Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Skye
I can't believe what's happening right now.
His lips are on my neck, working his way across every inch of exposed skin.
He bites down and I can't help the moan that escapes—the pain feels so good.
My clit is throbbing with need, consumed with it so much that I don't even care that we're out in the open.
I don't even register that Harper could come home any moment. She asked me to cover for her so she could go to Obsidian, and she could be back any time. Why is he not worried about her catching us?
He grinds his hard length into my center, and even with the barrier of our clothes, I can tell he's big.
So big it makes my breath catch in my throat.
He feels so good against me, the pressure exactly where I need it.
He kisses his way up to my jaw and he smells like...
whiskey. The rich, smoky scent is unmistakable as his lips brush the corner of my mouth, and everything makes sense suddenly.
I bring my hand up to his lips, stopping him. His eyes flash with confusion, dark and hungry.
"What's wrong? Did you change your mind?" he asks, voice rough with desire, the words slightly slurred around the edges.
"Have you been drinking?" I ask, the pieces falling into place like a puzzle I wish I couldn't solve.
"Yeah, I went out with Logan and Ethan after work," he says, and my heart drops into my stomach like a stone. That's why he isn't worried about being caught. That's why he doesn't care we're out in the open where anyone could walk in. That's why he wants me, of all people. He's drunk.
I push him back and stand, smoothing down my clothes with trembling hands, trying to erase the evidence of what almost happened. "You're drunk," I say, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
"I'm not that drunk," he counters, reaching for me again. "I was only drinking to get you out of my head."
I don't think he meant that to come out like that because he flinches as soon as the words leave his mouth. The sting of rejection slices through me, sharp and immediate. Of course. Of course he needed alcohol to want someone like me. Of course I wasn't enough on my own.
I gather my sketches from the table, some of them crumpled now from where I was sitting on them.
The drawing I spent hours on is ruined, ice cream soaking through the paper, bleeding colors together that were never meant to mix.
But I can't even bring myself to care about that right now.
Not when my heart is cracking open in my chest.
"Skye, what's wrong?" he asks, tugging my arm to face him. His eyes are slightly unfocused, confirming what I already know. He's not fully present. He's not fully here with me.
"You're drunk enough to not even care that Harper could walk in and catch us at any moment," I say and turn back around to finish getting my things, my fingers numb and clumsy.
I leave my ice cream melting on the table and him standing there looking confused, walking to my room before the tears fall. The door closes behind me with a soft click, and I press my back against it, sliding down until I hit the floor, my legs too weak to hold me anymore.
The fact that he only wanted me because he's drunk really stings, a pain sharper than I expected.
My body still throbs with desire—traitorous and undiminished despite my humiliation.
I can still feel his hands on my skin, his lips on my neck, the hardness of him pressing against me.
The ghost of his touch lingers, mocking me.
But none of it was real. None of it was for me, just for the version of me that alcohol painted over his vision.
I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them as the first tears spill over. I bury my face, trying to muffle the sound of my crying. I don't want him to hear me if he's still out there.
What was I thinking? That someone like Dominic Grayson would actually want someone like me?
Sober, in the cold light of day, with all his faculties intact?
I was just convenient—a warm body when he was drunk and lonely and missing whoever it is that someone like him actually desires.
Someone beautiful and sophisticated, not a struggling college student with secondhand clothes and too many responsibilities.
The worst part is knowing I would have given him everything.
In that moment, with his hands on me and his mouth on my skin, I would have let him take me right there on the kitchen table.
My first time—the virginity I've held onto for so long—I would have given it to him without a second thought, without hesitation.
And tomorrow, in the harsh light of morning, he would have regretted it. Would have looked at me with horror, or worse, pity. The virgin he fucked while drunk, Harper's pathetic friend who threw herself at him.
I wipe my tears angrily, the saltwater burning tracks down my cheeks. The throbbing between my legs hasn't subsided, a cruel reminder of what almost happened. I press my thighs together, trying to ease the ache that lingers like a phantom limb, a want with no purpose now.
