Chapter 21 Sara
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sara
The first thing I register is heat.
Not just warmth… heat. Molten and decadent, seeping from the half-naked man pressed against me, enveloping me in a sin-drenched security blanket.
One arm locks around my waist, rigid as steel. The other slides beneath me, his hand splayed low over my stomach, staking his claim.
Mine.
Me.
Us.
Nick Ashford is spooning me.
He presses into me, taut and relentless, his movements demanding and raw, grounding me against his body with every grinding motion.
I haven’t even opened my eyes yet, and I’m already wrecked.
His breath slides slow and warm across the back of my neck, but the rest of him trembles, uneven, uncertain. He’s pressed hard against me, every pulse heavy and urgent, flooding through my whole body.
An unspoken warning coils tight along my spine.
I shift just a fraction, a desperate move to breathe, to survive this moment, and he groans, a low, guttural sound, raw and unconscious, ripping through me, shredding me.
His hips roll into me in that slow, lazy thrust that says he’s not even awake enough to pretend he’s not enjoying this.
And I, God help me, I gasp. Loud. Needy. Pathetic.
“Sara,” he rasps, sleep-drenched and sex-slick. “You keep rubbing that sweet ass against me like that, and I swear to God, I’m gonna bend you over this couch.”
Oh.
Oh.
A shiver rockets through my bloodstream, hitting my knees with sudden, paralyzing force. My brain shorts out, caught somewhere between “bend” and “over.”
I open my mouth to say good morning. Try to play it cool.
What actually comes out? A whimper. A real, honest-to-God whimper.
His hand slides lower over my stomach, teasing just under the curve of my hip like he’s deciding if I’ve been good enough to earn his attention this morning.
“You’re not stopping me,” he murmurs, dragging his lips down the line of my neck. “So unless you say the word, sweetheart, I’m gonna keep going until you’re whimpering again.”
His teeth scrape the shell of my ear.
“Just like last night.”
I arch into him, completely unguarded, as if shame has no hold on me, as if our bodies are meant to merge.
He chuckles, a deep, confident sound that should require a permit. Then he flips me onto my back with one smooth, commanding motion. Suddenly, I’m staring up at him, tousled and raw.
His eyes are half-lidded with sleep, but they burn with hunger. He’s focused on me with a fierce intensity, not just seeing me as the prize, but as an obsession.
“Fuck,” he growls, hovering above me, every muscle tense, every inch of him hard. “How the hell are you real?”
“Maybe I’m not,” I whisper, breathless. “Maybe you’re dreaming.”
“Then don’t wake me.”
And then he kisses me. Hard. Open-mouthed, filthy. There’s no patience in him, just tongue and teeth and hunger.
His hand slides beneath the blanket, up my ribs, curling around my breast. He knows exactly how to touch me and has no intention of stopping until I’m gasping his name again.
I moan into his mouth. He groans into mine.
Then his mouth is on my jaw, down my neck, over my collarbone, leaving a trail of scorch marks everywhere he touches. He’s murmuring filthy promises in that gravel and gunpowder voice of his, and my body is practically vibrating.
“You like being under me like this?” he murmurs, sliding his thigh between mine. “You like being taken apart before breakfast?”
I nod. Frantic. Desperate.
His mouth finds my pulse point and lingers there. “Good,” he says against my skin. “Because I’m not stopping until I hear you beg.”
I don’t even get the chance to form words. Not real ones, not words with weight or meaning. Only breathless, broken sounds that barely qualify as language.
Because Nick Ashford, CEO, ex-pro-athlete, ten-out-of-ten dirty talker, is already between my legs.
His mouth is back on mine, hot and bruising. His hand is still on my breast, thumb brushing my nipple in maddening, perfect circles that make my hips jerk up instinctively.
I swear he smiles into the kiss when he feels it. Clearly my need is just more proof of his power over me.
“Already so responsive,” he murmurs. “You ache for me, don’t you?”
I manage a shaky nod.
But it’s not enough.
“Say it.”
“I…” I try, but he pinches my nipple gently and my words collapse into a moan.
“Say it, Sara.”
“I ache for you,” I gasp. “Nick… please.”
That gets me a growl. Real and deep and animalistic. He bites down lightly on my collarbone, then soothes it with his tongue, apologizing with heat.
“Good girl.”
The words melt me.
He kisses down my body with soft pressure, his mouth tracing every curve and hollow. He pauses at my breasts, my navel, every inch of skin, treating it with care. By the time he reaches the edge of the couch, I’m breathless, barely holding myself together.
Then he pulls the blanket off with sharp force, removing any barrier between us.
I’m exposed beneath it, naked, open, still tender from last night. My thighs press together, aching with anticipation. I feel raw and unraveled, craving more.
“I’m going to ruin you,” he whispers.
It should sound like a threat. But instead, it sounds like a promise.
Then he manhandles me, gently, but with unmistakable dominance, gripping my hips and pulling me to the edge of the couch. Before I can blink, he hooks both my knees over his broad shoulders and tilts me back slightly, legs spread, hips braced against the cushions.
“Hold onto the back of the couch,” he orders, voice dark velvet. “Don’t let go unless you want me to stop.”
My fingers scramble behind me, clutching the cushion as a lifeline. My thighs tremble where they rest on his shoulders. He hasn’t even touched me yet and I’m already begging in my head.
And then his mouth is on me.
Hot. Ravenous. Devouring.
His mouth is all possession, fierce, unrelenting.
His tongue circles my clit with brutal focus, every movement a claim.
One hand locks onto my hip, holding me down, while the other slides between my thighs, forcing me open.
His thumbs press into the tender edges, spreading me wide, exposing everything. He doesn’t hesitate. He takes.
