Chapter 7
I returned to my dorm after a long shift, my body aching from the day’s work. The crisp white card was on the floor, just inside the door. Pierce Vale. Penthouse. Nine o’clock. No question mark. No room for refusal.
I knew who he was—the resort owner’s son, the golden boy who collected beautiful things. My pulse jumped, my stomach twisting with a mix of fear, curiosity, and hunger. I looked at my reflection in the small mirror, my blonde hair tangled from the day, my blue eyes bright with something I refused to name.
I chose my outfit carefully—the white open-front puffer jacket, the bright pink cropped sports bra. I left the bra off. A deliberate choice.
The elevator ride to the penthouse was a blur of polished brass and my own reflection—flushed cheeks, silver necklace, nervous eyes. I watched the floor numbers climb, the weight of the charm against my collarbone a constant reminder. For a moment, my finger hovered over the stop button. Then I pulled it away.
The doors slid open to reveal a suite that spanned the entire top floor, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the illuminated slopes. The mountain glowed under the floodlights, a stark contrast to the dark sky. The penthouse smelled of cedar and expensive cologne, the fireplace crackling softly in the corner.
Pierce stood by the windows, his back to me, a glass of something amber in his hand. He was tall—easily six-four—with the kind of build that suggested he’d played football before he’d inherited his father’s empire. Broad shoulders, a chest that strained against his charcoal sweater, arms that looked like they could pin me to the glass without effort. His skin was dark, smooth, his jaw sharp, his head shaved close. He wasn’t handsome in the way Harold was handsome. He was imposing. The kind of man who made the room feel smaller just by standing in it.
He didn’t turn around immediately. He made me wait.
“Tessa Carter,” he said finally, his voice deep, smooth, with an edge of menace. He turned, his eyes dark and assessing, his smile knowing. “Former collegiate racer. Three podium finishes in the NCAA championships. ACL tear at the Colorado Classic. Career over at twenty-one.”
My stomach tightened. No one had called me Tessa Carter in over a year.
“You’re even more stunning in person,” he murmured, his gaze raking over me. “The photos don’t do you justice.”
I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. The silver necklace at my throat felt heavier, the tiny mountain peak charm a stark contrast against my skin.
“Strip,” he said, his voice a command. “Leave the shorts and the necklace.”
I hesitated, my hands trembling as I unzipped the puffer. The cold air hit my bare skin, raising goosebumps along my arms, my stomach. I had worn no bra. Had I been hoping for this? I stood there in just my pink shorts and the silver necklace, the chain glinting in the dim light. His eyes traced my body—my breasts, my stomach, the silver charm. A low sound of approval rumbled in his chest. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t need to. He simply looked, making me wait.
“Kneel,” he said.
The floor was cold against my knees. I looked up at him, my pulse hammering. He unbuckled his belt with one hand, the sound of the leather loud in the quiet room. When he freed his cock, my breath caught. He was huge—thicker than Gunnar, longer than Harold, the kind of size that made my mouth water and my stomach tighten at the same time.
“You were a champion once,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Show me.”
I leaned forward, wrapping my hand around the base of his shaft. I couldn’t close my fingers all the way. I opened my mouth, took the head between my lips, and sank down as far as I could. The stretch was immediate, my throat protesting, tears pricking at my eyes. But I didn’t stop. I breathed through my nose, relaxed my jaw, took him deeper.
His hand came to rest on the back of my head—not forcing, just resting there. Watching.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “You learn fast.”
I worked him with my mouth and hand, my jaw aching, saliva dripping down my chin. He let me set the pace, let me struggle, let me prove myself. Just when I thought I might be able to take all of him, he pulled me off.
“Not yet,” he said. “I want to finish inside you. On the glass.”
He spun me around, pressing me against the cold window. My bare breasts flattened against the freezing surface, my nipples hardening against the glass. The view stretched out before us—the mountain, the slopes, the distant lights of the lodge. Anyone could look up and see us.
He entered me from behind, the stretch intense as he filled me in one stroke. I cried out, my hands gripping the glass, my body trembling. The cold of the window was a stark contrast to the heat of his body.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His actions were enough—his cock driving into me, his hands gripping my hips, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The penthouse was alive with the sounds of our pleasure—the wet slap of flesh, the sharp gasp of breath, the low groan of his effort.
He kept fucking me, his pace relentless, his grip on my hips bruising. The glass was cold against my skin, the view of the mountain a silent witness to what was happening.
“Look at us,” he growled, his voice rough with approval. “Look at what you are now.”
I looked at our reflection in the window—his dark skin against mine, his big frame dwarfing me. This was nothing like Harold. Harold had been transactional—a service provided. Gunnar had been physical—a test of endurance. Pierce was different. He was about ownership. About display.
The pleasure built inside me, a coiling, tightening sensation that made my toes curl, my body trembling. I came on his cock, hard and unexpected, my body clenching around him. He felt it, groaned, and kept fucking me through it.
Pierce’s thrusts grew erratic, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he buried himself inside me. Then he pulled out at the last moment, spinning me to face him. His cock was in his hand, stroking, aiming. The first pulse hit my lips, the second my cheek, the third my closed eye. The cum was thick and warm against my skin, the smell and taste filling my senses.
He took out his phone, the flash illuminating our reflection in the window. “For my collection,” he murmured, his voice smooth with satisfaction.
He stepped back, tucking himself away, adjusting his sweater like nothing happened. He didn’t offer me a towel. Didn’t ask if I was okay. He walked to the wet bar, poured himself a glass of something amber, and stared out the window as if I’d already left.
I stayed there for a long moment, my body trembling, his cum cooling on my face. My cheek, my lips, my closed eye—I could feel it drying, tightening my skin.
I should have felt degraded. Used. Discarded.
Instead, I felt seen.
I pulled on my pink shorts, scooped up my puffer jacket, and walked to the elevator without wiping my face. The staff member who passed me in the hallway didn’t stare. She just smiled, her eyes flicking to my silver necklace, and nodded.
The elevator doors closed. I looked at my reflection in the polished brass—blonde hair tangled, cum streaked across my face, the silver charm glinting at my throat. I touched it. The metal was warm.
Pierce would call again. And I would say yes.