the small of my back, while his right comes up to fist in my hair, wrenching my head back.
He fucks me hard, fast, relentless, making everything inside me liquefy and clench at once.
I moan, and my voice echoes off the marble.
Every thrust drives me forward, knocking the breath out of my chest, but I never want him to stop.
I can feel his hand shaking in my hair; I wonder if this is what vulnerability tastes like for him—losing control, letting someone else see the need under all that armor.
I want to tell him I see it, that I understand, but all I can do is spread my knees wider, arch my back, and let him claim me.
He’s panting now, his sweat slicking my skin where he presses against me, and he’s close—his thrusts grow erratic, more desperate, and his teeth scrape my shoulder, leaving a crescent of red on my skin.
“Come on, Olivia. Come for me.”
He hits the spot inside me that turns my bones to jelly, and I shatter, clenching around him, body arching, my cry loud and raw. He follows with a guttural groan, thrusting once, twice more before he pulses, spilling inside me.
I collapse to the tabletop, limp, as he slumps over me, his cheek pressed to my shoulder blade.
For a while, neither of us moves. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, blotting out everything except the heat of his body and the pleasant ache blooming in my hips, my thighs. I feel thoroughly, completely claimed.
Eventually, he straightens, pulling me up with him. He tucks himself away, hands gentle as he smooths my skirt.
“Sorry about your underwear,” he murmurs, voice rough, lips grazing my ear. “I’ll buy you a dozen new pairs.”
I laugh, light and a little drunk on endorphins. “But you ruined my favorite pair.”
Alex grins, that wicked dimple denting his cheek. “Think of it as a keepsake.”
He scoops me up, bridal-style, ignoring my protest, and carries me through the apartment, not stopping until we reach the bedroom. He deposits me gently on the bed, then stretches beside me, propping his head on his hand.
“I was serious,” he says, voice low. “You’re mine now. If anyone tries to take you away—”
I nudge him in the ribs. “I don’t need you to fight my battles, Alexander.” He hugs me tighter, burying his nose in my hair. “I know. But part of me wants to anyway.”
The great Alexander Hawthorne, empire-builder and notorious playboy, wants to protect me. Not just from the business vultures or the glare of the press, but from the world, full stop.
I’m flattered.
“Well, the only thing I need from you is to give me another orgasm. No need to shed any blood.”
He laughs—a deep, shaken sound that vibrates through his chest and into mine, bright and reckless as champagne bubbles. “That, love, I can do. I did promise to satisfy your every need.”
He does. Over and over, the night softens and blurs at the edges, until we’re sprawled in the dark together, sweaty and spent, breathing in sync.
It’s magical.