Chapter 17 #2
Before I can catch my breath, his arms tighten around me, and he carries me through the large space to a bathroom almost the same size as my apartment.
He sets me down in a shower of glass and slate and rolls off the condom, tossing it into the trash.
“I’m clean, by the way,” he says, flicking on the shower, one arm bracing the wall beside my head.
“Me too,” I murmur, caught up in the pull of his gaze. “And birth control,” I add quietly, although I sense he’s barely listening now. His fingers slip into my hair, drawing me closer until the space between us thins to nothing.
“Good to know,” he breathes, his thumb already guiding my chin up.
His mouth finds mine in a soft, lingering kiss like he’s settling into the feel of me. I melt into it before I realize I’ve moved at all.
Warm water cascades over us as the kiss turns desperate, his mouth devouring mine, hands everywhere at once, like he can’t decide where he wants me most.
“Dane.” My head drops back onto the wet tiles as he breaks the kiss to drag his mouth down my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point.
He groans, the sound vibrating against my skin as he nips my collarbone. One hand slides down my stomach, teasing, parting my folds. “All fucking mine,” he croaks. I whimper as his fingers toy with me, hips riding his touch.
His other hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back to claim my mouth again. This time the kiss is slower, deeper, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm matching his fingers.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs against my lips, fingers curling just right. “Come for me again.”
My body shudders, pleasure ripping through me as I arch into him. He doesn’t stop until I’m shaking, breathless.
But he’s not done.
He slips his fingers free and wraps his hand around his cock. He strokes it slowly, looking down at me,
“Show me,” he rasps, pure need in his tone, “what you wanted when you watched me in the shower.”
I let his grip guide me. The veins on his strong hand pop as it covers mine, fisting his cock with hard, fast strokes.
His eyes stay locked on my face as he loses control—jaw tight, the muscles on his abdomen flexing.
When he finally comes, it’s with a raw, guttural groan, release splashing over my stomach and breasts like he’s branding me.
“Come here, Ivy,” he says, cupping my face, smothering his lips over mine with a soft kiss.
We stare, lost in each other, chests heaving, bodies humming. His green eyes are bright beneath wet lashes, something unguarded flickering there — and it lands in my chest with unsettling clarity.
Me falling, even as I try desperately to hold on.
I swallow hard, forcing the feelings away.
“Well,” I manage, heat creeping up my neck, “thanks for the house tour.”
A laugh bursts out of him, a low rumble that lights up his entire face, and I watch him like an idiot, heart pounding as if I’m barreling toward a cliff with no brakes.
He soaps his hands and washes me with surprising care, hands slipping over me until I’m breathless.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t fantasized—far too many times—about having sex with this man.
But this? I never envisioned how tender he’d be after.
God, I kind of hate him right now. If he’s trying to mess with my head, he’s doing an excellent job.
Eventually, he turns off the water and hands me a towel, amusement curling his lips. “Damn. I didn’t even offer you a drink.”
“Yeah,” I say, wrapping myself in the towel, suddenly shy. “You’re a terrible host. I’m thinking of filing a complaint.”
He doesn’t seem to have the same problem flaunting that perfect body, cock hanging thick and heavy between his thighs. Or maybe it’s just all part of his mind-fuckery.
He turns toward the bedroom with a crooked grin. “I had other things on my mind.”
I trail behind him, my eyes snagging on the tattoo etched between his shoulder blades—wings unfurling across his back, the initials HT resting at the center. A quiet pang hits me before I can stop it. Helena. His ex.
The jealousy is instant and absurd. I barely have any claim on him, and yet there it is—a tiny, irrational twist in my chest I wish I could pretend I didn’t feel.
His bedroom is calm and dark, and stupidly beautiful. Dove gray walls, a bed that looks like it was imported from a cloud factory. A towering window stretches across the far wall. The city glows beyond it, lights shimmering against the glass.
He opens a built-in closet and pulls out a black T-shirt. “Here.”
I reach for it, but he steps closer.
“Arms up,” he says, like it’s the most normal request in the world.
I blink at him. “You’re putting it on me?”
He doesn’t say anything as he loosens the towel—just looks at me with that familiar heat that makes it hard to think. His fingers brush my skin when the fabric falls away. I shiver, my nipples tightening under his steady gaze.
When he lifts the shirt, I raise my arms without thinking. The fabric slips over my head and settles around me, and I breathe in his cologne—that clean, warm scent that clings to me even after he steps back.
“I promised you a drink,” he says, already moving away, while I stand on mute. Clearly, this man has no plans to put any clothes on. Well, I guess if I had his body, I’d want to flaunt it.
I nod, and he leads me through the large space into a sleek kitchen lined with dark stone, warm wood, and soft under-cabinet light. It feels lived in yet perfectly kept—very him.
He opens the fridge. “What do you want? I’ve got—”
His phone vibrates loudly.
He checks the screen and sighs. “Zurich. They always forget time zones exist.” He looks at me. “Give me a few minutes?”
“Go. I’ll manage.”
He disappears into his office, door half-shut, his voice shifting into that clipped, business tone.
I turn back to the fridge and open it wide.
And... wow.
I’ve never been so fascinated by the contents of someone’s fridge.
It’s a personality study disguised as food storage.
If fridges could win awards, this one would sweep the category.
Everything is lined up perfectly. The labels all face forward, like they were told to smile for a photo.
Artisan cheeses, imported jars, labels lined up.
It’s basically a billionaire starter pack of ingredients I wouldn’t know how to pronounce without Google.
Then—salvation.
A jar of peanut butter tucked on the middle shelf, like a tiny act of rebellion.
At least he has one relatable trait.
I grab the first bottle I find—a glass one with a black label that reads Amazonian acaí berry infusion—twist the cap, and take a sip.
Instant regret.
It tastes like spinach that’s been marinated in seaweed, and then emotionally neglected. The shock hits so hard I splutter it right back out in a disgraceful mist over the fridge door.
What the hell was that?
I grab a paper towel and wipe every droplet like I’m cleaning up evidence at a crime scene. Then, panicking at the idea of him noticing the full bottle untouched, I shove it deep behind a row of artisanal sauces I can’t pronounce.
I take a cold bottle of water instead. Much safer. Then I head for the lounge like none of this ever happened.
I curl into the corner of the couch, tugging a cushion over my legs, and turn the TV on for something to look at besides my own thoughts.
The home screen is still on the default profile, no watch history, no half-finished shows, nothing to suggest he ever sits here long enough to watch anything, a striking contrast to ours at home, cluttered with Sloane’s abandoned series and Elsie’s cartoons.
I pick the first thing I don’t have to follow and let it play.
But I’m exhausted.
The oversized T-shirt is warm. The couch is perfect. And within minutes, my eyes droop.
Somewhere far away, I hear his office door open. His footsteps approach, quiet and slow.
“Ivy?”
I make a sound that is definitely not actual words.
He chuckles under his breath. “Sleeping Beauty returns.”
The cushions dip as he leans over me, then strong arms slide under me, one beneath my knees, the other at my back, and I’m lifted with effortless ease, my head tipping against his shoulder.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “Bed.”
If I respond, it’s almost inaudible. He adjusts his grip and carries me down the hall, nudging his bedroom door open with his foot. He lowers me onto the cool, cloud-soft bed, tucking the blanket over me.
My eyes flicker open for a second, long enough to see him watching me with a softness I’m probably dreaming.
Then his hand moves into my hair, brushing it back gently, fingers warm against my temple.
“Sleep, Ivy,” he whispers.
And I do.