Chapter 3 Rhea
THREE
RHEA
The music hangs in the air like a hush after the final line of a good book—gentle, lingering, full of feeling.
Spencer’s hand brushes mine, like he’s testing a boundary he’s not sure he’s allowed to cross.
“I’ve spent the last year trying to brush up on my French,” he says, swirling the ginger ale in his glass. “Mostly so I can read Camus without crying over the translation. And maybe flirt a little better.”
I laugh—unexpected and unguarded. And we lock eyes.
I should look away.
The way he’s looking at me—steady, curious, a little amused—it’s dangerous. The kind of look that slips under your skin and settles somewhere you don’t have armor.
But here’s the thing:
He’s Spencer Devereaux.
Richer than God. Impossibly polished. The kind of man who probably owns cufflinks worth more than my car.
Prince Charming, who has leveraged old money into new empires and now sits on half a dozen boards, including one that funds rare manuscript preservation.
His name pops up in business journals, philanthropy roundups, and Architectural Digest spreads about oceanfront properties no normal person will ever set foot in.
He’s not real. Not for me.
Which is precisely what makes this feel safe.
There’s no risk of morning-after awkwardness. No slow-burn confusion. No “maybe-we-could-be-something” conversations.
He’s fantasy material and out of my league by a mile.
And yet—
The man cites French poetry.
He’s made two book recommendations that are already on my Tbr list.
He’s either the most compelling hallucination I’ve ever had… or he’s exactly the right kind of mistake.
So, when he leans in just a little and says, “Should we dance again?” his voice dips. “Or would you rather get out of here?”
I don’t hesitate when I say, “I think we’ve danced enough.”
Not because I’m reckless.
Because I’ve felt this fire before, and this time, it burns on my terms.
His suite is on the top floor of the hotel. He opens the door, and I stop in my tracks.
It’s stunning.
Muted golds and velvets, the lights of the city spread out in a glittering panorama through an entire wall of glass. A bottle of champagne sits chilling in a silver bucket. The fireplace flickers, casting amber shadows against mirrored panels and sleek marble.
“This is…” I breathe. “Beautiful.”
Spencer comes up behind me. “Honestly? I was just thinking how beautiful you are. Truly, Rhea.”
It should sound like a line. A practiced, charming line.
But it doesn’t. It lands like something real.
When he kisses me—lightly at first, testing, coaxing—I respond without hesitation. When his hand cups the back of my head and pulls me deeper into him, mouth to mouth, chest to chest, I let myself go.
I let myself really be. Here. With him.
His hands move down my spine, firm but unhurried, and I feel his fingers settle on my lower back.
Then lower still.
One hand holds me there—confident, grounding—while the other finds its way to my breast, gentle at first, then more sure.
I moan softly, my body arching into his.
I reach for his bowtie, fumbling, as I realize I have no idea how this thing comes off. He laughs into the kiss, low and warm, and I feel him start to unfasten it with one hand while I slide mine beneath his jacket, then inside his shirt.
His body surprises me—lean, cut, and strong in a way that doesn’t show beneath the silk and starch. I start to press my palm flat against his chest, and he catches my hand in his, guiding me.
“Come with me.” He says, his voice just above a whisper.
He leads me into the bedroom—massive, plush, and dimly lit. The enormous bed is draped in soft gray linens, and an upholstered headboard stretched nearly to the ceiling.
A wall of mirrored panels reflects firelight and skin.
He turns me gently to face the mirror.
Then he stands behind me.
He brings his hands to my breasts, slowly, deliberately, and I let out a deep, guttural moan at the sight—his hands on me, my eyes watching as I let myself express my pleasure.
He finds the zipper of my dress and slides it down.
The strapless bodice drops quickly, pooling at my feet. I’m standing in nothing but my red lace panties—bare, breathless, but feeling somehow like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
Not nervous. Not second-guessing. Just… here. In this moment. In my skin.
With a man who hasn’t asked me for anything, but sees everything anyway.
Still behind me, he skims his palms from my breasts to my stomach… then lower.
When his fingers slip between my thighs, I gasp—wet, wanting, open.
He slides two fingers over my heat, slow and sure, and I rock gently against his hand.
Then he turns me toward him.
With deliberate calm, I reach for his shirt. Slide it off his shoulders. My hands move to his belt, the button, the zipper.
This man—sharp-suited, sharp-tongued, impossibly unattainable—is mine for one night..
And for one night, I’m letting go of every goody-two-shoes rule I’ve made.
He lets his black pants fall to the floor and stands before me in nothing but his underwear—silken, expensive, and almost indecently fitted.
His arousal strains against the fabric.
He breaks the kiss, eyes still closed, and tilts his head back like the anticipation is something sacred—something he needs to savor.
I don’t wait.
I slide my hand inside the waistband and wrap my fingers around him, firm, warm, and already pulsing in my grip. I stroke him slowly, deliberately, watching the muscles of his abdomen tighten as he lets out a deep, low moan.
And I don’t stop.
I guide him backward, inch by inch, never letting go—my rhythm unbroken, his breath ragged—until the backs of his knees meet the edge of the bed.
I place my hands at his waist, one on either side, and gently push him down.
He sits, eyes on me.
And for a breathless moment, I can’t move. Can’t think. I’m frozen in his gaze, suspended in the tension between reverence and desire.
Then I sink to my knees.
And take him in my mouth.
His hands go to my head, and he arches toward me, until I’m nearly swallowing him, as he lightens his touch, and lets his hands and his hips move with me. Until the moment he says, “Stop. It’s your turn.”
And suddenly, I’m on my back.
His mouth is on my breast—sucking, massaging, worshiping one and then the other—and I swear I’ve never felt a touch this skillful, this reverent. Like he’s savoring every inch of me.
He moves lower, trailing kisses down my stomach, and I gasp.
And then—his tongue. Oh God, his tongue. Flicking, circling, purposeful. He presses my folds back gently, exposing my clit, and lavishes it with steady, focused attention.
It’s too much. Too good.
I grip the sheets, hips already rising to meet him, desperate to hold off the release coiling deep inside me. But I’m so close. I can barely breathe.
I want him inside me.
I need him inside me.
But I have rules.
I don’t beg. I don’t plead. I stay in control.
And yet… somehow he knows.
He can read the tension in my thighs, the restraint in my breath. Without a word, he rises over me, eyes locked on mine, and enters me slowly—deliberately—until I feel every inch of him, sliding deep inside.
My mouth opens, but still no words come.
Just sensation. Just this.
He begins to move—long, smooth strokes that grow in urgency, his body pressing me deeper into the mattress, his lips crashing into mine as if he’s afraid we’ll lose this if he lets go.
His gaze never leaves mine.
And in it, I see something that steals the air from my lungs.
Want. Wonder. Maybe even something close to awe.
We move in perfect sync, as if this rhythm were always waiting in our bones.
No words.
Just the quiet cadence of our bodies moving as one, skin on skin, wet heat of breath.
I don’t call his name. I don’t speak.
But my body gives me away.
And when I finally let go—when the wave crests and crashes over—it’s not quiet.
My cries of pleasure fill the room - raw, hungry, unguarded. And somehow, they harmonize perfectly with his.