Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Charity
The adrenaline from the interview still hums through my veins as I pace the length of the hotel room. My phone won't stop buzzing with reactions—mostly positive, some skeptical, all of them proof that we did it. We told our story. We took control.
And I'm done being controlled.
Lucky pads past without hesitation and hops onto the second bed, his cone tapping the pillow once before he curls up and falls instantly asleep, a warm, quiet presence in the corner of the room.
Draco comes up behind me, pulls the clip from my hair allowing the silky strands to cascade down my back and I turn to face him.
I catch his reflection in the mirror. He’s beautiful in the lamplight—all sharp angles and controlled strength, those dark eyes watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
"You were incredible today," he says softly.
"We were incredible." I move closer, emboldened by everything we just survived. The interview. The scrutiny. Walking through those reporters with our heads high. "Draco?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm done waiting."
His breath catches. "Charity—"
"No." I close the distance between us, press my palm flat against his chest. His heart hammers beneath my hand. "We've been careful. We've been patient. We've built this slowly because I needed time to be sure." I look up at him, letting him see everything I feel. "I'm sure."
"You're still—" He swallows hard. "You've never—"
"I know what I've never done." My other hand finds his jaw, stubble rough against my palm. "And I know who I want to do it with. I want you. All of you. Tonight."
Something in his expression shifts—hunger and restraint warring in those dark eyes. "If we do this, there's no going back."
"Good." I rise on my toes, breath mingling with his. "I don't want to go back. I want to go forward. With you."
The kiss starts gentle—his lips soft against mine, tasting like the coffee we had in the taxi. But I don't want gentle. Not tonight. Tonight I want everything.
I deepen the kiss, opening my mouth to him, and feel the exact moment his control fractures. His hands slide into my hair, angling my head, and the kiss turns fierce. Demanding. Everything I've been craving.
We stumble backward toward the small kitchenette counter tucked along the hallway wall. My backside hits the edge, and he follows, pressing close, one hand braced beside me while the other cups my face like I'm something precious.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs against my mouth.
"You." My fingers find the hem of his Henley. "I want to see you."
He goes very still. I know what he's thinking—the scars. The map of violence carved into his skin. The proof of survival he's spent so long hiding.
"All of you," I clarify, tugging at the fabric. "Every scar. Every story. Every part of you that you think might scare me away."
His jaw clenches. "Charity—"
"I've seen them before." I keep my eyes on his. "And I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere."
Slowly—like he's giving me every chance to change my mind—he reaches back and pulls the henley over his head.
The lamplight catches on white ridges and puckered tissue. Slashes across his ribs. A puncture wound near his collarbone. The faded brand mark on his shoulder that I know marks him as property. As slave.
My throat tightens, but not with fear. With fury at everyone who ever hurt him. With tenderness for how he survived. With love for the man he became despite it all.
I trace the longest scar—a wicked slash across his abdomen—with reverent fingers. Feel him shudder beneath my touch.
"These are beautiful," I whisper.
"They're hideous."
"They're proof." I lean to press my lips to the scar. Feel him jolt. "Proof that you survived. Proof that you're strong. Proof that fate wanted you here. With me."
I kiss a scar. And another. Mapping his torso with my mouth the way he once mapped mine. Claiming every mark, every story, every piece of him he thought was too broken to love.
His breathing goes ragged. Hands fist at his sides like he's holding himself back by force of will.
"Charity." My name sounds wrecked. "If you keep doing that—"
"Then let go." As I meet his eyes, I see how much the restraint is costing him. "I'm not fragile. I won't break. Let go."
Something snaps.
His mouth trails fire down my neck. Teeth graze my pulse point, and I gasp, fingers digging into his bare shoulders. He makes a sound low in his throat—satisfaction, possession—and I feel it everywhere.
"Too many clothes," I manage, struggling with the zipper on my dress.
He helps me—hands more urgent now, pulling the zipper down and giving it enough of a tug for the dress to pool on the floor. Stepping out of my heels, I kick shoes and dress away, then he reaches for the clasp of my bra. It falls away, and his gaze darkens.
The string of pearls lie cool against my hot skin. Gliding his hands over my collarbones, he circles my neck, releases the clasp and absentmindedly places them on the counter.
