Chapter 26
Despite the bone-deep exhaustion from being claimed so thoroughly, I find myself wide awake with Gunnar’s strong arm wrapped around me, anchoring me to his side.
We snuggle together with his fingers dusting over my hip and his breath warm over my temple.
It’s quiet and comforting in a way I couldn’t have imagined possible.
The perpetual undercurrent of anxiety I feel these days seems to subside when I’m in his arms.
“We can’t lie in bed all day, baby girl.
” Gunnar breaks the silence, pulling me back to reality.
I still have things to do today. I groan in protest, and his hand slides from my hip to my ass.
His fingers press between my cheeks, and I startle slightly at the unexpected touch.
“But if my good girl is willing to let me fuck this tight little hole, I could be convinced to stay a little longer.”
I gulp at the thought, more with nerves than excitement.
While I have dabbled with a finger here and there during sex throughout the years, I’ve never been brazen—or trusting—enough to allow a partner to perform anal sex on me.
Trust with Gunnar isn’t the issue. The sheer size of him, on the other hand…
“I… uh…” I stammer like an inexperienced virgin instead of a grown-ass woman who is usually quite comfortable talking about her sexual history.
Gunner’s fingertip presses a little firmer, rimming the taut hole, as his voice kicks up with a tinge of excitement. “Is this a virgin hole?”
“Yes.” My answer is short but honest.
He groans with satisfaction, continuing to tease without penetrating. “Another time then. After I take my time stretching you, so your ass accepts my cock as greedily as your pussy does.”
Gunnar’s hand retreats with a lingering caress, and he rolls onto his back with a resigned sigh, the sheet sliding dangerously low on his hips.
“Come here,” he murmurs, pulling me across his chest for one last kiss.
His thumb strokes my jawline as we separate, his pale blue eyes studying me with an intensity that makes my stomach flutter all over again. “Shower with me.”
I shake my head, sliding away from the warmth of his body, suddenly aware of how thoroughly used I feel.
There is a pleasant ache between my thighs, a tenderness where his stubble burned my neck, and a stickiness between my upper thighs where his release is slowly seeping from me.
“If I get in there with you, we both know we’ll never leave this room.
” I retreat to the bathroom while he’s still in bed to quickly clean between my thighs, grabbing my discarded clothes from the closet floor on my return.
“And I actually like Leslie. I’d rather figure out how to tell her about the little mishap”—my gaze darts to what used to be a very expensive designer gown—“sooner than later.”
He chuckles as he throws his legs over the edge of the mattress, giving me an unapologetic view of his bare back, his broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist. “Your priorities are skewed, baby girl, but fine. I’ll make something to eat and pretend I’m not thinking about training your ass later.”
Shaking my head, I leave him alone and naked in my bedroom before padding down the hall. My mind races through the logistics of damage control, trying to figure out how to tell Leslie that one of her carefully negotiated loan pieces has been destroyed by my overzealous…
What?
Boyfriend?
Protector?
Lover?
The labels all feel insufficient for what Gunnar is to me.
Maybe I’ll just tell her I caught it on my heel and tripped. Yeah… that seems easier.
Taking a seat in the chair of my office, I reach for the stack of envelopes Sarah left beside my laptop.
I shuffle through them, pulling out a few pieces of fan mail forwarded from the studio.
They’re all sweet letters, requests for autographed photos, mostly from fans who saw my last film and felt moved to write.
I’ll have Sarah tend to these in the morning, sending them a standard headshot with my signature scrawled across the bottom in silver Sharpie.
After I set those aside, I reach for a thick manila envelope with a production company logo stamped in the corner.
I tear it open, pulling out a script bound with brass paper fasteners.
I thumb through it briefly, skimming a few pages of dialogue and noting the solid structure and compelling premise: a woman who discovers her neighbor has been impersonating her online.
It has promise. I decide to give it a full read in the morning, when my mind isn’t quite so scattered, and set it on the corner of my desk.
My hand finds another manila envelope at the bottom of the stack.
Lifting it, I turn it over in my hands, looking for a return address or company logo.
Assuming it’s an oversight, I slide my finger under the flap and tear it open.
When I pull out the contents, my heart leaps into my throat with such violence that I feel like I’m choking.
