Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Skye
I toss over on my stomach, still not able to sleep.
When everyone left after dinner tonight, I came back to my room to take a real shower and then laid down.
That was two hours ago, and even though I'm exhausted, sleep just won't come.
Maybe it's because it's a new place and new bed, or maybe it's because I can't stop thinking about Dom.
I grab my phone off the nightstand and check my socials.
I watch a few funny videos—one of a bird having a dance party to music playing.
Then I check my Good Girl Gone Live app and see a few notifications, requests for private shows.
My heart does that familiar little flip between guilt and relief that at least I have income options.
One of my regulars who always wants me to get myself off and knows I don't remove my panties—he always tips big, almost embarrassingly so—so I reply to him and let him know what times I'm available tomorrow.
Another regular who just likes me to sit in nothing but panties and talk to him about art and music, I message him back with a friendly note.
And another guy I don't know requesting me to fuck a dildo for him, who I decline because in my profile it states that I'm a virgin and will not put anything inside of me.
Some guys never bother to read profiles.
After all of that is taken care of, my fingers hovering a bit longer than necessary over each message as I second-guess my wording, I check my emails.
There's a ton of spam, a couple from school about upcoming graphic design workshops, and one from Obsidian.
My stomach tightens instantly at seeing that name.
I clear the spam, check the school ones to make sure there's nothing urgent, and then open the most important one.
FROM: Obsidian Elite Services [private@]
TO: Cherry Red [cherryr@]
SUBJECT: Auction Results- Exclusive Arrangement
Dear Cherry Red
We are reaching out regarding your auction.
As of this communication, we have not received confirmation or cancellation from either party involved.
Please advise if you still wish to proceed with the arrangement.
If we do not hear from you or the bidder within 24 hours, we will assume the auction is canceled.
With appreciation for your discernment,
The Obsidian Management
This communication is encrypted and intended solely for the addressed recipient. Any unauthorized access is tracked and legally actionable under our membership agreement.
That's weird. I thought Mr. Grayson was canceling it. The auction I never thought would actually happen is still apparently on the table. I need to ask him tomorrow, though the thought of bringing it up makes my insides twist into complicated knots.
I put my phone down and sit up, rubbing my eyes.
I guess if I can't sleep, I'll just draw until I get sleepy.
Art always calms me down, helps me process the chaos in my head.
I get up and grab my supplies out of my luggage and set them on the bed, organizing my pencils and sketchbook with practiced movements.
I want to grab a water first though – my throat is dry from the fan.
I leave my room and head to the kitchen, padding silently through the unfamiliar hallways.
I guess the good thing about being down here is that I don't need to worry about waking anyone—Harper is on the second floor and her dad is on the third.
I walk through the kitchen and open the fridge.
I grab one of the fancy waters with the Italian name I can't pronounce, close the door, open the water and take a drink.
The cold liquid soothes my throat. Then I notice all of the dirty dishes in the sink, remnants of the dinner Mr. Grayson prepared for us.
I take another drink and put the top on.
I turn on the water in the sink and wait for it to get hot, testing it with my fingers.
I check the dishwasher and it's empty, so I start washing the dishes and loading them into the dishwasher, careful to arrange everything properly.
At least if I help out, I won't feel like such a leech.
Besides, he shouldn't have to do them since he cooked that incredible meal for us.
I remember earlier when he wasn't even going to eat.
Something about him is under my skin, burrowing deeper with every interaction, and I could not let him sit there while we ate, so I made him a plate.
And I definitely remember when my leg brushed his hand under the table—he didn't move it and neither did I because I secretly loved the feel of his skin on mine.
The memory sends a shiver down my spine even now.
"Skye?"
A deep voice says from behind me causing me to jump, almost dropping a plate, my heart leaping into my throat.
"Shit," I say and whip my head around to see Dom shirtless and in grey sweatpants of all things. My eyes rake across his body, taking it all in, unable to stop myself.
His chest is broad with just the right amount of dark hair trailing down to his stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants like an arrow pointing downward.
His shoulders are wide, his arms defined but not bulky.
He's fit in that way that speaks of actual strength rather than hours spent trying to look good at the gym.
I notice a small scar near his collarbone and wonder about its story.
I realize I'm staring and quickly look back at the dishes, my cheeks burning so hot I'm surprised the water doesn't sizzle when it splashes up. "Sorry, I couldn't sleep. I thought I'd help clean up."
"You don't need to do that," he says, voice gruff with sleep but still somehow commanding. "You're a guest here."
"I don't mind," I mumble, focusing intently on scrubbing a pot that's already clean, my fingers working nervously over the surface. "It's the least I can do after that amazing dinner."
He moves closer, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body, like standing near a fire on a cold night. He reaches past me to grab a glass from the cabinet, his arm brushing mine. Every nerve ending in my body lights up at the contact, electricity crackling across my skin.
"Trouble sleeping?" he asks, filling his glass with water from the refrigerator door, the quiet hum of the machine the only sound besides my thundering heartbeat.
"Yeah, new place, I guess." I don't mention that thoughts of him might be keeping me awake. Or the email from Obsidian that's making me wonder what's really going on between us. Or how his presence makes me forget how to breathe normally.
"Me too," he admits, leaning against the counter next to me. "Work stuff on my mind."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, the air too thick with tension and unspoken words.
I'm painfully aware that I'm standing here in sleep shorts and a thin tank top with no bra, my nipples embarrassingly hard beneath the fabric, while he's half-naked beside me.
Every breath feels significant, weighted with possibilities I've never dared consider before.
"You really don't have to do the dishes," he says again.
"I want to." I risk a glance up at him and immediately wish I hadn't. His eyes are dark in the dim kitchen lighting, intense as they meet mine, like he can see right through me to all my secrets and desires.