One moment I'm standing, the next he's lifting me onto the counter, stepping between my thighs, kissing me with an intensity that steals my breath. This isn't the careful lover who's been treating me like glass. This is the gladiator—all controlled power and leashed violence turned to passion.
"You're perfect," he breathes, then lowers his head to worship.
Not gentle this time. His mouth is hot and demanding, tongue circling one nipple while his hand cups my other breast, thumb stroking until I'm arching into him, nails scoring his back.
He switches sides, lavishing the same attention, and the pleasure is so intense I can barely think. Can barely breathe. Can only feel.
When his hand slides to the sides of my lacey panties, I help him—lifting my hips so he can peel them away, leaving me bare on the counter while he stands fully clothed between my thighs.
"Not fair," I gasp. "You still have pants."
His smile is wicked. Dangerous. "Patience."
Then he kneels and pulls me to the edge of the counter in one swift movement.
The first touch of his mouth makes me cry out—surprised by the intimacy, overwhelmed by sensation. He's done this to me before, I know. But this time feels different. More intense. Like he's claiming me with every stroke of his tongue.
He takes his time, learning what makes me shake, what makes me sob his name. One hand grips my hip to keep me steady. The other slides up to tangle with mine—fingers laced together while he takes me apart.
The orgasm builds fast and bright, pleasure coiling tighter with every deliberate movement. When I shatter, his name rips from my throat and he works me through it, gentle now, until I'm boneless and shaking.
He kisses his way back up my body—stomach, ribs, the valley between my breasts. When he reaches my mouth, I taste myself on his tongue, and it's shockingly erotic.
"My turn," I breathe against his lips.
His eyes widen. "You don't have to—"
"I want to." I slide off the counter on unsteady legs, grip his denim-clad hips, and turn him so his back is against the edge. "Show me how."
The vulnerability in his expression nearly undoes me. This powerful man, this survivor of arenas and ice and years of loneliness—giving himself to me completely.
I sink to my knees and reach for his belt.
He helps me with shaking hands…and for a moment I freeze, thumb hooked in his waistband, heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. I’ve never seen a man like this—not naked, not vulnerable, not offering himself with this kind of trust.
Curiosity and nerves collide in my chest, heat blooming through me as I ease his jeans down, inch by inch, until there’s nothing hiding him from me anymore.
The sight steals my breath. He’s… more than I imagined.
Real and heavy and… pulsing. Alive in a way that makes something low inside me clench with wanting.
My fingers tremble as I reach out, unable to help myself, brushing lightly along the length of him just to prove he’s really there—warm skin, silken texture over rigid strength—and the shocked pleasure on his face sends a bolt of courage straight through me.
He's beautiful. Hard and ready and mine.
"Tell me what you like," I say, wrapping my hand around him experimentally. I didn’t know wanting could feel like this—tingling heat, boldness sparking in my fingertips, the dizzy realization that touching him is as intimate as being touched.
His hips buck. "Just—Goddess—just touch me. However you want."
I start with my hand, learning the weight and feel of him. Watch his face for reactions—the way his eyes flutter closed when I stroke upward, the sharp inhale when I circle the head with my thumb.
Then I lean forward and taste the little drop of his essence that’s pooled at the top.
The groan that tears from his chest is the most erotic sound I've ever heard.
His hand slides into my hair—not forcing, just holding on—while I explore.
I don't have technique or experience, but I have enthusiasm and the desperate need to make him feel as good as he made me feel.
"Charity." My name is ragged. "You need to stop, or I'm going to—"
I don't stop. I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, using my hand in tandem with my mouth the way instinct tells me. His thighs shake against my shoulders.
"Fuck—Charity—"
He comes with a broken shout, and I stay with him, swallowing, learning this too. When the shudders subside, I sit back on my heels and meet his eyes.
The look on his face—awe and possession and something so fierce it makes my heart stutter—is worth every moment of uncertainty.
"Come here," he breathes, pulling me up into a kiss that tastes like both of us. Like belonging.
We drift toward the bed this time, bodies already searching for the next point of contact. He backs me up until my legs hit the mattress and we tumble together onto the bed.
"Are you sure?" he asks one more time, hovering over me. "We can stop. We can wait."