"Feel that?" I murmur, flexing inside her. "That's how deep I am. You're going to remember this every time you sit down for the next three days."
She moans in response, her hips shifting beneath me, seeking more. I begin to move, slow withdrawals followed by careful thrusts, building a rhythm that has her gasping with each stroke.
As her body relaxes further, accepting me more easily, I increase my pace. The headboard begins to hit the wall with each thrust, punctuating her cries of pleasure.
"That's it," I bite out. "Let me hear you. You're going to come again, and when you do, I want you screaming my name."
I shift the angle of my hips, hitting that spot inside her that makes her entire body jerk. Her eyes fly open, surprise evident on her face.
"There it is," I say with satisfaction. "Again."
I drive into her relentlessly, watching as her second orgasm builds. When it crashes over her, she does exactly as I commanded—screams my name, her inner muscles clenching around me so tightly that my own release is triggered. I burymyself deep inside her, groaning as wave after wave of pleasure washes through me.
Afterward, I hold her against my chest, feeling her heart rate gradually slow. She falls asleep like that, her breath warm against my skin, her body curled trustingly into mine.
I watch her sleep, the peaceful expression on her face, the slight smile curving her lips. And something unfamiliar twists in my chest—something I've never felt after sex before.
Guilt.
Not for taking her virginity—she gave that freely, eagerly. No, this is something deeper. A recognition that I've stepped over a line I've always maintained. I don't get involved with virgins. I don't take women who might develop feelings. I don't do anything that might complicate my carefully ordered life.
Yet here she is, sleeping in my arms. And here I am, not wanting to let her go.
I brush a strand of hair from her face, my touch gentler than I knew I was capable of. This isn't just about sex anymore. It hasn't been from the moment she walked into that interview with her dildos and her nervous smile.
And that terrifies me more than any business rival or market crash ever could.
Chapter 7
Camille
Iblink awake slowly, momentarily disoriented by the weight of an arm draped possessively across my waist. Alexander's arm. The memories of last night flood back in a rush of sensation—his hands on my body, his mouth against my skin, the delicious stretch and burn as he claimed me. I'm no longer a virgin. The thought settles in my chest, not with regret but with a strange sort of peace.
I turn my head slightly to look at him, careful not to disturb his sleep. In slumber, Alexander Kingsley looks almost approachable—the hard lines of his face softened, his mouth relaxed instead of set in that perpetual commanding line. His salt-and-pepper hair falls across his forehead, and I resist the urge to brush it back.
A smile tugs at my lips as I think about last night. I've heard so many horror stories about first times—pain, disappointment, awkwardness. But mine? God, mine was nothing like that. Alexander knew exactly what to do, exactly how to touch me. I'd expected discomfort, maybe even pain, but what I hadn't expected was the pleasure that rushed through me, dragging sounds from my throat I didn't know I could make.
I shift slightly and feel a pleasant soreness between my thighs, a physical reminder of what we did. What he did to me. It's not pain, really—more like the satisfying ache after a good workout. My body feels different somehow. Satisfied in a way I've never experienced before.
His breathing is deep and even, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. My eyes trace the contours of his body—broad shoulders, the dusting of dark hair across his chest, the sheet riding low on his hips. There's a small scar just below his collarbone, and I wonder about its story. I think about how I know so little about this man.
The digital clock on the nightstand reads 7:30 AM. I should get up. Go back to my room. Shower. Change. I have a meeting with a local craftsman at nine to finalize the textile selections. I need to be professional, put together, not looking like I just spent the night being thoroughly debauched by my client.
Carefully, I try to slide out from under his arm without waking him. His grip tightens instantly, pulling me back against the solid warmth of his body.
"Where do you think you're going?" His voice is rough with sleep, but the command in it is unmistakable.
"I have a meeting at nine," I explain, my own voice sounding thin and breathless. "I need to shower, change?—"
"It's barely seven-thirty." His eyes open, green and intense even in the soft morning light. "You have time."
His hand slides up my side, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "I need you again."
Not "want." Need. The word sends a thrill through me.
"I'm a little sore," I admit, feeling heat creep into my cheeks.
He smiles, a predatory curl of his lips that makes my pulse quicken. "There are other ways to please me."
