Chapter 27
Regan
Me: What’s your address?
Me: What time should I come over?
Brant: Whenever you’re ready. My address is…
My thumb hovers over my phone for a second longer than necessary.
I lock the screen and let out a breath. There’s a flutter of anticipation in my chest; nerves mixed with something warm.
It suddenly feels like a lot, like this isn’t just a casual drop-in.
This is crossing into his personal space, seeing where he lives, learning more about him than I probably should if we’re trying to keep this casual.
But I want to know. I want to see his house, his life, the pieces of him he doesn’t show in the hospital.
Once I’m happy with my outfit—a nice pair of jeans that hug just right, a tank layered with a cozy sweater.
Then, as I’m sliding behind the wheel of my new car, I can’t help but smile. I sync my phone to Maps and follow the GPS through quiet residential streets and winding roads. My pulse rises with every turn.
Eventually, I turn into a long, tree-lined driveway. The house doesn’t appear until I’m halfway up, and when it does, I let out a low whistle.
His house is a modern architectural statement that looks like it belongs in a design magazine.
It’s beautiful, but intimidating, because it looks so expensive.
I park, step out, and soak it in.
The front yard is simple, with natural boulders, trimmed hedges, and trees swaying in the breeze.
There are no flowers, and the whole place radiates masculine control like everything here is exactly where he wants it, down to the grain of the wood and the angle of the light.
The difference between us is evident here.
I’m used to cozy apartments, with worn-in furniture, and this place is an untouchable showroom.
I climb the wide concrete steps and approach the massive front doors, which are charcoal-colored wood with matte black handles and a sleek button for the doorbell. I press it and take a breath.
The door swings open a few seconds later, and there he is.
Barefoot, with gray sweats hanging low on his hips. A soft white T-shirt clings to his chest. His hair is still damp, like he’s just stepped out of the shower.
My mouth goes dry.
“Hey,” I manage, swallowing hard.
“Come in.” He gestures with a quick flick of his fingers, stepping aside.
I walk past him, and the warmth of his home wraps around me. It’s open and airy, with modern furniture in blacks and neutrals. It smells like wood and something faintly fresh. But I barely get a chance to take it all in before his hand closes around my waist and pulls me flush against him.
“Where’s my kiss?” he asks.
His mouth finds mine. My hands grip his T-shirt, pulling him closer as he deepens the connection, tasting me like he’s been starving. Every nerve in my body lights up, and suddenly I forget where I am, except for the way he’s kissing me. When we finally break apart, breathless, I blink up at him.
“Sorry,” I say, dazed. “I was just… looking at your house.”
“I know. But I needed that.” A slow grin curves his lips. “I’ll give you the tour now.”
He leads me through the house, showing me the kitchen, with its sleek appliances and giant island, and then the living room, with a low-slung beige sectional and a grand fireplace.
A few family pictures in frames surprise me, and one on the mantle, another on a console table.
Besides that, the space is clean and minimal.
Cozy in a way that doesn’t scream designed by a woman, but it’s still lived in.
When we reach his bedroom, I pause in the doorway.
The four-poster bed is massive, dressed in crisp white sheets and a dark charcoal set with a soft gray blanket folded at the foot.
“I’m guessing you haven’t had a maid in today,” I say, stepping closer. “So if you made that bed yourself… I’m impressed.”
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. “What’s that look for?”
“I’m just thinking about how I’m going to mess up those perfect hospital corners.”
He grins and launches for my waist again, this time pressing soft kisses to my neck, fingers tickling my sides until I squeal.
“We can mess it up now and later,” he growls.
My heart stumbles. He said later like I’m staying, like this isn’t just a quick hookup before our shift. It’s like he wants me here for more than just a few hours.
I wrap my arms around his neck and pull his mouth to mine again.
This kiss is different. Slower at first, like we’re savoring each other because we have time, not rushing with fear of being interrupted.
His hands are sliding down to my hips, and mine are tugging at his shirt.
He lifts me easily, and I gasp as my legs wrap around his waist.
He walks me backward toward the bed, his hands firm on my waist, lips hard against mine.
I land on top of him, straddling his lap.
My breath catches. I didn’t expect that.
I thought he’d lay me down, take control like he always does.
