Chapter 9
Nathan
The storm lashes sideways against the hotel awning as I stand in the fucking parking lot like a man who’s lost his goddamn mind.
Rain pelts down in cold sheets, soaking through my shirt, my pants, into my skin.
I don’t move. I can’t.
Because if I do, I’ll go back in there. Back to her. Back to the bathtub where I left her—naked, boneless, trembling.
A virgin, just… wrecked. By my goddamned fingers.
I press both hands to my face, trying to get a grip, but I only smear the water and her all over myself. Her scent is still there.
Jesus. Her scent.
It clings to my fingers. Sweet and slick and raw. And beneath it, a faint metallic tang that makes my stomach twist. I pull my fingers away, but then—I do the unthinkable. I bring them to my mouth.
I lick.
And groan like a man dying. Because I can still taste her.
Jasmine... still fresh on my tongue, in my head, in my fucking bloodstream.
I suck my fingers compulsively, needing more. But she’s already inside me. Under my skin. Etched into every pulse in my cock. I can’t get her out, no matter how far I run.
I stalk toward the car. Fling the door open. Collapse inside.
The leather seats are cold and slick, but I’m burning up. Steam rises off me, mixing with the damp leather and ozone-rich storm air. The rain hammering the roof doesn’t let up.
I grip the steering wheel and drop my forehead against it.
Run, a voice in me says. Start the car and drive. Get away from her. Get away from yourself.
But even if I ran, there’s no undoing what happened between us. I thought I knew myself. Thought I had built a life that wouldn’t allow for chaos. That didn’t have heart or space for someone like her.
But she surrendered herself so well to me, so easily, appealing perfectly to the dark, dominating facet of me I’d kept chained for years. Submitted with such purity. Such trust.
It’s the single most erotic experience of my life.
I know now why I dumped her in the tub and got the hell out of there. Because I wanted more.
I wanted to slide into that soft, wet, virgin pussy and ruin her a little more. Mark her up. Leave bruises she’d wear for days.
I want to fuck her until she can’t walk straight. Until she can’t live without me. Until all thoughts of her future begin and end with me.
Until she’s barefoot and pregnant, baking for me in my kitchen.
Jesus Christ.
Barefoot and pregnant...
Is that what I want? With my daughter’s best friend? Not just a night. Not a weekend. But the whole damn thing?
I stare into the darkness of the car.
The image is now burned into me—Jasmine, belly swollen with my child, tits heavy with milk, eyes shining with love for me.
It’s so vivid, I can’t breathe.
Does she want a future with me?
Or am I just the man she trusts enough to experiment with? A safe, yet reckless bet to lose her V card.
But that’s not Jasmine. She said it herself—never been kissed.
And she didn’t just admit it.
She offered it up like she needed me to know it. And then there was that comment from her cousin Sonia. That Jasmine was pining after someone.
Am I finally seeing the truth? That my little bird wants me?
She begged me to make her come. Offered herself to me with nothing but trust and hunger and reckless need. Made herself utterly vulnerable to me.
That’s more than enough to start with.
I’m a fucking billionaire CEO. I’ve turned boardroom betrayals and hostile takeovers to my advantage. I’ve navigated international crises and dismantled empires with a spreadsheet and a pen.
I can figure out how to give one woman what she needs.
A harsh laugh breaks from my chest. It echoes against the glass as the rain pelts the windshield. My pulse steadies and I feel the first flicker of control again.
I’m not letting Jasmine go.
I hit the ignition. The dash glows blue. The vents groan to life and blast hot air over my soaked chest and arms. I shift to reach for my overnight bag in the backseat when the car stereo kicks on.
A husky voice floods the dark cabin, low and familiar.
“What else do you need, Mr. Gray?” a woman purrs, syrupy-sweet.
“You. On your knees,” a rough male voice answers. “I need you to suck my cock.”
“Oh, Mr. Gray,” she breathes, barely containing a moan. “I was hoping I’d get a load of you today.”
I go absolutely still.
My cock jerks so hard against my zipper it’s painful. I blink, trying to orient myself in the darkness of the car, but everything narrows to that voice.
My skin prickles with the kind of awareness I’ve only ever felt around... Jasmine.
No fucking way.
The voice is huskier than hers. A little breathier. But the employer’s name is Mr. Gray.
Mr. Gray…
I pause the track and look around, heart thudding. There’s something wedged under the passenger seat. I reach down and pull out a slim phone in a mint-green case.
Jasmine’s.
She uses this car to run errands, to bring Sophie to her appointments. And apparently, to listen to filthy audio stories.
My little bird listens to dirty stories. Even though she’s never been kissed.
I glance at the screen. It’s still lit, the audio app open. A file name stares back at me—Boss-Housekeeper Jazz Draft 1.
Curiosity—no, compulsion—takes over. I hit play again.
“Good girl,” the man groans. “Already better than the last time. Keep sucking. Don’t stop.”
Jesus Christ.
The woman moans low and desperate, sucking and slurping like her life depends on it, and the man’s praising her, telling her that her pretty mouth was built to serve him.
My cock is fucking throbbing.
I pause the audio, breath ragged.
It’s her.
It’s my little bird narrating these filthy little stories.
My body knows. My cock knows.
That voice—hungry and breathless and dirty as sin—that’s Jasmine. She sounds good here, but it’s nothing like the way she sounded for me.
With me, she was real. Needier. Raw. Every moan soaked in honesty and desperation, clamping around my cock like a vise, even without me inside her.
And fuck, I want both versions of her.
I want this husky, provocative Jasmine to come out and play with me. And I want the vulnerable, desperate Jasmine she was earlier, needing me like oxygen.
Only now do I realize I’m grinning. Like an idiot. Like a man who’s been thrown a lifeline.
I skip to the next audio. This one’s titled Boss-Nanny Jazz Final Draft. But it’s the same husky voice.
This time, the heroine is a nanny. And the boss comes home furious, demanding she explain why his daughter’s schedule was changed.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gray,” she says softly. “I forgot to inform you. I was just so busy running around, looking after your household. Can I make it up to you?”
He grabs her by the hips and bends her over the gleaming quartz island she just cleaned.
The black coffee and blueberry muffin she lays out for him every morning sit right by her head.
He pushes her skirt up, groans at the sight of her soaked panties, and growls, “You can feed me the muffin after taking my load.”
I let out a hoarse laugh, forehead resting against the seat’s headrest.
I’m hard as a fucking rock but I can’t stop smiling.
Relief crashes through me like a tidal wave.
She wants me.
But she’s also the same quiet girl who’s been taking over my life in soft, steady strokes—my mind, my routines, my body.
And now I can’t stop picturing myself as the bridge between those two Jasmines—the sweet, obedient girl who makes me breakfast and the filthy-mouthed siren who begs to be used.
She asked for this trip. She kissed me first. She begged me to touch her, to make her come.
If she thinks this is going to be one fantasy evening, one filthy weekend to get me out of her system, she’s got it wrong.
So fucking wrong.
She deserves more than a fantasy. She deserves everything.
My time. My name. My protection. My filthy fucking fantasies.
My come, thick on her tongue, dripping down her thighs.
I palm my aching cock through drenched denim, the pressure doing nothing to dull the hunger. I shut off the engine and grab my bag and her phone.
The ache I feel isn’t going anywhere until I claim her fully. Until she’s mine in every possible way.