I try to scream, but the sound comes out like a strangled gasp.
Struggling to breathe, I stare at the photograph in my hands.
It’s Gunnar and me in this very office a few days ago.
He has me bent over the desk, with his hands on my hips and my dress wrapped around my waist. The image is clear.
There is no mistaking that it is anything other than the two of us engaged in raw, carnal sex.
My hands are shaking so badly that I can barely hold the still-full envelope.
I pull out the contents with trembling fingers, and they spill across my desk.
Gunnar and me on the terrace, his mouth on my throat.
The two of us in my bedroom, my back pressed against the glass balcony door, and my legs wrapped around his waist. A late-night swim, entwined and glistening under the moonlight. The pile is a never-ending invasion.
He’s been watching.
He’s been here.
Close enough to see through the windows and capture my most intimate moments.
Flipping through them again, I feel the piece of paper taped to the back of the terrace photo. It’s a familiar, heavy, cream-colored card stock with handwriting I also know too well.
It’s one thing to try to make me jealous, my love. It’s another to be a whore. This will not go unpunished.
-X
Not only is he watching me at my most vulnerable and exposed, but he’s judging and condemning me for it.
I need to scream. for help. For Gunnar. I open my mouth, but it doesn’t come.
There’s no air. Only terror and the suffocating weight of violation that presses down on my chest like a physical force.
I force myself to take a breath—a deep, shuddering gulp of air that burns—and finally needed sound comes out.
“Gunnar!”
It doesn’t sound like his name. It’s a wail, a desperate, primal shriek torn from my depths. The sound is so panicky that I don’t recognize my own voice. I scream his name again and again, until my throat is raw and I’m sobbing.
Footsteps thunder up the stairs, multiple sets of heavy boots rushing toward me with such speed that the chandelier in the hallway vibrates.
I hear Gunnar call for me, shouting my name moments before the door bursts open and four towering men barrel into my office, with looks on their faces like they are fully prepared to murder an intruder.
Gunnar is first, his eyes wild and his gun drawn, sweeping the room.
Jagger is right behind him, knife in hand, his usually jovial face transformed into a lethal mask.
Hawk fills the doorway, his gun resting against his thigh, and Damon brings up the rear.
They realize, almost simultaneously, that we’re alone.
There is no intruder to fight or enemy to subdue. It’s just me, shaking and sobbing.
Gunnar holsters his weapon and crosses to me in quick strides, cupping my face as he bends down to my level. “What is it? What’s wrong, baby girl?” His voice is ragged, barely controlled panic bleeding through every syllable.
I can’t speak. I can only gesture with my trembling hand toward the desk where the photographs are fanned across the surface like a deck of obscene playing cards.
The others step closer, gathering around the desk, as Gunnar wraps his arms around me and pulls me into him. His heart is beating so fast I can feel it thudding against my chest.
Jagger lifts a photo from the desk, of my hands braced against the balcony door, as Gunnar takes me from behind. “Okay, Dad… Get it,” Jagger says, his tone attempting levity but falling flat.
Damon elbows him hard, though not hard enough to actually hurt.
“Have some fucking decorum,” he snaps, snatching the photograph from Jagger’s hand and tossing it back to the desk.
He lifts one of us in the office and scans it quickly.
His jaw tightens as he moves toward the windows.
He holds it up while facing the room, comparing the angle to the view outside.
“I’m not an expert, but this looks like it was taken from the beach, a little way down.
See the angle on the terrace? The way the palm frond cuts across the corner?
He was probably positioned near that outcropping of rocks, just beyond the property line. ”
Hawk reaches for the note and reads it out loud, his voice a gravelly rumble that somehow makes the words even more terrifying. “It’s one thing to try to make me jealous, my love. It’s another to be a whore. This will not go unpunished.”
A chill runs through me, starting at the base of my spine and radiating through me until my entire body is covered in goosebumps. Gunnar notices immediately, and his hands run up and down my arms, trying to warm me.
“We need more cameras,” Hawk insists, shifting into tactical, protection mode. “Motion sensors along the beachfront. I’ll call Mattis, get him to tap into any traffic cams or satellite feeds that might have picked up someone in that area over the past few days.”