Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
NOLA
I float in the peaceful silence of Caleb’s arms, my body still humming from his touch. The marks he left throb pleasantly on my skin. Handprints warming my ass, fingertip bruises decorating my hips, the sweet sting of a bite on my neck.
Three days ago, I was homeless, desperate, sleeping on a friend’s couch with one suitcase to my name. Now I’m naked in a billionaire’s bed, his come drying between my thighs, feeling more at home than I have since Bea died and took my world with her.
Caleb shifts beside me, his hand tracing lazy patterns on my hip. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he murmurs.
Before I can respond, he’s moving, sliding out from under the covers and standing beside the bed. The sudden absence of his warmth makes me shiver, but then he’s leaning down, strong arms sliding beneath my knees and shoulders.
“I can walk,” I protest weakly, even as I loop my arms around his neck.
He lifts me against his chest like I weigh nothing, my naked body cradled securely against his.
“I know you can walk,” he says simply. “But I want to carry you.”
Something flutters in my chest. This is a different Caleb than the one who threw me over his shoulder earlier, who spanked me until I was wet and begging. This Caleb is gentle, his touch careful as he carries me through a doorway into what must be his bathroom.
“Oh,” I breathe, taking in the space.
Black marble stretches across the floor and climbs halfway up the walls.
A glass-walled shower big enough for four people dominates one corner, multiple showerheads gleaming against matte black tile.
But it’s the tub that draws my eye, a deep, freestanding oval of smooth stone, positioned beneath a skylight that reveals a patch of night sky dotted with stars.
“Seems excessive for one person,” he comments, following my gaze to the massive tub. A hint of self-consciousness colors his tone.
“It’s beautiful,” I say honestly.
He sets me down carefully on a heated marble bench, my skin prickling with goosebumps in the cool air. “Stay,” he instructs, though his tone lacks the commanding edge from earlier.
I watch as he moves to the tub, turning taps with practiced efficiency.
Water thunders into the stone basin, steam immediately rising to fog the lower part of the skylight.
He reaches into a cabinet, producing a bottle that he upends beneath the rushing water.
The scent of sandalwood and something citrusy fills the air as bubbles begin to form.
“Bubble bath?” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice.
He glances back at me, one eyebrow raised. “Problem?”
“No, just... unexpected.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I contain multitudes.”
I bite my lip against a laugh. Of all the things I expected from isolated, controlling Caleb Asher, a sense of humor wasn’t on the list. Yet here he is, quoting Whitman while preparing a bubble bath for the assistant he just thoroughly fucked.
When the tub is half-full, he returns to me, scooping me up again without warning. My breath catches at the casual display of strength, the way my body fits so perfectly against his. He carries me to the tub and lowers me slowly into the water.
“Oh God,” I groan as heat envelops me. The water is perfect, hot enough to pink my skin but not so hot it burns. Bubbles cradle my breasts, sliding against sensitive nipples as I sink deeper.
Caleb watches me with hungry eyes, something possessive and pleased in his expression. Then he surprises me again by stepping into the tub behind me, his long legs bracketing mine as he settles against the sloped back, pulling me to rest against his chest.
For a moment, we just breathe together, my back to his front, his arms loose around my waist. The water rises with our combined bodies, bubbles multiplying in the shifting currents. Above us, stars twinkle through the skylight, impossibly bright against the mountain’s dark sky.
“This is insane,” I say softly, watching a bubble float upward, catching the light before it bursts.
“Three days ago, I was couch-surfing, one step away from sleeping in my car. Now I’m taking a bubble bath with my billionaire boss in a tub that probably costs more than every place I’ve ever lived combined. ”
His arms tighten slightly around my waist. “And now?”
“And now you’re washing my hair and treating me like I’m... I don’t know. Precious or something.”
“Princess,” he corrects, his voice gruff against my ear. “My princess.”
I’ve never been anyone’s princess. Never been the kind of girl who inspired that sort of devotion or protection. I was raised by a practical woman who taught me to fix my own flat tires and grow my own food, who valued self-sufficiency above all else.
Yet here I am, melting into the arms of a man who calls me princess and carries me to the bath like I might break if he sets me on my feet.
“This is crazy,” I whisper, not sure if I’m talking to him or myself. “We barely know each other.”
