Chapter 8
Jasmine
I can sense the shift in him so clearly that a relieved sob escapes me. My knees are barely holding me up. But he’s there.
Mr. Grayson, to catch me, to hold me.
His hands are everywhere but nowhere. They skim over my damp skin—up the slope of my nape, across the line of my shoulders, tracing the ridge of my upper back.
His mouth follows the path of his hands, open and hot, dragging over me in lazy, claiming laps. But never reaching past my jaw, never reaching for my lips.
Another hand squeezes at my hip, kneads the curve with rough fingers that scrape just enough to make my blood fizz, the knot in my core cinch tighter and tighter.
“Please, Nathan,” I whisper, pushing back. “Let me turn. Let me touch you.”
“No,” he says, sharp. “No talking, little bird. Or I walk away.”
I freeze, stunned. This is not the Nathan I know. But it’s the man I’ve always sensed under the surface—quiet, steady, in control of every detail.
“I just—” I start, but his fingers press against my mouth, and one slides in.
I clamp my lips around it and suck without thinking, needing something—anything—to hold on to. A muttered “fuck” bursts from him, and then his hips slam against me, grinding his cock into my bare ass.
It’s thick. Heavy. Hot. So big that it’s going to hurt. But even that makes my core pulse in anticipation.
I moan around his finger, heat flaring through my body like an explosion. My mouth dries. I can’t see him, but I can imagine the length of him inside me.
Stretching me. Claiming me.
I try to move my hands back, but he grabs them in one firm fist, yanks them above my head, pins them there.
“Keep them here. Or I walk away.”
“You have too many rules,” I whimper, grinding shamelessly against him.
“And you’re breaking all of them,” he growls. “That won’t do.”
“If you want this,” he breathes against my neck, “you stay quiet, baby girl.”
Baby girl…
My core clenches hard. My nipples tighten even more, as if responding to the pure command in his voice. It’s not just arousal—it’s something deeper. A thread pulled taut inside me, strung between strength and surrender.
My fingers curl above my head. I can’t see him, but I feel him everywhere. And I realize I would do anything—anything—to be called that again.
“You be that good girl I know you can be, Jasmine,” he murmurs. “Like you are around my house. Everywhere. But nowhere. Always looking to me with those big searching eyes. Looking to me to fix things for you. Needing me.” His grip shifts, almost reverent. “I’ll give you what you need here too.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
His entire body goes taut behind me.
I feel it in the stillness of his hands, the tension radiating from his shoulders, the sudden halt of everything.
“I can be a good girl for you. Only you,” I whisper. “If you want me to beg, I’ll beg. If you want me to kneel, I will.”
His grip on my wrists tightens—not enough to hurt, but enough that I know he heard me. Felt my words deep inside him where he’s all desire and no control. His chest heaves against my back like he’s struggling to breathe. The hard length of him throbs at the base of my spine.
Something shifts again between us.
Something dark and deep and unspoken coming to life.
A guttural sound escapes him. And then, softly—almost reverently—“Good girl.”
But it’s not praise. It’s like he’s accepting my surrender. Like I’ve handed him something he didn’t know he needed.
His hands cup my breasts, fingers rough as he pinches each aching nipple.
I arch into him, moaning. He cups them with a reverence as mind-blowing as the rough caresses.
“Like that, do you?” he growls.
“More,” I gasp. “More, Daddy. Whatever you can give me.”
He tweaks each nipple, alternating between pain and pleasure until I’m shaking. His mouth is at my neck again, licking, then nipping my shoulder hard enough to sting.
“Yes,” I cry, undulating, caught between the door and him. “Please. More.”
He chuckles darkly behind me, his hand sliding from my breasts to my belly, skimming over my ribcage like he’s mapping fragile terrain.
I feel like I’m something precious he’s been given access to.
“So soft. So fragile,” he mutters. “So much need.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I whisper. “Only for you. Always.”
A groan breaks from his chest as he thrusts forward, rubbing his cock along the seam of my ass. It sends another wave of need through me, violent and hot.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “No.”
“Yes,” I say. “Take what you need, Daddy.”
“No,” he says again, almost like a warning. But then—his fingers are between my legs. He spreads my folds, and I sob. Relief is a violent thing inside me.
“Wet for Daddy, are you, baby girl?”
“Yes,” I moan. “All evening. All day.”
“Spread your legs. As wide as you can. Show me what you have for me, yeah?”
I do.
“A slut for Daddy, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
His fingers plunge inside me—one, then two—and pain rips through me as my hymen gives way.
I cry out, flinching.
Nathan stills. But I don’t want him to stop. The thought of him walking away now threatens to shatter me. “Please,” I whisper, desperate. “Don’t stop. Please…”
He groans—low, feral—and then he’s dropping to his knees. “Turn around, little bird.”
I do, on shaking legs. The sight of him, on his knees for me, the silver at his temples glinting in the dim light… there’s no defense I have left against him. “Nathan,” I say, begging him to look up.
We’re both in a trance, and I don’t want it to break, but I also want his eyes meeting mine. Those beautiful, kind, laughing silver-grey eyes that captivated me from day one. Acknowledging this... madness we’ve fallen into.
But he doesn’t look up.
He spreads me open with rough fingers and then buries his face in my core with a groan that pushes away my emotional needs.
I’m just his instrument now, and he’s playing me. Expertly.
His tongue is everywhere—inside, outside, up and down, in slow, slurping circles that make my knees buckle. One of my legs ends up over his shoulder. My hands tangle in his hair, and I sob as he devours me like he’s starving for it.
For me.
Nathaniel Grayson is drenched in my juices, eating me out as if I’m a feast. He fucks me with his tongue, relentless, until I’m coming—shaking, moaning, crying his name like a prayer. He doesn’t stop.
A second orgasm barrels through me, stealing my breath like a wave crashing over my head. I can’t even cry out this time as it wrings me out.
Somewhere far away, I realize I’m sobbing. My thighs quake. My fingers slip uselessly through his hair. But before I hit the floor—before I even remember how to breathe—he catches me.
My mind is splintering back into my body in shards made of sensation. And I still can’t believe what just happened. My impossibly untouchable, perfectly controlled, always-out-of-reach Mr. Grayson ate me out. Made me come like I was his. Like he knew my body better than I did.
I’m stunned. Shattered. Addicted already.
Because it wasn’t just release—it was salvation. Like he reached into me and quieted every ache, every hollow place. And now I can’t imagine wanting that from anyone else. Not ever.
My face burrows into his neck—wet and messy and completely undone. And he holds me like he’s afraid I’ll fall apart again.
When he pushes onto his feet with me in his arms, I feel like I’m floating on a cloud. I cling to him shamelessly, breathing in large gulps.
My eyes are closed but I hear the faucet turn. Water running. Oils splashing. The soft rustle of towels.
Then I’m being lowered into a warm bath, my head resting against a thick, folded towel. For just a second, he clasps my jaw with such tenderness that I gasp. Then, as fast as it came, his touch is gone.
He’s gone.
The door closes behind him.
And I’m alone. Bruised with pleasure. Trembling with fresh need. And yet I also feel like I’ve been put away back on the shelf.
Because while he gave me what I needed, he didn’t take what he needed.
He didn’t claim me like I want to be claimed.