Chapter 13 #2
When I push open my bedroom door, Alexander is sitting on the edge of my bed.
Shirtless.
His back is to me, shoulders broad and defined, muscles shifting under skin as he reaches for something on the nightstand. The lamp casts golden light across him, highlighting every plane and angle, and my mouth goes dry.
“You’re still awake?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual.
He turns, and those gray eyes sweep over me—taking in the robe, my damp hair, my bare feet. Something hot flares in his expression before he banks it.
“I was waiting for you.” He takes off his watch, setting it on the nightstand. There’s something very deliberate about it that makes my heart skip a beat.
“I’ll be a minute. I forgot my clothes.” I move to the wardrobe.
“Come here.”
The command is soft but absolute. I meet his gaze in the mirror and see the hunger there, barely controlled. My pulse kicks up, and I turn around slowly to face him.
He crooks one finger, beckoning me closer.
I should say no. Should grab pajamas and change in the bathroom. Should put distance between us before I do something stupid like crawl into his lap and—
My feet carry me forward anyway.
When I’m close enough to touch, his hands settle on my hips. The warmth of his palms seeps through the thin fabric, and I suck in a breath. He doesn’t do anything, though. My fingers reach for his hair, pushing the few strands that are spilling into his eyes back.
“Are you disappointed?” The question comes out quieter than I intended. “About losing today?”
His hold on me tightens. “I was.”
“And now?”
“Now…” He pulls me closer, and I stumble slightly, catching myself with my hands on his shoulders. “I’m not.”
He tugs again, and suddenly my knees are on the bed on either side of his thighs, my arms looping around his shoulders for balance. His face tilts up slightly to meet my gaze, and I can see every fleck of silver in his eyes, feel his skin under my hands.
“Alexander,” I breathe, and his name tastes like a prayer and a curse all at once.
His hand slides inside my robe, palm hot against my ribs. “Yes?”
I can’t process any thoughts. “We can’t.”
“Can’t what?” His mouth finds my neck, lips brushing just below my ear, and I shiver.
“We can’t—” His hand moves higher, thumb grazing the underside of my breast. “Oh, god.”
“Can’t what, Olivia?” His teeth graze my pulse point, and I whimper.
I can’t form words. Can’t think. Can only feel—his mouth on my neck, his hands on my skin, the solid weight of him between my thighs.
“If you’re going to come to me in a robe,” he murmurs against my throat, his voice dark with promise, “I’m going to take advantage of that.” His hand cups my breast fully now, and I gasp. “I’m not a very nice man.”
A laugh huffs out of me, half disbelief, half desperate need. “I find that hard to believe.”
His hand slides lower, between my thighs.
I gasp at the contact, my hips jerking forward involuntarily.
He just has to touch me, and I’m already wet.
His hand cups my pussy, and he presses down with the heel of his hand.
I let out a shaky breath, my legs spreading even more to give him access.
He’s watching me, and when a thick finger is inserted, my lips part on his name.
“You’re not—You’re not playing fair,” I whisper as he stuffs in another finger.
“I never said I would,” he responds, his fingers curling in me, pressing against a spot that has me jerking. “Do you like this?”
My mouth moves, but I can’t say it, can’t tell him that I want him to keep using his hand on me. Instead when he forces another finger inside, I whimper his name, grinding down on his hand.
“Go on,” he invites. “Take what you want.” It takes me a second to realize what he’s saying: he wants me to fuck myself on his fingers.
“Alexander,” I breathe, my voice trembling. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” He winds his other hand in my wet hair and forces my head toward him, our lips inches apart.
“Go ahead. I want to see you move, Olivia. I’m not going to ask again.
” There it is. That voice he uses when he has me like this, like he expects complete and utter obedience from me.
Why do I like it? Why does it make me want to obey him?
I lift my hips, and my eyes flutter shut as I start pushing down on his hand. Over and over, grinding down, my hands on his shoulders.
“Look at me,” he orders, and I have no choice but to do so. I feel dazed, chasing a pleasure only he can give me.
“Good girl,” he murmurs before kissing me.
My lips part immediately, and as he holds my head to him, his fingers start moving again.
I moan into his mouth as he slams them into me.
