Chapter 10
Georgia
Silence is a texture.
Sometimes it’s velvet—soft, heavy, comforting. Sometimes it’s sandpaper—scratchy, irritating. And sometimes, like right now, it is glass. Transparent, fragile, and sharp enough to slice you open if you move the wrong way.
I sat on the closed lid of the toilet in the master bathroom, wrapped in a fluffy white towel that smelled like sandalwood and Toby. The steam from our shower was starting to dissipate, clinging to the mirror in weeping droplets.
My hair was wet, plastered to my skull. My lips were swollen. My legs felt like jelly.
And my heart was currently trying to dig a hole through my ribcage and escape.
I think I'm in love with you.
I had said it. I had actually said the words. I had violated the number one rule of the "Casual Hookup Handbook" (a book I had never read but assumed existed) and confessed my feelings to a man who was sitting on the floor of the shower, clutching a swollen knee, staring at the drain.
He hadn't said it back.
He had said, Yeah. It is.
It is inconvenient. That was his response to my soul-baring confession. Not "Me too." Not "I love you, Georgia." Just an acknowledgment that my feelings were a logistical nightmare.
"Toby," I whispered.
The shower door opened.
Toby limped out. He had a towel wrapped around his waist, low on his hips, showcasing the V-lines of his lower abs. His hair was a wet, black mess. His skin was flushed from the heat.
He looked like a fallen angel who had just crawled out of a brawl. Beautiful. Broken. Dangerous.
He didn't look at me immediately. He grabbed a second towel and began to dry his face, wincing as he shifted weight onto his bad leg.
"We need to ice this," I said, my voice sounding small in the tiled room. I stood up, clutching my towel tight. "Your knee is twice the size it should be."
"Later," he grunted. He lowered the towel, and his gray eyes finally locked onto mine.
The intensity in them hit me like a physical wave. There was no rejection there. There was no awkwardness. There was only a dark, simmering hunger that made my knees knock together.
"Come here," he commanded.
I took a step toward him. "Toby, we should talk about—"
"No talking."
He reached out and grabbed my wrist, pulling me into the space between his legs. He leaned back against the vanity counter for support, spreading his thighs to accommodate me.
"Turn around," he murmured.
I obeyed, turning my back to him. I felt the heat of his chest against my back, even through the towel.
"Drop it," he said.
"The towel?"
"Drop it, Georgia."
I let go. The heavy cotton pooled around my ankles.
I stood naked in the bright lights of the bathroom, shivering slightly. I felt exposed. Not just because I was nude, but because he was studying me. I could feel his gaze tracing the line of my spine, the curve of my waist, the flare of my hips.
He picked up the towel he had been using and began to dry my hair.
The gesture was so tender, so domestic, it made my throat ache. His large, rough hands massaged my scalp through the fabric. He moved down to my neck, patting the skin dry. Then my shoulders.
"You're beautiful," he whispered against my ear. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through my bones. "Even when you're terrified."
"I'm not terrified," I lied.
"You're shaking."
"It's cold."
"It's eighty degrees in here."
He moved the towel down my arms, then dropped it. His hands replaced the fabric. His palms were warm and calloused. He ran them down my sides, his thumbs pressing into my ribs.
"You said something in the shower," he said, his mouth hovering over the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder.
I stiffened. "I was high on endorphins. I didn't mean to make it weird."
"You didn't make it weird," he murmured, pressing a kiss to my skin. "You made it real."
He slid his hands around to the front, cupping my breasts. He pulled me back against him, his erection hard and heavy against my lower back.
"I can't say it back yet," he whispered, the admission raw and painful. "I don't know how. The words... they get stuck. My father made sure of that."
My heart cracked a little for him.
"But," he continued, his thumbs teasing my nipples, sending jolts of electricity straight to my core. "I can show you. I can show you exactly who you belong to."
He bit down gently on the cord of muscle in my neck.
"Do you want me to show you, Princess?"
I tilted my head back, surrendering to the sensation. "Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes, Sir," I breathed. I didn't know where the title came from. It just slipped out. It felt right. It felt like the key that unlocked the monster I had sensed lurking beneath his stoic surface.
Toby groaned. The sound was guttural.
"Good girl," he praised.
He spun me around. He gripped my chin, forcing me to look up at him.
"Bedroom," he ordered. "Now."