“Sometimes things are just meant to be.” He reaches for a bottle on the edge of the tub, pouring something that smells like expensive salon products into his palm. “Some connections just exist, whether we planned them or not.”
His fingers slide into my hair, working the shampoo into a lather. I moan involuntarily as he massages my scalp, strong fingers finding pressure points I didn’t know existed.
“Close your eyes,” he instructs softly.
I obey without thinking, surrendering to the gentle work of his hands. Water sluices over my head as he rinses the shampoo, careful to keep suds from my eyes. The tenderness of it all makes my throat ache.
When he’s done, I lean back against him again, my wet hair dripping onto his chest. Something about this moment, the intimacy of being bathed, the quiet vulnerability of sitting naked in his arms, gives me courage I might not otherwise have.
I turn slightly, looking up at him over my shoulder. “Can I ask you something?”
His gray eyes search mine. “Yes.”
“How did you get the scar?” I reach up, tracing the raised ridge that splits his face with gentle fingertips.
He stiffens slightly beneath my touch, but doesn’t pull away. For a moment, I think he won’t answer, that I’ve pushed too far, too fast.
Then he sighs, a sound that seems to come from somewhere deep inside him. “Foster care,” he says simply. “From fourteen to eighteen. Six different homes in four years.”
I stay quiet, giving him space to continue at his own pace.
“The last placement was the worst. The father was... cruel. Liked to hit when he was drunk, which was most of the time.” His voice is flat, matter-of-fact, but I feel the tension in his body.
“About a week before my eighteenth birthday, he went after the youngest kid. Seven years old, barely spoke English, terrified of his own shadow.”
My heart constricts, already seeing where this is going.
“I stepped in. Took the hit meant for the kid.” His hand finds mine in the water, fingers intertwining. “He had a ring on. Heavy, some kind of college class ring. That’s what did this.” He gestures to the scar with his free hand.
“I fought back. For the first time, I fought back. Put him in the hospital.” There’s no remorse in his voice, just cold statement of fact. “Packed my shit and left that night, before the cops could come. Spent my eighteenth birthday sleeping in a bus station.”
I squeeze his hand, throat tight. “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugs, the movement rippling the water around us. “It was a long time ago.”
“But it still matters,” I say softly. “It’s still part of who you are.”
His eyes meet mine, something vulnerable and surprised in their depths. “Yes,” he admits after a moment. “It is.”
I settle back against his chest, his arms coming around me again. “Is that why you started the foundation? The one for foster kids?”
“You’ve been doing your research.” There’s no accusation in his tone, just mild surprise.
“It was in the calendar invitations. The foundation gala. When you were... when we were in your office.”
A small laugh rumbles through his chest. “Right. While I had my fingers inside you.”
Heat flares in my cheeks at the memory. “I still heard you. I listen, even when you’re... distracting me.”
His hand traces lazy circles on my stomach beneath the water. “Yes. That’s why I started it. Eight years ago, right after Asher Security Systems took off. I had more money than I knew what to do with, and...” He trails off, something distant in his expression.
“And you wanted to help kids like you,” I finish for him. “Kids aging out of the system with nowhere to go.”
He nods, a quick, sharp movement. “The foundation provides housing, education support, job training. Things I didn’t have. Things that might have made a difference.”
“But you’ve never been to the gala,” I say carefully, remembering what he told me. “Never shown your face at your own foundation’s events.”
“No.” The word is clipped, final.
I turn in his arms, water sloshing over the edge of the tub as I reposition myself to face him. Bubbles cling to his chest, sliding down hard muscle slick with water. “Because of the scar?”
His jaw tightens, confirmation in the gesture even before he nods.
“I understand,” I say, and I mean it. I can’t imagine how difficult it would be to walk into a room full of strangers, all of them staring, judging, wondering. “But if you ever decided to go... I’d go with you.”
Surprise flashes across his face. “You would?”
I nod, suddenly shy. “I’ve never been to anything fancy like that. Never had a reason to dress up. I was homeschooled. Never went to prom or homecoming or anything like that. Bea wasn’t big on formal events.”
His expression softens. He reaches up, cups my cheek in his palm. “You’d want to go? To stand beside me while everyone stares at this?” He gestures to the scar.
“They’d be staring at us,” I correct him. “The mysterious founder and his...” I trail off, not sure how to define what I am to him after just three days.