Chapter 7
Jasmine
The storm rolled in faster than anyone expected.
One minute, we were smiling through goodbyes, lingering at the reception. The next, the wind picked up, the sky cracked open, and rain came down in sheets.
By the time we made it from the car to the hotel entrance—less than a minute—I was soaked through.
Even with Nathan’s jacket draped over my shoulders, I’m shivering. My dress clings like a second skin. Strands of hair stick to my cheek, and my heels slip slightly on the slick tile.
The lobby is packed. People murmur in low, annoyed voices, clustered around suitcases and strollers, shaking out umbrellas or huddling by their phones. But even the bustle can’t drown out my awareness of Nathan—how tightly coiled he seems, how unreadable.
I snap fully back to attention when the woman behind the desk says, “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, sir. Because of the ferry cancellation, we’ve had to reshuffle our bookings. At the moment, we only have one suite available.”
I freeze. My heart jumps—not in panic, but anticipation. I glance at Nathan, expecting him to frown, to protest, to ask if there’s another hotel.
Instead, he nods. Calm. Controlled. “That’ll be fine.”
He takes the key card without hesitation, brushing water from his brow as he pockets it.
Something about him is different. He’s been quiet since the dance floor. Not distant but unreadable, like he’s holding something in.
His face is damp, hair plastered to his scalp, jaw tight. And still, every inch of him radiates intensity.
It does something to me. Sharp. Hot. Helpless.
Because underneath all that calm is a current I can’t see, but can feel. And every part of me is reacting.
The door clicks shut behind us, muffling the storm but not silencing it. One dim light flares overhead, throwing long shadows across the suite.
The furniture is modern and heavy, the curtains drawn tight. A space designed to keep people out rather than invite them in.
It matches Nathan. Or at least, the version of him I’ve been walking next to since we left the wedding reception.
Something’s shifted between us.
He tosses our bags on the bed—the only bed—and the sound makes me jump. Massive and impossible to ignore, it dominates the space.
My eyes jerk to it, then to Nathan.
He’s already unbuttoning his shirt. His chest is damp, collarbone gleaming under the low light. Shirtsleeves cling to his forearms, fabric dark with rain.
“Jesus, Jasmine,” he mutters, not looking at me. “Get out of that wet dress. I can hear your teeth chattering.” He says it as if I didn’t think of it.
I turn slowly, bare feet sticking to the polished floor. The hem clings to my calves. My nipples feel exposed under the wet fabric, and when I press my chest against the door, they ache.
The zipper sits high on my back, mostly hidden by the darkened fabric. I reach one hand back, pointing to it. My voice comes out small. “I need help to get out of it.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything. The room stays quiet except for the storm and the faint hum of the heater not doing nearly enough. It feels like being in someone else’s dream—surreal, dangerous. A place where you say yes to things you’ll never say out loud again.
Then, I feel the dark shape of him moving towards me. I can’t help sneaking a glance over my shoulder.
His stubble was already rough at the reception, but now, under this dim light, wet and shadowed, it makes him look forbidding.
My breath barely comes as I press my forehead to the door again. Each inhale is shallow, tight, like my lungs are afraid of what they’ll let in. Heat whispers along my spine, then the solid press of his thighs against the backs of mine.
His fingers brush my lower back. He finds the zipper, tugging gently. It doesn’t budge.
“It’s stuck,” he says, breath hot and uneven against my neck. Then a shift.
His palm settles on my shoulder, wide and steady, pinning me. His chest brushes my upper back—not his full weight, but just enough contact to cage me in.
God, I love the sensation of being engulfed by him.
My shoulders tense as his other hand grips the zipper and jerks it down. The motion pulls me then slams me against the wood. I’m pinned—his hard, damp chest pressing into me from behind, his thighs locked to mine.
And lower.
I feel him.
Thick, long, unmistakable.
His cock presses against my ass through the soaked fabric of his pants, and I can’t think. Can’t move.
I’m burning.
My throat goes dry. A strange rush fills my ears, like surf crashing in time with my heartbeat.
He wants me.
God, Mr. Grayson wants me.
My billionaire boss wants me hard enough that he felt like a hot poker against my flesh before he pulled away.
It shakes me apart as I scrabble my fingers against the dress, trying to find purchase. “The fabric’s sticking,” I manage. “Help me pull it off.”
I expect him to step back. To break the spell weaving around us. He doesn’t.
Instead, his hands slide to my shoulders. His touch is gentle and firm, like he knows exactly how to peel me open. Like he’s done it before in another life.
He draws the dress down my torso, inch by inch. His breath goes rough behind me, catching every time more skin is revealed.
Cool air brushes my back, my sides, the tops of my hips. I’m not wearing a bra. The dress halts at the flare of my hips.
“Push back,” he rasps, low and gravelly.
I unstick myself from the door and ease back.
He cups the edges of my hips, fingertips pressing in with something that borders on reverence. His thumbs stroke once, slowly, before he works the fabric over the thickest part of me and down.
I feel his breath shift. Then movement behind me—he’s crouching. Kneeling. My breath hitches again as the dress pools at my feet.
“Lift your legs,” he says. “One at a time.”
Every word coils through me like heat through honey.
I do as he says. One foot, then the other.
He kicks the dress away and shoots to his feet. I’m standing in nothing but a soaked thong and my heels, wet hair dripping down my back, and trembling.
And he still hasn’t touched me. Neither has he moved away.
I lean back, and his hands fly to my hips like instinct. Like possession. His breath hits my ear. One second. Two.
“Nathan,” I whisper. “Please.”
Something shifts, as palpable as lightning splashing the sky in a spectacular display visible through the window. That word—please—is a trigger?
His hands tighten, almost painfully, though I know he’d never hurt me. He pushes me into the door, enough that my nipples rasp against the cool wood.
“Please what, little bird?” His words are gentle, even tender, belying the rough grip of his hold.
I shake my head, locking away the eager avowals that want to come. Somehow, I can read him again, and there’s a hungry intensity to him that I don’t want to break with foolish declarations.
He’s standing at the edge with me, but if I say the wrong thing, he’ll leave me there. Alone. The fear of losing this, losing him, is so acute that my heart pounds in my chest.
“Please…” I say, unsure of what I’m asking.
Fresh tension grips him. In the musky daze of my desire, I realize he liked that. Just the please…
Why? Does he like the idea of me supplicating? Doesn’t he know that I would be on my knees on the bare floor if he commanded it?
“I like that word on your lips, Jasmine. Who would’ve thought?” His voice is low, almost cruel in its satisfaction.
I shiver. I wait. I ache.
“You’re competent as fuck. Smart. A shield for my daughter against the world. You run my house like you were born to it. And you make all these fucking plans for the future—”
He sounds almost angry. My thoughts are a muddy swirl I can’t reach past the feverish shivers on my skin.
His hand drags slowly up my spine, stopping at the base of my neck. Circling it with a possessiveness that makes my core gush. My thong was already soaked, and now, the wetness sticks to my inner thighs.
“And yet you beg like you’re desperate. As if I’m the only one who could soothe it.” He leans closer, lips ghosting my ear. “And the bastard that I am, I like the sound of you begging,” he murmurs, voice thick.
A breathless laugh escapes him—low, rough, self-mocking. “So much for pretending I’m not your typical arrogant middle-aged man cliché.”
I shake my head, throat too dry to speak. "Please, Nathan," I rasp. "I hurt. Everywhere. Please…make it stop.” If my begging pleases him, I will put my entire damned soul into it. "Only you can make it better.”