I can hear the squelching sounds, and my pussy tightens around his fingers in response. I buck against his hand, desperate.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my mouth, his other hand tangling in my wet hair.
I’m whimpering now, my fingers digging into his shoulders as the pleasure builds.
His mouth trails along my jaw. “You’re so beautiful when you fall apart.
So wanton. I could do anything to you right now, and you would say yes, wouldn’t you? ”
“Yes.”
“Whose hand are you using to get off?” Alexander bites my neck gently. “Tell me. Say my name.”
“Yours,” I babble, the pleasure so sharp now I can almost taste it.
“Who’s fucking you, Olivia?” His voice is commanding. “Who’s making you writhe like this?”
“You, Alexander!” I sob out, my hands holding on to his shoulders for dear life. He rewards me by twisting his fingers inside me. I shatter with a cry, the pleasure blinding.
I’m still coming when he pulls out his fingers, and with one swift movement, he pulls the sash of my robe open. The fabric falls away, and suddenly I’m completely bare before him. The cool air hits my heated skin, making me shiver, but Alexander’s gaze is molten as it sweeps over me.
“Look,” he says, his voice rough.
I follow his gaze and realize—the mirror. The full-length mirror at the foot of my bed reflects both of us back, and my face burns even as my body floats through the haze of the orgasm.
“Alexander—”
But he’s already moving, shifting us so his back is against the headboard and I’m sitting between his spread thighs, my back pressed to his chest. One of his arms wraps around my waist, holding me in place, while his other hand—
“Watch,” he commands, and my eyes are drawn to the mirror, to the sight of us—my flushed skin against his darker tones, his hand moving between my thighs.
“Touch yourself.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
“You heard me.” His voice is dark velvet, commanding and sure. “Touch yourself. Show me what you like.”
“I can’t—”
His hand comes up to cup my jaw, holding my face steady, forcing me to watch our reflection. “Yes, you can. You’re already wet. Show me.”
My eyes on my reflection in the mirror, I lower my hand, touching myself hesitantly at first. His eyes grow dark with desire, and I hear his sharp intake of breath as I play with my hardened clit. I can feel him firm in his sweatpants.
“I want to see you take your finger,” he whispers against my ear, and my nipples tighten. I’m already swollen and sensitive, but I obey, inserting a finger. My head falls back against his shoulder, but he murmurs, “I don’t think so.”
His hand around my jaw, forces my head back up. “I didn’t give you permission to look away.”
As I insert another finger, my face twists, and he looks satisfied. My breathing is growing ragged, little whimpers escaping as pleasure builds.
“Alexander.” The sound that escapes me is broken. “I need—I need you. Please.”
My fingers aren’t enough. I need him inside me.
His mouth finds my neck, my shoulder, and he pulls my hand away, sucking the fingers clean.
I watch him in the mirror, my lids hooded.
Then he eases me up onto my knees, and I feel his pants shift.
Before I can do anything, his hand is on my back, and he’s pushing me forward till I’m resting my weight on my arms. My legs are still spread open, and I feel the thick head of his cock pushing against my folds.
My head falls forward, but his hand is in my hair, forcing me to look in the mirror. “I didn’t give you permission to look away.” His growl makes me whine out, our position making me feel every inch of his cock as it moves inside me.
“Watch,” he murmurs, and I do. “Watch how your body fits mine so perfectly.” Slamming his full length inside me, he rocks forward. “How utterly perfect you are when I’m inside you, Olivia.”
I can see my face in the mirror at the foot of the bed—flushed and desperate, eyes glazed with need.
My mouth is open, gasping for air with each thrust, and I watch as my expression shifts between pleasure and overwhelmed sensation.
My brows are drawn together, a crease forming between them as he drives deeper.
My eyes struggle to stay open, lids heavy with the weight of what I’m feeling.
When he hits that perfect spot, my face contorts, mouth forming a silent ‘oh’, eyes rolling back slightly before I force them forward again.
Sweat beads at my hairline, a few damp strands clinging to my forehead and temples.
My cheeks are bright red, the flush spreading down my neck.
I watch my own lips tremble as breathy moans escape, see the way my jaw goes slack when he changes angle.
