Chapter 13
Jasmine
We are back in Seattle by early evening, but my heart and body stay behind on Whidbey Island. In that suite, to be precise.
The elevator rushes toward the penthouse as if to hurl me back into reality. I’ve ridden it countless times but it feels different. Small, as if my awareness of Nathan is its own entity, occupying it all.
He’s close enough that his sleeve brushes mine as the car hums upward. I can smell him over the clean, conditioned air—sweat, soap, and just a hint of my vanilla perfume clinging to him. Real or not, it feels like I’ve stamped him with myself.
I drifted to sleep in his arms last night. Only to be woken at dawn by his mouth on my neck and his hand between my legs, his voice hoarse, asking if I could take him again.
I said yes before my brain, and my body, caught up. It hurt like hell, but I begged him not to stop. I needed the pain in case the fleeting pleasure evaporated from memory. I needed the weight of him pressing me into the mattress, his guttural grunts as he took me raw, his roar as he climaxed.
I’d say yes again now, if we weren’t two floors from the penthouse and his phone wasn’t pressed to his ear.
He’s barely said a word since we left the island.
A crisis at the company he manages with Zayn has kept him on a call the whole time. I don’t know whether to be thankful the call removes the awkwardness of goodbye or resentful that it stole my chance at closure.
The storm blew itself clean away overnight. Now the sun is shining—the universe reminding me last night was a glitch, a temporary madness.
Halfway home, he pulled into my favorite drive-through, nodding at me to order breakfast while he stayed on the line. The thoughtfulness hurt more—because it was Nathan being kind as always.
“Sasha told me you took Jazz to some wedding reception,” Zayn’s voice cut in on the speaker just as I excused myself to use the bathroom. “Sounds like a big deal. Sorry for hogging your time.”
Like a masochist, I lingered by the open window, eager to hear my boss’s answer.
Nathan’s voice was flat, almost dismissive. “Wasn’t a big deal. We’re on our way back anyway.”
I stared out the window after returning, pretending interest in the skyline, swallowing the sob building in my chest.
The doors slide open and, for the first time in years, the penthouse doesn’t feel like the warm, welcoming space it’s been. Here, the boundaries between us are sharp.
Nathan steps out first, still talking, and I follow, my bag strap tight in my hand. He heads into the kitchen, finishes his call as I take off my shoes and slide into the house slippers. His phone disappears into his pocket just as footsteps sound from the hall.
Sophie runs out, a bright smile flashing. “How was the reception?”
I cross the room, fold myself into her hug, burying my face in her shoulder before Nathan can look at me.
Sophie smells like shampoo and home, the lavender-vanilla mix that’s wrapped around me since we were middle schoolers. Usually, it’s pure comfort.
Today, it’s edged with something sharp—my own secret pressed between us. Not shame but the ache of knowing I can’t tell her. Not without risking losing the one person who’s been my anchor all these years.
I’ll lose them both soon enough.
“It was fine. I straightened out things with Clive,” Nathan says, tone clipped, as if reminding us why he came. “I have to be at work.” A moment later, the front door clicks shut.
Sophie eases back, brows pulling together. “Jazz, honey… is everything okay? Did Dad do something he shouldn’t have? I’ve never seen you two so… awkward.”
I bite down hard on the sob clawing up, force myself to meet her eyes. “He was exactly what I needed, Soph. A perfect gentleman.”
Before she can read something in my face, I mumble about needing a shower and escape down the hall.
I’m bent awkwardly, fingers fumbling for the zipper of the summer dress I wore in the car, when a knock sounds at the door.
“Come in,” I call, tugging one strap down. I expect Sophie.
It’s Nathan. He’s shrugged off his jacket, and the metal-gray of his shirt makes his eyes glint.
Tenderness tugs at me. He looks tired—the kind of tired that makes me want to press my hand to his cheek and make him close his eyes for five minutes. But he’s not mine to look after, is he?
He steps inside, and it hits me—this is the first time he’s ever been in my room. Now, with him in it, the space feels smaller. All those boundaries I thought were carved in stone? Already melting.
He closes the door behind him. The sheer joy in my chest—because he came here, to me—makes my heart hurt more. I’m too far gone. Too addicted.
