Chapter 14 #3
"Move forward for me, baby girl." His voice is gravel and command.
I obey without hesitation, sliding forward through the warm water until there's space behind me.
He steps into the tub and settles against the back, pulling me against his chest, his hard cock pressing against my lower back like a brand.
The contact is electric. Every nerve ending in my body seems to wake at once, aware of every place where his skin touches mine.
For a long moment, he just holds me. His arms wrap around my waist, heavy and warm and solid. The water laps gently at our bodies. The light is low. The only sound is our breathing.
I've never been held like this — with such warmth and safety. The steady beat of his heart against my shoulder blade grounds me.
Then his hands move to my hair.
He washes it with a gentleness that makes my throat tight with emotions I wasn't prepared to feel.
His fingers work through the wet strands, massaging my scalp in slow circles that send shivers down my spine.
He tilts my head back to rinse the soap away, cradling my skull in his palm like I'm something fragile, something precious.
No one has ever touched me like this. Like caring for me is a privilege rather than a burden. Like my comfort matters more than his desire.
His hands slide down to my shoulders, kneading the knots that have taken up permanent residence there.
I melt into his touch, boneless and trusting in a way that would have been impossible a week ago.
A soft moan escapes my lips as he works out a particularly stubborn tangle of tension, and I feel his cock twitch against my lower back in response.
Then his hands move lower.
"Tell me to stop and I will."
His voice is rough against my ear, his breath warm on my neck. I can feel the evidence of his desire pressing against me, hard and insistent. But he doesn't move. Doesn't push. Just waits, his hands resting on my ribcage, his thumbs tracing idle patterns just beneath my breasts.
I think about all the reasons I should stop this.
The contract between us. The debt he owns.
The fear that if I give him my body, I'll be just another transaction in a long line of transactions that have defined my life.
I think about Jonah, who pushed and wheedled and made me feel broken for not wanting what he wanted.
I think about Victor, who made me feel like my body was currency rather than my own.
But Drake isn't Jonah. Drake isn't Victor.
Drake is the man who stopped when I said wait. Who gave me a library full of first editions and asked for nothing in return. Who called in protection for my family before I even thought to ask. Who holds me like I matter, like I'm precious, like I'm the most important thing in his world.
I'm not ready to give him everything. Not yet. My virginity is mine. The one thing Victor couldn't take and Jonah couldn't pressure out of me. I've held onto it through years of feeling like everything else was being stripped away piece by piece. I'm not giving it up for a contract.
And yet, I don't tell him to stop.
His hand slides down my stomach, through the water, between my thighs. When his fingers part my folds and stroke along my entrance, I arch against him with a moan I couldn't contain if I tried.
"That's it, little rose." His voice is gravel and honey against my ear. His thumb circles my clit while two fingers push inside me, finding the spot that makes me see stars. "Let me hear you."
The water sloshes against the edges of the tub as I move with him, riding his hand, chasing the pleasure he's building inside me. His other arm bands across my chest, holding me against him while his mouth finds my neck. His teeth graze my earlobe. His breath comes hot and fast against my skin.
"You have no idea how many times I've imagined this." The confession rumbles through his chest and into my spine. "You, wet and wanting in my arms. Coming apart on my fingers. The sounds you make when pleasure takes you."
I'm climbing toward the edge, every nerve ending on fire. My body is wound so tight I might shatter at any moment. The pressure builds low in my belly, coiling and coiling until I can barely breathe.
His fingers curl inside me. His thumb presses harder against my clit. His teeth sink gently into my shoulder.
And I shatter.
The orgasm rips through me in waves, my body clenching around his fingers as I cry out his name. He works me through every pulse and tremor, drawing out my pleasure until I'm trembling, oversensitive, gasping for air.
But he doesn't stop.
Before I can come down from the high, his hand disappears and I'm being lifted, turned, set on the wide edge of the tub.
The cool marble shocks my heated skin, the contrast making me gasp.
But the sensation is forgotten the moment he parts my thighs and settles between them, his gray eyes dark with hunger as he looks up at me.
"Drake, what are you—"
His tongue drags through my folds, and the question dies in my throat.
He devours me like a man starving. His mouth works against my center with a skill that steals my capacity for thought. His tongue circles my clit before dipping inside me, tasting me, claiming me with every stroke. His hands grip my thighs hard enough to bruise, holding me open for his worship.
I fist my fingers in his silver hair and hold on for dear life.
The pleasure builds impossibly fast, wound tight by what came before. His stubble scrapes against my inner thighs, rough and perfect. His tongue flicks against my clit in a rhythm that makes my vision blur. His groan of pleasure vibrates through my core, the sound as intimate as the act itself.
