She’s so far under my skin that I’ll never get rid of her.
And do I want to?
That question lands like a fist. My leg stutters on the downstroke, the pedal jerking beneath me. I recover fast, but I know—I felt that. A misstep that means something. A weakness.
Last night I took her apart.
No. That’s not it.
I worshipped her.
Piece by trembling piece, I tore down every wall she’d ever built around herself. And she let me. Trusted me. Trusted that I’d hold her through the wreckage. And fuck, did I?
The way she tasted when she came on my tongue—sweet, soaked, sacred. The way her breath hitched when I made her ride my face. The way she looked riding my cock—eyes wild, hair tumbling around her flushed cheeks, moaning my name like a prayer she wasn’t sure she should say out loud.
Jesus Christ.
I’ve seen a lot of beautiful things in my life. Fast cars. Faster contracts. The signature on a deal that took eighteen months to close. But nothing—nothing—has ever made me feel like the world cracked open the way she did when she came with me inside her.
Then we showered. I could have left. But I didn’t want to. Instead I took her to bed and held her all night. I didn’t detach like I’d done with every other woman I fucked, shucking the intimacy off the moment my orgasm faded.
I wanted the feel of Seraphina’s warm body against mine.
In the morning, I didn’t want distance. I wanted intimacy.
So I figured out the high-tech coffee machine. Of course it’s a Bonds—programmable through the app, voice-activated, integrated with her alarm system and her fridge. Of course it is. The man’s going to own every part of the planet before much longer.
When the last beautiful drop of perfect coffee finally fell, she padded out of the bedroom in my shirt, her hair adorably rumpled, eyes soft, cheeks still flushed from what I’d done to her the night before.
She blinked sleepily at me. And when she saw the coffee, she smiled like I’d built her a castle.
Right then, right there, I fucking knew I was in deep.
Maybe deep enough that I’d never get out.
Instead of running, I suggested we go to breakfast. I didn’t invite her because it seemed like the polite thing to do—God knows I don’t do things to be polite—I asked because I damn well couldn’t tear myself away from her.
We walked down there together, in a soft kind of domesticity I’ve never allowed myself. Never wanted until now.
But I see the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not watching. The way she softens when I praise her. The way she melts when I call her my good girl.
Lord help me, I didn’t need to spank her for putting on those leggings before I left. She hadn’t defied me. She’d covered herself so she wasn’t showing off her thighs and the glorious curve of her rear to any man who wanted to look.
But I needed one more touch, had to drive her to the edge and leave her there, making her suffer the way I was suffering.
Damn it, I want her thinking of me the way I’m thinking of her. Most of all, I want to give her a forceful reminder of who she belongs to.
Fucking ironic, right?
I denied her, but I’m the one on the damn edge, despite the number of times I’d come. I’d had to stop taking her because I’d run out of condoms, not because I’d run out of energy.
Despite my workout, I’m still full of adrenaline and need.
I check my watch.
I’m behind schedule. But Walt is notoriously late, and today I’m counting on it.
After doing a cooldown, I hit the shower.
