Chapter Three #4
"Since the closet," I admitted, breathless. "At the hotel. When you were pressed against me and I could feel —"
"Feel what?"
"You. All of you. And you were so —" I broke off as his thumb circled, sending sparks through every nerve ending I owned. "God. You were so controlled. So in charge. And I wanted — I wanted —"
"Wanted what?"
"Wanted you to not be." I looked up at him, wrists pinned above my head, his hand between my thighs. "Wanted to make you lose it."
His eyes went dark. Something dangerous flickered in them — desire, restraint, the effort of holding both at the same time.
"Careful what you wish for." He hooked his fingers under the waistband of my underwear. "Lift your hips."
I did. He pulled the fabric down my thighs, off one ankle, and tossed it somewhere in the dark. The cool air hit my bare skin and I shivered.
"Color?"
"Green. Very, very green."
His hand returned — no barrier now — and the first touch of his fingers against bare, sensitive skin made me cry out. Not quietly. His hand tightened on my wrists.
"That's it," he said, low and rough. "Let me hear you."
"Someone could —"
"No one's out here. It's just us." His teeth grazed me again, harder. "Let me hear you, Charlie."
I moaned.
"That's it. Good girl."
There it was again. That praise that made me melt.
His hand slid higher, fingers finding me wet and ready. I gasped, hips bucking against his hand.
"Still," he reminded me, his grip tightening on my wrists. "I'm in charge. Not you."
He slid one finger inside me — slow, achingly slow — and I moaned. He watched my face as he did it — every flinch, every shiver — reading me the way he read rooms.
"You're beautiful like this," he said, adding a second finger, curling them both in a way that made stars burst behind my eyelids. "The fight. The walls. The armor you strap on every morning — and underneath it, you just want someone to tell you to let go."
"Don't —" I gasped as his thumb found my clit again, circling in tight, devastating strokes. "Don't psychoanalyze me while you're — fuck —"
"While I'm what?"
"Dominic."
"Say it."
"While you're — making me —" I couldn't form sentences. His fingers were moving faster now, thumb relentless, and the tension was building like a wave gathering force — huge and dark and inevitable. "I'm going to —"
"Not yet."
He slowed down. Just enough. Just enough to keep me at the edge without letting me tip over. I made a sound that was embarrassingly close to a whimper.
"Dominic —"
"Not yet." His mouth found mine, swallowing my protests. "I decide when. That was the deal."
"I didn't agree to torture."
"You agreed to trust me." He kissed me deeper, his fingers maintaining that maddening, steady rhythm — enough to keep me burning but not enough to break. "So trust me. I'm going to make it worth it."
I wanted to fight him. Wanted to snap something sharp and defiant, prove I wasn't the kind of woman who begged.
But I was. I was exactly that kind of woman, with him, in this moment. And the terrifying part was that it didn't feel like weakness. It felt like freedom.
"Please," I whispered.
"Please what?"
"Please let me come."
"One more time."
"Please, Dominic. Please."
"Good girl," he breathed, and his fingers drove deep.
I came apart.
The orgasm hit like a riptide — no buildup, no warning, just a wall of pleasure that slammed into me and kept going.
I cried out against his mouth, back arching off the seat, hands straining against his grip.
He held me through it — his hand between my thighs riding me through every wave, his other hand anchoring my wrists so I couldn't fly apart entirely.
It lasted longer than I thought possible.
Every time I thought it was fading, his thumb would circle again and another aftershock would roll through me.
I heard myself making sounds I'd never made before — broken, desperate, undone sounds that didn't belong to Charlie Collins, paparazzo, master of disguise, woman who never let anyone see her vulnerable.
When it finally subsided, I was shaking. Trembling against his chest, my wrists still pinned above me more out of habit than his grip, every muscle in my body liquid.
"Color?" he asked softly.
"I don't —" I had to catch my breath. "I don't know what color comes after green. Whatever's beyond green. That color."
He released my wrists. I lowered my arms — my shoulders ached slightly, a good ache — and he pulled me against him, one arm tight around my waist.
"We're not done," he said against my hair.
"We're not?"
His hand moved to his belt. I heard the clink of the buckle, the rasp of a zipper.