"You taste like heaven." The words are muffled against my flesh, but I feel every one of them. "Like you were made for my mouth."
I'm climbing again. Higher than before. The pressure is almost unbearable, coiling tighter with every stroke of his tongue.
And then I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me in waves, pulling sounds from my throat I've never made before. I clench around nothing, my body desperate for more, and Drake doesn't stop. He works me through the aftershocks until I'm trembling, oversensitive, pushing at his shoulders because I can't take any more.
He rises from between my thighs with wet lips and eyes that burn with satisfaction. Water runs down his chest in rivulets, catching the candlelight. He looks like a god. A demon. Something in between that I'm not sure I should want but desperately, terrifyingly do.
Then he lifts me from the tub's edge like I weigh nothing and carries me to his bed.
The sheets are cool against my flushed skin as he lowers me onto the mattress.
The dark red fabric is soft as silk, a stark contrast to the heat still pulsing through my body.
He disappears briefly, returning with warm towels that he uses to dry my hair, my skin, every inch of my body that's still trembling from what he did to me.
His touch is gentle now. Reverent. He handles me like I'm something precious, something that might break if he's not careful.
Then he wraps himself around me and pulls the covers over us both.
We lie in the darkness for a long time, my back against his chest, his arm heavy across my waist. The candles have burned low, casting the room in shadows and amber light. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Chicago glitters like a field of earthbound stars.
His hand traces lazy patterns on my hip. The rhythm is soothing, hypnotic. I should be satisfied. I should be drifting toward sleep. But there's still so much I don't know about this man who has upended my entire life.
"Tell me about your mother."
The words leave my lips before I can second-guess them. I feel him go still behind me, his hand pausing its gentle movement. For a moment I think I've pushed too far, asked for too much too soon.
Then he exhales, his breath warm against my hair, and his voice comes soft and rough with memory.
"She was everything to me as a young boy.
" His thumb resumes its circles on my hip.
"We had nothing. Less than nothing. My father was useless, in and out of prison, gone more than he was home.
She worked three jobs to keep us fed. Cleaning offices at night.
Waitressing during the day. Taking in laundry on weekends.
I watched her hands crack and bleed from the work, and she never complained. Not once."
"You mentioned starting at the docks at sixteen. What was that like?"
"The foreman knew I was underage, but he didn't care as long as I could haul my weight." His arm tightens around me. "The docks taught me how the world really works. Who has power. Who doesn't. How to take what you need to survive."
I turn in his arms until I'm facing him, our noses nearly touching on the pillow. His gray eyes hold a vulnerability I've never seen before, something raw and exposed that he's offering to me like a gift.
"She got sick when I was forty," he continues, his voice roughening. "Cancer. By then I had money, connections, the best doctors in the city. None of it mattered. The money couldn't save her. The power couldn't stop the disease from eating her from the inside out."
"I'm sorry." The words feel inadequate, but I reach up and cup his face in my palm. His stubble prickles against my skin. "Truly."
"She made me promise something. Before she died.
" He turns his head and presses a kiss to my palm, his lips soft against my lifeline.
"She wanted me to find someone who meant something to me and build a family.
She wanted me to leave something behind besides money and enemies.
She knew more about the criminal side of my life than I thought. "
The heir clause. His mother's wish. The pieces click into place with devastating clarity.
"Is that what I am?" I need to ask, even though I'm afraid of the answer. "Someone to fulfill a promise?"
He's quiet for a long moment. His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone with a tenderness that makes my heart ache.
"You were. At first." The honesty in his voice cuts through me like a blade, but I'm grateful for it.
Lies would be worse. "I claimed your wish because I needed an heir.
Because I'd made a promise. Because I thought I could treat this like a business arrangement and keep my heart out of it.
You were in need. I liked you. And then nothing turned out like I planned. "
"And now?"
"Now you're something else entirely."
He doesn't elaborate. I guess he really doesn't need to. I can see the truth in his eyes, feel it in the way he holds me like I might disappear if he lets go. This man, this powerful, dangerous, terrifying man, is looking at me like I'm his whole world.
I press my lips to his, soft and sweet, and he kisses me back with the same tender restraint.
When I finally drift toward sleep, wrapped in his arms and his warmth and the scent of his skin, I realize Persia was right.
Trust builds a thousand small moments at a time.
And Drake Moses has given me more of those moments in a few days than anyone else has given me in years.
I'm falling for him. Fast. Hard. And I'm not sure I want to stop.