Chapter 6 #2
I can’t see much. Only the edge of his bare back. A tattoo curves along one shoulder blade, dark ink etched against tan skin, but the angle makes it impossible to read.
“No surprises there,” Julian says, like Dane is discussing his grocery list, not the fall of a media empire.
“The last hurdle is the parliamentary select committee meeting at Westminster tomorrow morning. I spoke to Maria in our press office, and she’s flying over for it.”
“She’ll eat them for breakfast,” Julian chuckles.
Yeah, and I’d bet any money she’d never hide under Dane Black’s hotel suite bed without invitation.
There’s a pause where Julian draws in a deep breath; his tone shifts to caution. “About what we discussed at the Serpent last night. My contact wants to meet us. He says he’s discovered some inconsistencies in the witness statements. One of them may talk.”
This time there’s a much longer pause. The silence stretches out, but Julian doesn’t press; he waits like he knows not to push.
Finally, Dane speaks, his voice flint hard. “Just make sure he keeps quiet. I don’t want her name dragged through the press again.”
It takes me a second to catch up before I realize what they’re talking about.
Her. His fiancée. The one from the crash.
The words land heavy, sour in my stomach.
Irrational jealousy sparks even though it makes no sense—she’s gone.
And yet the shadow she casts seems enormous, dwarfing me here under the bed like I’m trespassing on something sacred.
“Discretion, I promise,” Julian says, pausing before a hint of mischief seeps into his tone. “By the way...someone told me you brought Sloane with you to London.”
“And?” His reply is so clipped, so chilling, it makes goosebumps race up my arms.
“Nothing,” Julian says quickly, though curiosity curls under the words. “We’ll talk when you’re back.”
The line clicks dead.
Dane exhales slowly, the sound like a warning growl, and pushes to his feet. His pants hit the chair, leaving him in nothing but black boxers that cling indecently well to his hips.
I should shut my eyes, think about anything else, but I can’t. Not when he’s right there, all bronze power and raw intensity, close enough to touch if I dared crawl out.
Without a glance around, he strides toward the bathroom. The light snaps on, spilling a sliver of gold across the carpet. A hiss follows as the shower kicks to life, steam already whispering out through the gap in the door. I hear the scrape of glass, the muted thud of his footsteps inside.
Now or never.
I slide out from under the bed as quietly as humanly possible, heart pounding so loud I’m half-convinced he’ll hear it over the water.
My palms press into the carpet as I crawl forward, knees protesting every inch until I reach the dresser.
Rising slowly, I angle my body away from the bathroom door, praying he won’t glance out at exactly the wrong second.
The door’s ajar, only an inch or two—but it feels like a spotlight. I time my steps, heel-to-toe, gauging that I can slip past without him noticing. Almost clear. Almost —
Until I make the mistake of looking.
Through the sliver of space, I catch a glimpse of him stepping under the spray.
Broad shoulders flexing as water sluices over tan skin, tracing the deep grooves and curves of his back.
Thick thighs anchor him in place. There’s ink there too, dark against flesh, a tattoo splayed across his defined shoulders, I can’t quite make out before the steam obscures it.
I should move. I should bolt. Instead, I’m frozen, watching like some depraved tourist who’s stumbled into the Vatican of male physiques.
Every shift of his body, every rivulet of soapy water slipping lower, drags heat straight through me.
My breath hitches, and I curse under it when my gaze slips lower, tracing the sharp cut of his V.
Fuck. He’s kind of huge.
No—scratch that. There’s no kind of about it. He is huge. Like, how would that even work? The thought alone has me pressing my thighs together, pulse jumping.
And ... holy shit...not only huge, but hard.
I choke on a dry swallow as his hand slicks with soap, sliding lower, closing around himself.
The other braces against the wall, muscles straining as his fist drags slowly at first, savoring the stroke.
He grips tight, thumb working over the swollen head before he pumps faster, harder, the rhythm raw and hungry.
Water beads and glides over him, catching in the flex of his abs, racing down to where his hand moves in punishing strokes.
His head tilts back, every line of him strung tight with pleasure.
A voice inside roars at me to leave. But I can’t.
I just stand there, transfixed, pulse hammering in my ears.
A low groan tears from his chest, wrecked and guttural, vibrating through the steam, arrowing straight to my clit.
I take a sharp inhale of breath, a whisper of a moan slipping out before I can rein it in. It all happens so fast; it’s a blur. I slap a hand over my mouth, panic detonating just as he spins, turning toward the door.
Before his eyes catch me, I launch into motion, bolting for the exit. The door groans as I ease it open and shut, as if the entire hotel will collapse if it creaks. Then I’m sprinting down two flights of stairs, key card already in my sweaty grip, fumbling into my room like a fugitive on the run.
I drop face-first into the pillow, heart pounding hard enough to bruise my ribs. I suck in ragged breaths, every nerve screaming one question: Did he see me?
I crawl beneath the duvet, braced for a thump at the door.
Any second now—he’ll storm down here and fire me on the spot.
I stare into the dark, every creak of the floorboard setting me on edge.
Minutes crawl by. Nothing. Maybe I’m safe.
Maybe I’ll live to tell the tale. But my body doesn’t get the memo.
Because after seeing Dane Black in all his glory, how the hell I’m supposed to look him in the eye... without remembering the way his hand moved, or the way I wanted it to be mine.