I arch with a cry. “Nick, holy shit…”
He groans against me, every sound raw and hungry. His voice grinds through me, a rough edge that sets fire deep inside.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, lips brushing my soaked skin. “Let me hear you.”
His tongue moves in tight, filthy circles. His fingers spread me, tease me, slide inside me and curl. I whimper… then shatter.
My orgasm hits with brutal force. I come hard, shaking, thighs clamped around his head. My spine arches off the couch, every muscle locked tight. My fingers claw into the cushions. The world fractures, white heat, no air, just the blinding, all-consuming break.
I cry out, helpless, trembling, as he keeps going.
Keeps licking. Sucking. Fingering.
Dragging me into a second climax before the first has even finished echoing through my bloodstream.
“N… Nick…!” It’s part sob, part moan. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.
He doesn’t stop.
“Don’t let go,” he growls. “Take it. You can take it, baby.”
And I do.
I fall apart again, louder, messier. His name rips from my throat as I come on his tongue, harder than I thought possible.
Everything shatters. My legs shake around his shoulders. My vision goes white. I can’t breathe right, can’t think. I collapse into the couch, wrecked, trembling, gasping.
He kisses my swollen center once more before pulling back. His mouth is wet, his eyes dark, his voice a rough growl.
“You’re mine now,” he says, low and possessive.
And God help me, I want to be.
I’m about to reach for him. About to kiss that smug, sex-wrecked mouth of his and maybe beg him to take me again right here on the couch. I’m still pulsing. Still shaking. Still so wet for him I don’t know if I’ll ever stop.
But then…
Click.
The unmistakable sound of a door unlocking.
We both freeze.
Nick bolts to his feet, scanning the room as if we’re under siege. “What the…”
He doesn’t finish. He’s already yanking on his discarded pants from the night before, no underwear in sight, and hastily shoving his arms into the nearest button-down—inside out and still halfway unbuttoned, but at least not naked.
I gape at him, clutching the throw blanket to my chest. “Seriously? You got dressed?”
He gives me a sharp look. “I’m not meeting whoever that is with my dick out.”
Fair.
There’s a second of silence. A breath. A blink.
Then a voice.
“Saaaara?”
Laura.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “I forgot. Breakfast.”
Nick blinks at me, confused, trying to piece together what I’m saying. I clutch a throw pillow to my chest, breath quick and tight.
“I told her to come over. Yesterday. I was spiraling, thought I might be followed and… shit, she has a key.”
He sits up just as Meatball explodes into the room, barks once in greeting, and launches himself onto the couch, wriggling into Nick’s lap as if he’s claiming his birthright.
Nick grunts. “What the…”
“Meatball, no!” I lunge for him, but he’s already got his paws on Nick’s shoulder, tongue dragging across skin with disgusting enthusiasm.
And then, because the universe is cruel, Laura walks in.
She’s holding a bag of croissants and a cold brew so massive it needs both hands. Her cheeks are flushed from the sun, sunglasses perched in her hair, all effortless glow and caffeine-fueled purpose.
“Hey!” she calls brightly.
She stops.
Dead.
“Oh,” she says.
Her eyes flick across the room—Nick, disheveled and practically shirtless, Meatball proudly draped on top, and me, hunched under a blanket as if I just crawled out of a haunted house.
She blinks. “Holy crap. It’s him.”
I want to become a lamp.
Meatball lets out a loud belch, then drops onto Nick’s chest with all the weight and certainty of a creature who knows exactly who he owns.
Laura just stares.
“I… this isn’t… this is not what it looks like,” I say, which is a lie and also the most suspicious thing anyone can say while half-naked under a couch blanket.
Why am I defending myself? I can do what I want… right?
Nick looks mildly concerned. Possibly for his life. Possibly for mine.
Laura steps in, slow and smug, every move dripping with certainty. Her eyes gleam as she says, “So, I’m guessing you finally got him alone to tell him about the baby?”
Time stops.
Actual freeze-frame, scream-into-the-void, did-she-just-say-that level silence.
Nick’s entire body goes statue still. As in, I think he might be actively holding his breath.
Meatball stops licking him mid-slurp, pulls back, and gives a single, confused woof: I’m sorry, what now?
My soul slips free, hovering above as I watch everything unfold, a live scene of humiliation starring me, with a bulldog as the only witness.
“Laura,” I hiss. “What the hell…”
She blinks. Her grin falters. “Wait. You told him… right? I thought you were… Oh my god. You didn’t.”
“Tell me what?” Nick’s voice cuts in, low, sharp, ice cold. The kind of calm that’s less “it’s okay” and more “someone’s about to get fired into the sun.”
I turn to him.
He looks at me. Really looks at me.
And I swear the floor tilts.
Laura stares between us, then does a thing I’ve never seen her do in the history of ever—she panics.
“Oh my god,” she blurts. “Oh no. Oh shit. I… I thought… Sara said… you said you were going to!”
“I was!” I squeal, tangled in the blanket, trying to wrestle myself upright. “I was going to tell him… today! Literally! Right now!”
Nick doesn’t move.
Doesn’t blink.
Even Meatball shifts uneasily, clearly desperate to escape this conversation and retreat to the hallway for some sock chewing.
Laura emits a strangled dolphin-style noise, lets the croissants fall with a sharp gasp, and retreats with the urgency of someone who just stepped on a landmine.
“I’m gonna go,” she says, eyes wide, voice an octave too high. “I’m just gonna go… combust in the stairwell.”
She spins on her heel and runs.
Actually runs.
The door slams behind her so hard it rattles the frame.
And suddenly, it’s just me.
Nick.
Meatball.
And the suffocating silence of a man who has just found out he’s been hit by a freight train named Surprise Baby.
Shit.