There’s something almost dazed in my reflection, like I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing, what I’m feeling. My eyes are glassy, unfocused—except when they catch his in the mirror. Then they sharpen with awareness, with the knowledge he’s watching me watch myself fall apart.
He’s moving hard and fast now, ruthlessly driving into me.
Sounds spill from my mouth—pleading, helpless sounds.
When I’m close, my expression transforms, eyebrows lifting, mouth opening wider in a silent plea, every muscle in my face tight with anticipation.
My eyes lock on my own reflection as I shatter, watching myself come undone completely.
Alexander doesn’t pause. He pulls me back by my hair, forcing me to sit on his cock, his mouth finding mine over my shoulder in a bruising kiss. The angle changes, and I cry out. “Scream for me, Olivia. Beg for me.”
And I do. He’s forcing another orgasm from me, pushing inside me in a harsh rhythm that makes me see white.
He’s ruthless with me in bed, as if he knows I can take it all.
His hand circles my neck when my head falls back against his shoulder, and when his grip tightens, threatening to cut off my air supply, I can only moan.
“So perfect,” he murmurs. “So beautiful.”
He’s chasing his release as I ride out my orgasm, and when he spills inside me, my pussy contracts around his cock. He groans as I milk him.
I collapse against his chest, my body trembling with aftershocks. His arms wrap around me immediately, turning me so that we’re facing each other and holding me close, one hand stroking up and down my spine in soothing circles.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs against my hair. “I’ve got you.”
My heart clenches at the tenderness in his voice, so at odds with the roughness of moments before. This is what undoes me—not the passion, but this. The way he holds me like I’m something precious. The way his touch gentles even as his grip stays firm. I feel safe like this. Protected. Cherished.
It terrifies me.
He shifts slightly, reaching for something on the nightstand.
A moment later, warm cloth touches my skin.
He’s wiping me down with careful, methodical strokes.
The intimacy of it makes my throat tight.
When he’s finished, he tosses the cloth aside and pulls the covers up over both of us, settling us into the bed with me still pressed against his chest. His heart beats steady beneath my ear, and I close my eyes.
“You’re making this too real,” I mumble into his skin, my body still shaking.
His hand stills on my back. “Then let’s make it real.”
My heart skips a beat—lurches painfully in my chest. I force my eyes to stay closed, force my breathing to stay even. “Let’s talk about this later.”
For a moment, he says nothing. Then his lips press against the top of my head, soft and gentle.
“As you wish.” The phrase makes something in my chest squeeze tight.
He’s said it before—at the race, when I told him to just have fun instead of worrying about winning.
Both times, his voice had held that same note of yielding, of giving me what I need even when it’s not what he wants.
His breathing deepens, slows, and I know he’s fallen asleep. But I can’t. My eyes open, staring at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom. The glow-in-the-dark stars I stuck up there when I was twelve are still visible, faint green dots against white paint.
My heart pounds against my ribs.
‘Let’s make it real.’
Four weeks. That was the deal. Four weeks of pretending. Then we go back to New York, and everything returns to normal.
Except nothing about this feels pretend anymore. Not the way he looks at me. Not the way he touches me. Not the way my family has welcomed him like he’s always belonged here. Not the way my heart races every time he walks into a room.
I turn my head slightly, studying his face in the darkness. In sleep, he looks younger, the hard lines of his jaw softened, his expression peaceful in a way I rarely see when he’s awake.
‘I’m not letting Chase have any claim on your traditions,’ he’d said when he agreed to do the race.
‘There’s nothing I won’t do for you,’ he’d promised when I told him about Amber.
‘Then let’s make it real.’
I press my hand to my chest, feeling my heart hammer beneath my palm. This was supposed to be simple. Help each other through the holidays. Show my ex I’d moved on. Help him avoid his family’s expectations. Clean, straightforward, temporary.
But Alexander Castellano has never done anything halfway in his life. And now I’m lying here, naked in his arms, trying to remember why I ever thought I could keep my heart out of this.
Outside, snow begins to fall again. I can hear it hitting the window—soft, persistent, relentless. Like him.
I close my eyes and try to sleep, but all I can hear are his words echoing in my head. ‘Let’s make it real.’ And the terrifying part?
I want to.