I knelt, my breath hot against her inner thigh, and hooked my fingers under the lace, sliding it down slow, savoring the way her skin flushed under my touch.
Her scent hit me, musky and intoxicating, and I pressed a kiss to her bare pussy, my lips brushing her clit, teasing until she shuddered.
I stood, spinning her to face the desk’s mirrored back, her reflection a vision of want—lips swollen, eyes dark, dress bunched at her waist. I pressed myself against her back, my cock hard through my jeans, grinding against her ass as I reached around, cupping her breasts through the silk, pinching her nipples until they peaked, her moan sharp and desperate.
I slid the camisole up, baring her to the mirror, and bent her forward, her hands bracing against the desk, her ass arched toward me.
From behind, my fingers found her pussy, slick and ready, and I teased her entrance, circling slow, then plunging deep, three fingers stretching her as she gasped, her reflection trembling. She spread her cheeks for me, wanting.
I leaned over her, my lips at her ear, biting the lobe as I whispered, “Watch yourself,” and she did, her eyes locked on the mirror, seeing every shudder, every pulse of her body as I fucked her with my hand.
She came fast, her pussy clenching around my fingers, her cry bouncing off the stateroom walls, her body shaking as she gripped the desk.
I didn’t let her recover, pulling my fingers free and unbuttoning my jeans, my cock springing out, thick and throbbing. I lifted her left leg, hooking it over my arm, opening her wide, and guided myself to her entrance, rubbing the head against her clit, slick with her arousal, until she begged, “Please, Charlie.”
I thrust in, slow and deep, filling her inch by inch, her pussy so tight it stole my breath.
I held her leg high, my other hand gripping her shoulder, and fucked her with long, deliberate strokes, watching her reflection as she moaned, her breasts swaying, her eyes half-lidded with pleasure.
I shifted, angling to hit a new spot, and she gasped, her nails digging into the desk, leaving marks in the wood.
I pulled out, turning her to face me, and lifted her onto the desk’s edge, her legs wrapping around my waist. I kissed her hard, my teeth nipping her lower lip, and slid back inside her, fast and hungry, my hands under her ass, lifting her to meet each thrust.
Her pussy pulsed, hot and wet, and I leaned back, watching my cock disappear into her, the sight driving me wild.
I grabbed her hair, tugging gently to tilt her head back, and sucked a bruise onto her collarbone, marking her as mine. She clawed my chest, her nails leaving red trails, and came again, her pussy squeezing me so tight I growled, my release building.
I thrust harder, the desk creaking, heart pounding, and spilled inside her, my orgasm a white-hot wave that left me shaking, her name a roar on my lips.
We collapsed onto the bed, panting, sweat-slick and spent, the yacht rocking gently beneath us. I pulled her close, her head on my chest, her breath ragged against my skin.
The ocean stretched endless outside, and for the first time in years, I wasn’t running.
Sloane—brat, fire, woman in red—was here, real, and I didn’t know what came next. But as I held her, her body warm and soft, I knew this wasn’t over. It was just the start.
17
SLOANE
The yacht rocked beneath us, a slow, rhythmic lull that should’ve felt luxurious—soothing, even. But nothing about this moment felt easy. Not with my body still trembling, my hair in his fingers, my mouth swollen from the kind of kissing that rewired your DNA.
We lay tangled on the oversized bed in the stateroom, sheets kicked to the floor, salt air curling through the open window. His chest rose and fell beneath my cheek, steady and warm, his heart beating loud enough to anchor me.
But I couldn’t stop thinking.
Not about the sex—we’d both survived and scorched from that.
Not about Marshall—he was out of my mind already.
But about the moment it all shifted. The second I’d realized the man I’d dismissed at the airport—the quiet one with the truck and the oil-smudged jeans—was also the one who’d wrecked me in silk sheets under a chandelier.
“You really had no idea?” I asked, my fingers tracing his ribcage.
“Nope,” Charlie said, voice gravel-soft. “None.”
I lifted my head, met his gaze. His eyes were still stormy, still watching me like I was something worth figuring out.
“And if you had known?” I asked.