"We're not done, Charlie. Not by a long shot. But I need to know — are you —"
"IUD. And I'm clean."
"Same." The relief in his voice was immediate. "Good. Because I don't want anything between us."
"Get up here." He pulled me onto his lap, hands gripping my hips, the silk of my dress bunching between us. "I want to see your face."
I braced my hands on his shoulders and sank down onto him.
We both stopped breathing.
He filled me completely — thick, hard, stretching me in a way that bordered on overwhelming. His fingers dug into my hips, holding me still while we both adjusted.
"Okay?" he managed.
"More than okay." I shifted, rocking forward, and we both groaned. "God, Dominic —"
"Slowly." His hands controlled my hips, setting a pace that was torturously unhurried. "We're doing this my way."
"Your way is — ah — killing me."
"My way is going to make you come again."
"I can't —"
"You can." He thrust up — slow, deep, hitting a spot that made my vision blur. "And you will."
He was right. I could already feel it building again — slower this time, deeper, rolling through me in waves that started in my core and radiated outward.
His hands guided my hips in a rhythm that was relentless — slow and grinding, then a hard, deep thrust that punched the air out of my lungs, then slow again.
"Look at me," he said.
I opened my eyes. Hadn't realized I'd closed them. His face was inches from mine, jaw tight, eyes blazing, and the expression on his face — the intensity, the focus, the barely leashed hunger — was the most erotic thing I'd ever seen.
"You are —" He thrust deep and I gasped. "Incredible."
"Dominic —"
"You're perfect." Another thrust, and his hand slid between us, thumb finding my clit again. "You fight me on everything. You're reckless and stubborn and you never listen."
"Is this — oh God — is this supposed to be a compliment?"
"And every single second," he continued, his rhythm building, "every second since I walked into that office and you told me to go to hell — I have wanted this. Wanted you. Like this. Coming apart in my hands."
"I'm —"
"I know." His thumb circled faster, his hips driving up to meet mine. "Let go, Charlie. I've got you."
I broke.
The second orgasm was different from the first — slower, deeper, a rolling wave instead of a crash. It started low in my belly and spread, growing, expanding, until my whole body was trembling with it. I buried my face in his neck and shattered, his name the only word I had left.
He followed seconds later — his hips jerking, his grip tightening on my waist, a low, rough groan that vibrated through his chest and into mine. I felt him pulse inside me and held on, held on, rode it out with him until we were both spent and gasping and utterly, completely wrecked.
We stayed like that for a long time.
Tangled together in the back seat, pulse still hammering, neither of us moving.
His arms were around me, my face was pressed against his chest, and I could hear his heartbeat — still fast, gradually slowing.
His hand moved up my back in long, absent strokes.
Soothing. Gentle in a way I hadn't expected.
"Color?" he murmured against my hair.
I laughed — small, breathless. "You're still checking in."
"Always going to check in."
I pulled back enough to look at him. His tux was destroyed — tie gone, shirt unbuttoned, hair a wreck. He looked thoroughly, comprehensively ruined. By me. Some primal part of my brain lit up at the sight.
"Green," I said. "Really, really green."
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. The dark wig had shifted but somehow stayed on — a miracle of bobby pins and determination. His fingers lingered at my temple.
"We're going to have to talk about this," he said.
"I know."
"There are implications —"
"Yeah."
"For the assignment. For my professional —"
"Dominic." I pressed my finger to his lips. "I know. And we will. But can we just... have this? For a minute? Before it gets complicated?"
He studied me. Then his arms tightened, pulling me back against his chest.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "We can have this."
I closed my eyes and let myself rest against him. His heartbeat under my ear. His warmth surrounding me. His hand still moving slowly up and down my back.
I didn't want to think about tomorrow. About what this meant for his assignment, for my safety, for the carefully constructed walls I'd spent twenty-eight years building.
I didn't want to think about the threats, or the sleeping photo, or the fact that someone wanted me dead and the man whose job it was to keep me alive had just crossed every professional line that existed.
All I wanted was this. His arms around me. The silence. The impossible, terrifying, undeniable feeling that I'd just let someone past every wall I had — and I didn't want to take it back.
Tonight was ours.
Tomorrow could wait.