But right now, he’s looking up at me, hands resting on my thighs, eyes hungry…
His thighs are solid beneath me, his hands already sliding up under my sweater, palms rough and warm against my skin. I pull back slightly, breathless and amused, brushing my lips against his.
“For someone who likes to be in control,” I whisper against his mouth, “you seem to enjoy me on top.”
He hums, low in his throat, eyes heavy-lidded and dark. “Oh, I love you like this.” His lips brush mine. “But make no mistake. You’re not the one in control here.”
I pause playing with the hem of his shirt as my heart skips. His words don’t upset me; they turn me on. “Is that so? Is this the part where you punish me?”
I watch his expression shift, with heat flaring in his eyes, followed by a wolfish smile that sends a thrill straight through me.
“Yes. It is.”
I don’t know if I should be nervous or excited, but I’m both.
He brushes my hair back, fingertips grazing my jaw. “Have you ever been spanked before?”
My cheeks go warm as something shy and curious twists in my gut. I shake my head slowly. “No,” I whisper, searching his eyes. “Have you ever done it before?”
“No,” he admits without hesitation. “I’ve never needed to.”
My breath catches. “And you need to with me?”
“I want to. There’s something about you… the way you look at me, the way you talk back, the way you act like you can push me.” He leans in closer, his hot breath brushing my ear. “It drives me wild. Makes me want to spank that bratty attitude right out of you.”
A shiver runs down my spine. I press my thighs tighter around him.
“Well, I’m not here to stop you.”
Cupping my face in both hands, he kisses me softly. Then he pulls back just enough to whisper, “You can stop me at any time.”
I nod, knowing from the way he’s looking at me and my desire for this, I trust him. “Okay.”
I rise to my feet in front of him, my hands at the button of my jeans. But he beats me to it, unbuttoning and unzipping them before sliding them down past my hips, his thumbs catching my thong as he drags everything all the way off.
“Shirt too,” he says quietly, his eyes never leaving mine.
My skin prickles with anticipation.
“Come here,” he says.
I lay myself across his lap, hands pressed to the bed, head turned to one side. He strokes my backside lightly, then runs his hand down the backs of my thighs. The touch is gentle, almost ticklish, and goosebumps rise along my skin.
I’m waiting for him to ask if I’m ready. I’m ready to say yes, but it doesn’t come.
Instead, his palm comes down hard with a sharp, sudden whack.
I gasp from the surprise rather than the sting. My body tenses, and I muffle a sound against my forearm.
“Too much?” he asks softly, his hand immediately smoothing over the spot, rubbing slow circles.
I shake my head. “No, I was just surprised.”
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and the praise sends a tingle through my stomach. “You want another?” he asks, and there’s something dangerous in the way he says it. His breathing is uneven now, and it makes my thighs clench.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Again.”
Before I finish, his hand comes down again. The sting blooms across my skin, harder this time, and I whimper.
But then his hand is between my legs, fingers sliding through my folds, and I forget about the sting entirely.
“Fuck,” he breathes heavily. “You’re so wet. Is this what my brat needs? Me to put you in your place?”
I can’t form a response. All I can do is show him. I push back against his hand, wanting more.
His fingers find my clit, circling it hard.
“That’s it,” he says gruffly. “You take it so well. Look at you, dripping all over my hand.”
I’m close, and then his hand leaves.
I whine at the loss.
“Not yet. One more first.”
His palm comes down a third time, harder than the first two, and I cry out. “Brant—”
“I know,” he says, his hand immediately returning between my legs. “I know. You did so good for me.”
I hum, too breathless to speak.
He finds my clit, rubbing it firm but slow. A surge of pleasure shoots through me, allowing my body to soften. Then he eases one finger inside me, and I arch with a gasp, my hips jerking at the sudden stretch.
The new angle is strange. I can’t see his face, can’t read his expression. All I can hear is his low groan as he sinks another finger inside.
Suddenly, he picks up the pace. His fingers are moving much faster and deeper now. I wriggle on his lap, feeling my orgasm building.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “You like being bent over my lap, don’t you? Like me making your ass pink?”
Then he curls his fingers just right, and I throw my head back.
“Yeeesss!” I cry out.
The orgasm crashes over me. My entire body seizes, and when it finally starts to fade, I’m left boneless and trembling. It makes my chest tight, and my eyes sting.
When I come down from the intense orgasm, he whispers, “You were amazing.”