I fold my arms under my chest, tilt my chin up like armor. “Did you need something, Mr. Grayson?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns the lock with a quiet click, then walks straight to my bathroom. A moment later, the shower roars to life.
Shit, Sophie’s room is right across the corridor. And her dad is here, behind a locked door with me.
My pulse races. My core flutters in helpless anticipation.
When Nathan comes back, his jaw is tight, his shoulders set. I have to lock my knees to keep from throwing myself at him.
He stalks toward me and like some startled bird, I step back.
My calves bump the edge of the bed. His gaze flicks past my shoulder, taking in the pink sheets, the heap of soft toys, the blown-up photo of Mom, the snapshots of Sophie and me, and the one from last Christmas with him wedged between us, smiling.
It’s like he’s peering into my heart, and I can’t tell if it makes me feel exposed or seen.
When his eyes return to mine, they’re molten and unyielding. The force of it only stokes the heat pooling low in my belly. We’re not touching, yet I’m leaning toward him, softening like a chocolate straw in warm milk.
“Did you need something, Mr. Grayson?” I repeat.
“You don’t look at me in front of Sophie?” His voice is calm enough to make mine sound loud, but there’s a vein throbbing at his temple.
He’s angry that I wouldn’t look at him in front of Sophie?
The realization drips through me slow and sticky, like honey, until my own words spill out, sharp and unplanned. “You didn’t look at me for the whole freaking drive.”
“I was on a call. I was giving you space,” he snarls. The anger isn’t at me—it’s at himself. Guilt and regret dance in his eyes.
If he’s regretting last night, I’ll shatter into fragments at his feet. “Space from what?” I say, pushing closer. Our bodies are inches apart. “Already changed your mind?”
“What, no?” He thrusts a hand through his hair.
His chest rises and falls as he takes a calming breath.
His hand clasps my jaw with a tenderness that might shatter me too.
“I hurt you. At dawn.” His breath feathers over my lips.
“That’s twice now, little bird. I should have better control around you. I hate it that I don’t.”
Relief and joy thread through me like twin flames lighting up a city. I lean into his hold, kiss the center of his palm. “Well, I liked it,” I say, clutching his arms.
Maybe I can’t declare my love, but I can tell him how much I like what we do. If he probes deep enough, the truth is laid out in my actions for him to see.
“Yes, I’m walking wonky this morning, and it hurts when I stand or sit, but God, I liked it. No—I loved it, Mr. Grayson. I loved that you left an impression on me. Inside me.”
His lush mouth curves into a smile, not the full-wattage one that takes me out at the knees. Smaller. Sharper. Like he knows something I don’t.
I keep talking, desperate to make him understand. “You told Zayn it wasn’t a big deal, so I thought maybe you’d already written me off, that I was—”
Before the rest can spill out, his hand comes up, firm and warm, pressing across my mouth. The gesture steals the breath from my chest. His eyes are steady on mine, pinning me in place.
I won’t hide what he does to me anymore. I lean into him, giving him my weight. My chest drags against his, my nipples loving the ache. He’s a wall of warmth and hardness, not budging an inch.
His hands clutch my arms. “Why the hell would I tell my grumpy asshole brother that I’m fucking my daughter’s best friend? Without protection, like an irresponsible teenager? That I’ve lost my mind for the first time in nearly two decades over a young pussy that feels made like it was made for me?”
Without protection… a cold chill grips me for one moment.
God, I didn’t even think of protection.
Neither is there an ounce of worry that his sperm might be implanting in my womb even now. I don’t care how reckless that very thought makes me. Because whatever he gives me—dominance, frustration, a freaking baby—I’ll take it.
Own it.
Make it all mine.
Instead of backing down, I sneak my hand between us, reach for the buttons on his shirt, and pop a few open. His breath is a harsh symphony as I press my palm to warm, hard skin before drifting it down toward his rock-hard abdomen.
When I look up, his gray eyes are molten. He likes that I touch him like he’s mine. “Does that mean you’re going to glove up, Daddy?”
“No.”
The word falls between us like a grenade.
His grey eyes blaze, daring me to say no, daring me to defy him.
“I don’t want anything between me and your wet, gripping cunt.”