I rinse a plate and settle it into the dishwasher, acutely aware of his presence beside me.
The silence between us stretches, filled with something I can't quite name but can definitely feel—like static electricity before a storm, crackling with potential energy that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.
"So, I got an email from Obsidian," I say suddenly, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess myself. My heart hammers against my ribs as soon as I mention it, wondering if I've crossed some invisible boundary.
"Oh?" His voice is neutral, carefully controlled, but when I glance over, he's watching me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle all the way down to my toes. His eyes track my movements like he's cataloging every breath.
"Yeah, it said they haven't heard from either of us, and I thought you were canceling it.
" My hands fidget with the dish towel, wringing it between my fingers until the fabric twists like my insides.
The soft cotton provides something tangible to focus on besides the overwhelming heat of his proximity.
"Yeah, sorry, I forgot to do it," he says, running a hand through his hair, the dark strands sliding through his fingers. "I'll do it tomorrow."
"It's okay. They said they'll cancel it if they don't hear back from us anyway.
" I place the last of the silverware into the dishwasher, relieved to have something to focus on besides his bare chest with its perfect definition and scattered dark hair that trails down into his pajama bottoms. I force my eyes away before they can follow that dangerous path.
"Okay, that's good," he says, and his voice sounds slightly strained, like he's holding something back.
I shut the water off and look around the unfamiliar kitchen, desperate for anything to extend this moment that feels both terrifying and exhilarating.
"Is the detergent down here?" I ask, bending over to look in the cabinet under the sink.
The silence stretches uncomfortably, and when he doesn't answer, I hear a low, almost pained groan behind me.
I look back to find him staring at my ass, his eyes dark with something primal that sends heat rushing through my core like wildfire.
Part of me—a part I didn't know existed until this moment—wants his eyes on me.
Wants his hands on me too, gripping my hips, pulling me back against him.
But the other part knows how terrible an idea that is.
He's Harper's dad, for fuck's sake. I love her more than almost anyone in the world and can't lose her over some crazy attraction that's probably all in my head anyway.
I grab the detergent and squeeze some into the compartment, then close both it and the dishwasher door with slightly trembling hands.
My fingers feel clumsy, uncoordinated by his presence.
I return the bottle under the sink and start the machine, the quiet hum filling the kitchen, masking the sound of my racing heartbeat.
When I turn back to him, something's changed in the atmosphere between us.
His eyes are darker than before, almost black in the dim kitchen light, his jaw tighter, muscles visibly clenching beneath his stubbled skin.
He looks like he's at war with himself, tension radiating from his powerful frame, and when my gaze drifts downward, I notice a bulge that wasn't there before.
An impressive bulge that makes my mouth go dry and heat pool between my thighs.
"Mr. Grayson," I say, walking closer to him, drawn by some magnetic force I don't understand but can't resist. "Is everything okay?
Did I do something wrong?" I stop just in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, to smell his expensive cologne mixed with something uniquely male.
"Go to bed," he says roughly, his voice dropping an octave, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that should terrify me but instead ignites something deep inside.
Did he just tell me to go to bed like a child? Like I'm Harper's little friend who needs supervision? Indignation flares within me, cutting through the haze of attraction.
"Excuse me?" I ask, lifting my chin defiantly, refusing to be dismissed.
He moves suddenly, walking into me, backing me up until I hit the counter edge, the granite cold against my lower back in stark contrast to the heat of him in front. My heart pounds against my ribs so hard I wonder if he can hear it.
"Mr.—" I start to say, but his hand comes up and covers my mouth, cutting off my words, his palm warm and slightly rough against my lips.
"If 'Mr. Grayson' passes your lips again, I'm going to do things to that pretty little mouth that we can't come back from," he says, his voice a dangerous rumble that vibrates through me, settling low in my belly like a promise.
What the fuck just happened here? My brain struggles to catch up with the sudden shift from polite conversation to this raw intensity, but my body seems to understand perfectly, a rush of heat flooding between my legs, dampening my underwear in an instant.
"Do you understand me?" he asks, his eyes never leaving mine, holding me captive with just his gaze.
I nod, intensely aware of his body pressing into mine, of how hard he is against my stomach, of how easily he could take what he wants from me—and how desperately I might let him.
"And for the love of God, wear more clothes around me," he says, his voice strained with barely contained desire.
I nod again, unable to look away from him, captivated by the struggle playing out across his handsome features.
"Good girl," he says, and his voice is so deep right now I feel it vibrate through my entire body, settling low in my belly like a warm stone. Those two simple words affect me more than any touch, making me want to earn them again and again.
"I'm going to remove my hand, and you're going to bed," he says, sliding his hand from my mouth to my chin, then to my neck. I feel his fingers tighten for a second—just a second—before his hand falls away, leaving ghost impressions of his touch on my skin.
I stand frozen between the counter and his body, caught between wanting to run and wanting to press myself against him, eliminate any space between us.
My lips tingle where his palm had been, and I can still feel the phantom pressure of his fingers on my throat.
No one has ever spoken to me that way, touched me that way, looked at me that way—like I'm something he wants to devour completely, something precious and forbidden all at once.
"Now," he adds, taking a deliberate step back from me, creating space that feels both necessary and unbearable, like cutting off oxygen.
I slip past him without another word, my mind racing, body humming with unfamiliar sensations that make my knees weak. As I walk down the hallway toward my room, I can feel his eyes on me, tracking every step, burning into me until I disappear around the corner.
My hand trembles as I close my bedroom door behind me, leaning against it as I try to catch my breath in the safety of solitude. What just happened? And why, despite every logical reason to be disturbed or offended, do I want it to happen again with an intensity that frightens me?