Toby's bedroom was a reflection of his mind: minimalist, expensive, and imposing. The bed was a massive California King with charcoal gray sheets that looked like they had never been slept in.
I climbed onto the mattress, feeling small in the vast expanse of dark fabric.
Toby limped in after me. He closed the door and locked it. Then he turned off the overhead light, leaving only the city glow filtering through the sheers.
He dropped his towel.
I stared. I couldn't help it. He was magnificent. Even with the angry red swelling on his knee and the bruises mapping his ribs, he was the most perfect thing I had ever seen.
He walked to the bed. He didn't lie down. He sat against the padded headboard, stretching his bad leg out straight. He winced, his jaw tightening, but he didn't complain.
He patted the space between his legs.
"Crawl," he said.
I hesitated. This was new territory. This wasn't the frantic, equal-footing desperation of the shower. This was hierarchy. This was submission.
"I said crawl, Georgia."
I got on my hands and knees at the foot of the bed. The sheets were cool and silky against my skin. I crawled toward him, the movement accentuating the sway of my hips. I felt like a predator. I felt like prey.
When I reached him, he didn't touch me immediately. He just watched. His gray eyes were dark, dilated, swallowing the light.
"Up," he commanded, gesturing to his lap. "Straddle me. Be careful of the leg."
I climbed over him carefully, settling my knees on either side of his hips. I lowered myself slowly, sitting on his thighs, careful not to put weight on the injury.
We were eye to eye. Chest to chest.
He reached out and tucked a strand of wet hair behind my ear. His touch was incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the darkness in his eyes.
"You're mine," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact. "From the moment you broke into my house, you were mine. I just tried to fight it."
"I fought it too," I whispered.
"And now?"
"I'm done fighting."
"Good." His hand slid from my face to my throat. He didn't squeeze, but the weight of his hand was a reminder. A leash. "Because tonight, I'm going to take everything. I'm going to take your voice. I'm going to take your control. I'm going to make you forget everything but me."
He leaned forward and kissed me.
It wasn't a hard kiss. It was slow. Deep. Tasting. He kissed me like he was drinking from a well in the desert. His tongue swept into my mouth, claiming the space, tangling with mine.
His hands moved down my back, tracing my spine, then gripping my hips.
"Lift," he murmured against my lips.
I lifted my hips.
He guided himself to my entrance.
He was big. Intimidatingly big. And I was already sore from the shower.
"Relax," he soothed, sensing my tension. "I've got you. Breathe for me, Georgia."
I exhaled, trying to soften my muscles.
He pushed up. Just the tip.
"That's it," he praised. "So tight. You're so tight for me."
He pushed again. Slowly. inch by inch. stretching me. filling me.
I threw my head back, a gasp tearing from my throat. It was too much. It was overwhelming.
"Look at me," he ordered.
I forced my eyes open. He was watching my face, drinking in every micro-expression of pleasure and pain.
"Take it," he whispered. "Take all of it. Good girl."
He seated himself fully.
We paused. I was breathless, filled to the brim. He was vibrating with restraint.
"You feel that?" he asked, his voice rough. "That's me. Inside you. Where I belong."
"Toby," I whimpered.
"Move," he commanded. "Ride me. Set the pace. But keep your eyes on mine."
I began to move.
It was awkward at first. My muscles were trembling. I was terrified of hurting him. But he guided my hips with his large hands, correcting my angle, showing me the rhythm.
Up. Down. Grind.
The friction began to build. A slow burn that started in my belly and spread to my fingertips.
"That's it," he encouraged. "Just like that. You're doing so good."
The praise was a drug. Every time he called me a "good girl," I felt a rush of dopamine that was stronger than the physical sensation. I wanted to please him. I wanted to be perfect for him.
I picked up the pace.
The room filled with the sound of our breathing, the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the headboard.
Toby’s hands left my hips and moved to my breasts. He fondled them, tweaking the nipples, his touch rougher now.
"You like this?" he growled.
"Yes," I panted.
"Tell me what you like. Use your words."
"I like... I like you touching me."
"More," he demanded. "Tell me who owns these."
I hesitated. It was a step off a cliff. To say it out loud was to make it real.
He stopped his hips. He held me still, denying me the friction I craved.
"Say it, Georgia."
"You do," I sobbed. "You own them. You own me."
"Who am I?"
"Toby. You're Toby."
"Try again."