“Okay, Daddy,” I say, satisfaction blazing through me. If Nathan Grayson doesn’t care about the risk of pregnancy, who am I to worry about it? When I admitted that I was a slut for him, I meant it. “So this isn’t over yet?” I say before I can think better of it.
He leans in, caging me. “Do you want it to be over, little bird?”
Eyes wide, I shake my head and mumble no into his palm.
“Good. You better not ignore me ever again, yeah? Not in front of Sophie or anybody.”
When I nod, he frowns. “I understand you might not want her to know, but if you ignore me again, I will fuck you in front of everyone. So they know this pussy is mine.”
To emphasize it, he cups me, one long finger delving beneath my folds, the flimsy thong pushed to the side.
“I’m sorry for upsetting you, Daddy—for misunderstanding,” I whisper, shifting his palm from my mouth.
I’m so turned on by that outrageous declaration that wetness gushes from me.
My thong is soaked. “Now, may I go to my knees and get a taste of you? That way, you won’t hurt me and I still get to please you.
” I know I’m pushing my luck, but I don’t want him to leave.
I don’t care Sophie’s across the corridor, that she might hear.
I don’t care how desperate I sound. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse while I suck you off. ”
“No,” he says, hustling me back toward the bed.
“Why not?” I whine.
“Because you’re still new to this and I don’t trust myself.” His curse lands harder for how softly muttered it is. “Get in the bed and keep quiet. Unless you’re ready to tell your best friend about deepthroating her dad.”
The arrogance in his tone, the crudeness of his words, sends shivers down my spine. Doesn’t he care if Sophie finds out? What if she hates me for crossing so many lines in my madness for him?
My thoughts spiral so badly it’s only when I’m on the bed, looking up at his tight face, that I realize he’s thrown me onto it. With my head hanging at the edge.
The air crackles. I love that he has expectations of me now. That he isn’t letting me hide.
He leans down, mouth at my pulse, teeth grazing before he drags at my neckline so roughly it tears, baring me. My breath catches, equal parts shock and anticipation.
He pushes the hem of my dress upward, exposing me to his devouring gaze. His voice is a dark promise. “You can have a taste, but only if you keep quiet.”
I nod, heart hammering. His hand loosens from my mouth. He makes short work of his zipper and pushes his trousers and boxers down. “Open up.”
I do. He taps the head against my lips first, then eases inside. Careful but commanding, giving me just enough to reel from his thickness. The taste is all him—salt, skin, male heat—overwhelming my senses.
He praises me in a hushed rasp, tells me I’m doing well, how proud he is that I’m holding it together with his daughter and my best friend down the hall. The words make my stomach twist, my pulse skitter.
Then he bends closer, one hand tracing over my core in slow, merciless circles. A moan escapes. His palm is instantly back over my mouth even as he stuffs his cock inside. “Much harder to keep quiet now, isn’t it, little bird?”
My thighs tremble as he keeps at me, relentless, every stroke calculated to unravel me.
I dig my nails into his stomach, half protest, half plea.
He only grins, adjusts my head over the edge so I can take more of him, deeper.
My throat protests once, a gag rising—and he pulls back just enough, his other hand never ceasing its rhythm below.
The double assault leaves me undone, the coil of pleasure winding too tight. I pull back to gasp for air, to warn him, but he’s already watching me with that molten stare. “Do you want my cum, baby girl, painting your skin?” he asks, fingers still working me into frenzy.
“Yes, Daddy,” I manage, hoarse, breaking.
His movements grow sharper, faster, until the world blurs. Release rips through me, and at the same time, he groans low, spraying ropes of white-hot cum against my neck and breasts, marking me.
Before I can breathe, he leans down and kisses me, mouth hot and insistent. Then he pulls at a string of cum and paints my lower lip with it. I lick it off and his eyes blaze. “Next time, you will swallow it all like a good girl.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I say, making an indecent sound with my lips. “Every drop.”
He kisses me again, spinning my senses into a dizzy ride. “Good night, little bird. If you’re really good…don’t wash it off.”
Then he’s gone, the door closing with a firm click.
I stay where he leaves me, sprawled across the bed, skin sticky and humming. Down the hall, Sophie’s door creaks, and for one dizzy moment, the danger of how close she is, makes my pulse flutter again.
But underneath it all is sheer joy.
Whatever this is, it isn’t over. Not yet.