Chapter 4
MOLLY
The bathroom feels like another world. It’s huge, warmly decorated, and softly lit by the glow of the sconces above the mirror.
Steam curls around me as I slide into the bubble bath, letting the heat soak into my bones until the shaking in my hands finally begins to slow.
My cheek throbs where that man hit me, but the water eases the tightness in my muscles, and the terror caught in my chest begins to dissolve into something looser and gentler.
The attack feels so distant now, yet I feel like I’m living in someone else’s body.
This isn’t my bathroom. It’s not my home.
I basically accepted the proposition from a stranger.
He could be the devil himself, but I’m so intrigued by this man who saved me.
He showed up in that alley like my personal guardian angel.
I close my eyes, sinking under the bubbles until they brush my chin. My fingertips drift across the surface of the water, and for a moment I wonder if I’m dreaming.
Who steps in to help a stranger like that anymore?
I don’t even know his name. I didn’t ask and he didn’t offer. I don’t know anything about him, except that he lives in a ridiculously expensive apartment and that I’ll be thinking about this bubble bath until the day I die.
I’ll probably be thinking about him until the day I die, too. The way he touched me so gently, despite the fact that I’d just watched him manhandle two grown men.
After I’ve spent way too long in the bath and the water starts cooling around me, I finally get out of the tub.
The towel he left folded on the counter is thick and fluffy, far softer than anything I own.
Underneath it is a long, cozy robe. I slip into it, pulling it tight around my waist. It’s far too big, hanging off my frame and enveloping me in warmth that smells faintly like cedar and clean linen.
I towel my hair until the droplets stop rolling down my neck, then run my fingers through the tangles. My legs feel unsteady when I step onto the cool tile as all the adrenaline officially leaves my body.
A dreamlike haze settles over me as I open the bathroom door. This is nuts. I’ve never been this comfortable in a stranger’s home before, and yet I feel so relaxed.
The penthouse is dim except for the glow of the city pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The rain streaks the glass in silver lines, turning the skyline into something blurred and shimmering.
He stands in front of that window, hands in his pockets, broad shoulders framed by the storm outside.
For a moment, I just watch the set of his back, the tension in his posture, the stillness that feels like coiled power instead of peace.
He turns the second I step into the room, as if he sensed me before he heard me. His eyes sweep over me, from my wet hair to the robe cinched at my waist to my bare feet on the hardwood floor. Something shifts in his face. Barely there, but noticeable enough. It almost looks like hunger.
He picks up a glass from the table and walks toward me. “Drink this,” he says quietly.
His voice sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the temperature. I take the glass from him, my fingers brushing his. I lift it to my lips and let the alcohol burn its way down my throat. I’m already warm, but this fills me with a delicious heat that settles in my stomach.
He studies me with an intensity that makes the air hum. “Are you injured?” he asks.
“No,” I say softly. “Just shaken.”
His jaw tightens. “That man hit you.”
“He did,” I agree, touching the spot where my skin is starting to swell, just a little. “But I’ll be okay.”
He steps a little closer, as if drawn without realizing it, and I feel his presence like a magnetic pull. The room seems to shrink around us. Every sound fades except my breathing and his.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For saving my life.”
He takes the empty glass from my hand and sets it aside without breaking eye contact.
“It was my pleasure,” he answers with a small smile playing on his lips.
Something bold rises in me before he can say anything else. Maybe it’s shock wearing off. Maybe it’s the warmth of the drink. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me like he could devour every fear I’ve ever had.
I lift my hand and place it lightly against his chest. His brows lift, a faint spark of surprise flickering there. His body goes still. My palm spreads over firm muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt, the heat of him radiating through.
He lowers his head slightly, searching my face. “You should know who I am.”
“Right now,” I say, my voice trembling in a way that has nothing to do with nerves, “I’d rather taste you.”
Something breaks inside him with a quiet, controlled snap.
He grabs my waist and pulls me against him with a force that steals my breath. His mouth meets mine. It isn’t a gentle kiss. It’s all-consuming and fiery. Then, something seems to shift in him and he slows down, savoring me.
His lips move against mine like he’s learning me.
Memorizing me. His hand slides up my back, fingers threading into my damp hair, tilting my head exactly how he wants it.
The robe loosens a little as he pulls me tight against his chest. Heat floods my skin.
My knees weaken. I moan against his mouth and he grips me even tighter.
I sink into him, my hands gripping his shirt, clinging to him as if he’s the only solid thing left in the world. His kiss deepens, his mouth opening over mine, tongue brushing mine with sensual, devastating precision. My breath catches as I feel his hardness against my stomach.
He pulls back just enough that our foreheads touch.
“I need you to know my name,” he whispers, his breath hot against my lips.
“Why?” I breathe.
“So you know what to scream when I make you come.”
Heat shoots straight through me, pooling low in my stomach. His thumb traces my lower lip slowly, as if savoring the way it trembles beneath his touch. He kisses me again, slower this time, softer, but no less intense.
“Who are you?” I manage, though my breath hitches.