I hear him moving in the kitchen, the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing, then silence. Is he leaving? Is he going to try to talk to me? Does he even remember what just happened, or is he too far gone?
Part of me hopes he'll knock on my door, tell me I'm wrong, that the alcohol just gave him courage, not desire.
That he's wanted me all along and needed liquid bravery to act on it.
But the logical part of me knows better.
Men like him don't want girls like me. Not really.
Not sober. Not in the light of day where my flaws are visible.
I pull myself up from the floor, legs still trembling.
My reflection in the mirror catches my eye—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, eyes bright with tears and lingering desire.
The ache between my legs hasn't subsided, a persistent throb that reminds me of his hands, his mouth, the weight of him pressing against me.
I need relief. I need to wash away the humiliation and the want that still burns through me despite everything. A thought crosses my mind—if I'm going to get myself off anyway, why not make some money while I'm at it? Especially now that the auction fell through.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and rummage through my drawer until I find the small suction tripod I use for my cam work.
Although Dom did say I could pick the runner-up. I make a mental note to email them tomorrow, see if the offer still stands. God knows I need the money.
I slip into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.
I turn on the shower, letting steam fill the small space while I position the tripod on the back wall.
I'm not wearing my red wig or heavy makeup tonight, so I need to get the angle just right—chest down only, nothing that could identify me.
After a few adjustments, I'm satisfied with the frame.
You can see the shower, my body from the collarbones down, but not my face.
I step under the rain shower fully clothed, the warm water soaking through my thin tank top and shorts. I hit the live button on the app and watch the view count start to climb immediately. Comments scroll rapidly across the screen, but I'm too far away to read them.
Good. I don't want to know what they're saying tonight. I just want to feel something other than rejection.
I peel my soaking wet shirt over my head, letting it fall to the shower floor with a wet slap.
Water cascades over my bare breasts, droplets clinging to my skin.
I cup them, rolling my nipples between my fingers, remembering how Dom pinched and pulled at them.
A moan escapes my lips, genuine and unfiltered.
My hand slides down my stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my shorts.
I tease, playing with the edge, watching the view count climb higher.
I turn around, giving the camera my back view as I slowly push my shorts down over my ass.
The black thong I'm wearing leaves little to the imagination, and I hear a ping sound that means someone's sent a tip.
The shorts join my shirt on the shower floor.
I bend slightly, sliding my hand into my panties.
My pussy is swollen and slick, so wet the shower water makes little difference.
I find my clit and circle it with my fingertips, another moan breaking free as I imagine it's his fingers touching me instead of my own.
I turn to face the camera again, continuing to work myself with my fingers.
He wound me up so tight I'm already close.
I lean my shoulder blades against the cool tile wall, the contrast of temperatures making me gasp.
Water streams down my body as I move my fingers faster, harder, chasing the release I desperately need.
When I pinch my nipple hard with my free hand, mimicking what he did to me in the dinning room, I explode. "Oh God, yes," I moan as I come apart, my body tensing before shaking with release. I ride the waves of my orgasm, thighs quivering, the water washing away the evidence of my desire.
As I come down, I bring my glistening fingers up to my mouth and walk closer to the camera. They can see my fingers disappear between my lips, but only to the start of my top lip—nothing that would reveal my identity. I taste myself, salty and sweet, and imagine it's his taste instead.
I push the stop button on the recording and close the app. The view count and tips will be there tomorrow, but I don't have the emotional energy to check them tonight. I finish my shower, washing away the last traces of arousal and shame, and dry off with a fluffy towel.
Back in my room, I throw on an oversized t-shirt and slip into bed, plugging my phone into the charger. My body feels heavy with satisfaction, but my heart still aches.
As I drift toward sleep, I can't help but wonder what tomorrow will bring. Will Dom remember what happened between us? Will he pretend nothing happened? Will he apologize?
Or worse—will he look at me with pity, knowing exactly how much I wanted him, how easily I would have given myself to him?
I pull the blanket over my head, blocking out these thoughts. Tomorrow's problems can wait for tomorrow. Tonight, I just need to sleep.