His thumb pressed hard against a nipple.
"Daddy," I whispered. "You're Daddy."
The word hung in the air, heavy and electric.
Toby’s eyes flared. He looked like he wanted to devour me whole.
"That's right," he growled. "I'm Daddy. And you are my bratty, spoiled, perfect little girl."
He slammed his hips up, meeting my downward thrust with a force that knocked the breath out of me.
The pace shattered. It wasn't slow anymore. It was violent. It was a reclaiming.
He couldn't use his legs, so he used his hands. He gripped my waist, lifting me and slamming me down onto him, over and over again.
"Toby! Toby!" I screamed, forgetting to be quiet, forgetting the roommates, forgetting the world.
"I've got you," he gritted out, his face twisted in a mask of pleasure and pain. "Let go. Give it to me."
He moved his hand between us, finding my clit. He rubbed it in a frantic, circling rhythm.
It was too much. The fullness. The friction. The praise.
"I'm close," I gasped. "I'm close, I'm close."
"Come for me," he ordered. "Come on my cock. Ruin me, Georgia."
I exploded.
It was a white-hot supernova. My vision went black. I arched my back, screaming his name, my inner muscles clamping down on him in a series of violent spasms.
He roared.
He drove into me one last time, deep and hard, and emptied himself. I felt the pulse of his release, hot and heavy inside me.
I collapsed forward onto his chest.
We lay there, a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs and heavy breathing. The room spun around me.
I listened to his heart hammering against my ear. It was erratic, wild.
He wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight, burying his face in my damp hair.
"Georgia," he breathed.
"I'm here," I whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."
The aftermath was a slow, hazy return to earth.
Toby carefully shifted me off him, wincing as he adjusted his leg. He pulled the duvet up over us, creating a cocoon of warmth.
I curled into his side, resting my head on his shoulder. My hand rested on his chest, tracing the line of a tattoo I hadn't noticed before—a compass on his ribs.
"North," I murmured, reading the direction the needle pointed.
"True North," he corrected, his voice raspy with sleep. "It's a navigation term. It never changes. Unlike magnetic north, which shifts."
"Are you True North?"
"I try to be," he said. He captured my hand and kissed my fingers. "But I think my compass was broken until I found you."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. It was the closest thing to "I love you" he could manage.
"Does your knee hurt?" I asked.
"Excruciatingly."
"I'll get the ice."
"No," he tightened his arm around me. "Not yet. Just... stay. For five minutes. Let me have this."
"Have what?"
"Peace," he said. "The noise is gone."
We lay in silence. The city lights danced on the ceiling.
I thought about my father. I thought about the text message I had ignored earlier tonight—a threat to cut off my tuition if I didn't come home.
Usually, that thought would send me spiraling into panic.
But lying here, wrapped in the arms of a man who had just claimed every inch of my body and soul, the fear felt distant.
I looked at Toby's face. His eyes were closed. His breathing was evening out. The harsh lines of pain around his mouth had softened.
He looked younger. He looked at peace.
And that was when the real terror set in.
Because I realized that this wasn't just sex. This wasn't just a rebellion against my father. This was... it.
I had given him the power to destroy me. If he left, if he chose the draft over me, if he decided I was too much trouble... I wouldn't just be heartbroken. I would be obliterated.
"Toby?" I whispered into the darkness.
"Hmm?"
"If we do this... if we really do this... you have to promise me something."
He opened one eye, looking down at me. "What?"
"Don't let me fall," I said. "I've spent my whole life walking on a tightrope. I can't do it anymore. If I jump... you have to catch me."
Toby shifted. He turned on his side, ignoring the pain, so he could look me fully in the face.
He reached out and cupped my jaw.
"I won't let you fall, Georgia," he swore. The gravity in his voice was terrifying. "I will catch you. Every single time. Even if it breaks my arms."
He kissed me softly. A promise sealed in the dark.
"Now go to sleep," he murmured. "We have practice in the morning."
"You have rehab in the morning," I corrected, snuggling closer.
"Yes, Ma'am."
"It's 'Yes, Mistress' now," I teased sleepily.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating against my chest. "Don't push your luck, Brat."
I closed my eyes.
For the first time in months, I didn't dream of drowning. I dreamed of ice. Clear, solid, unbreakable ice.
And I was skating on it, hand in hand with the King, and I wasn't afraid of falling anymore.