The robe slips off one shoulder. His gaze follows the movement, darkening even more. He lifts his hand and slides the fabric back into place, fingers grazing my skin with a tenderness that sends sparks along my spine.
“Samuil,” he says in a gravelly voice. “Tell me how you like to be touched. Or tell me if you want to stop.”
The words settle into me like warmth. Not a demand. Not force. Permission. A choice.
“I don’t want you to stop,” I whisper.
He exhales slowly, the sound almost a groan.
He lifts me in his arms before I can blink, carrying me away from the window.
He sets me on the edge of the chaise near the glass wall, the city spread behind us like a glittering veil.
He kneels in front of me, hands sliding up my thighs beneath the robe.
His touch is warm. Reverent. He moves slowly, as if exploring, as if he needs to feel every inch of skin to convince himself I’m real.
His fingers stroke upward, tracing circles that make my breath falter.
The robe parts, exposing more of my legs, but he doesn’t rush.
He watches my face, gauging every sound, every tremble.
My body responds as if it knows him, as if it waited all its life for him to come along and please it.
He kisses the inside of my knee, slowly and devastatingly. My breath shudders. His hands glide up my thighs again, pushing the robe gently aside until the cool air hits skin that feels suddenly too sensitive.
He looks up at me with eyes that burn. “Now I want to taste you,” he murmurs.
“Please,” I gasp.
He leans in and kisses the soft skin of my inner thigh, then higher. I sigh, clutching the back of his neck. His hands spread my knees wider, the movement slow, almost coaxing. The heat of his mouth trails upward, sending waves through me that make my spine arch.
When his lips reach the spot he wants, he pauses, watching my reaction. “Tell me you want me to.”
I swallow, trembling. “I want you to.”
His mouth moves against me, and my breath leaves in a broken sigh.
His tongue sweeps slowly, deliberately, tasting me.
Pleasure rushes through me so fast I grip the edge of the chaise to steady myself.
He works my clit with devastating control, savoring every sound I make.
His hands tighten on my thighs, spreading me gently, guiding my hips as I begin to move against his mouth.
Heat coils low in my belly, building so fast it overwhelms me. I moan softly, unable to hold back, and he makes a sound against me that vibrates through me like a spark.
I come apart against his tongue, pleasure pulsing through me in waves so strong I can barely breathe.
My head falls back, my body trembling as he keeps his mouth on me until the shuddering slows.
When the waves finally ease, he kisses my inner thigh again, slow and possessive, before rising to his feet.
I look up at him, breathless, and see him watching me with a hunger that looks almost dangerous.
“Please,” I say again.
“Please, what?” he asks, smirking.
“Fuck me, Samuil,” I say, my voice so breathy it doesn’t even sound like mine.
His eyes darken and he slowly climbs on top of me, claiming my mouth again. I can taste myself on his tongue, and it sends my pulse spiking. Despite the incredible pleasure he’s already given me, my body is so keyed-up, tightly coiled like one wrong move might break me completely.
“This isn’t why I brought you to my home,” he murmurs as his lips trail down my neck.
“I don’t care,” I groan. “I need you inside me.”
He chuckles, and I can feel his smile against my skin.
He pushes the robe off completely, taking a moment to stare at my naked body.
A small part of me feels utterly self-conscious at how exposed I am in front of him, but my body heats under his stare.
I need to know what he feels like inside of me.
It’s the only thing I can consciously focus on.
My hands slide over his chest, carefully undoing each button of his expensive shirt. He shrugs it off quickly and starts working on his belt buckle as my hands roam over the hard planes of his chest.
“That feels unbelievable,” he sighs.
And then he’s naked, his massive, hard cock standing at attention right in front of my face. My jaw goes slack as I try to imagine taking all of that inside me.
“I…” I trail off, swallowing hard. “I’m not sure that’s going to fit,” I finally manage.
He smirks again, a look of triumph on his face. “I’ll go slow.”
I slide farther down the chaise until I’m completely reclined, and open myself to him. He kisses the sensitive skin on my neck as he uses his fingers to prepare me. Even those are big, and I worry for a minute that he’s going to wreck me.
Then he slowly enters me, inch by inch. I gasp at the feeling—not just his length but his girth. I’ve never felt so full in my entire life. He’s hitting nerves inside of me that I didn’t even know existed. I take a breath and relax as much as I can, determined to take every inch of him.
“You feel so fucking good,” he hisses as he buries himself fully inside me. “Your perfect pussy is so tight.”
Stars are already exploding in front of my eyes and he hasn’t even moved yet.
“Are you okay?” he asks gently, and all I can do is nod.
Slowly, he starts thrusting, easing out and back in. But I realize it’s not enough. It feels good, but I need more.
“Faster,” I manage. “And harder.”
He groans at my words and does exactly as I ask, setting a punishing rhythm that our bodies fall into easily.
I let go completely, turning to putty in his hands.
An orgasm rips through me before I even realize it’s started to build.
His seems to strike just as suddenly, and he has to lurch forward to grab the back of the chaise as he screams out his own pleasure and spills deep inside me.