Because underneath all that calm is a current I can’t see, but can feel. And every part of me is reacting.
The door clicks shutbehind us, muffling the storm but not silencing it. One dim light flares overhead, throwing long shadows across the suite.
The furniture is modern and heavy, the curtains drawn tight. A space designed to keep people out rather than invite them in.
It matches Nathan. Or at least, the version of him I’ve been walking next to since we left the wedding reception.
Something’s shifted between us.
He tosses our bags on the bed—the only bed—and the sound makes me jump. Massive and impossible to ignore, it dominates the space.
My eyes jerk to it, then to Nathan.
He’s already unbuttoning his shirt. His chest is damp, collarbone gleaming under the low light. Shirtsleeves cling to his forearms, fabric dark with rain.
“Jesus, Jasmine,” he mutters, not looking at me. “Get out of that wet dress. I can hear your teeth chattering.” He says it as if I didn’t think of it.
I turn slowly, bare feet sticking to the polished floor. The hem clings to my calves. My nipples feel exposed under the wet fabric, and when I press my chest against the door, they ache.
The zipper sits high on my back, mostly hidden by the darkened fabric. I reach one hand back, pointing to it. My voice comes out small. “I need help to get out of it.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything. The room stays quiet except for the storm and the faint hum of the heater not doing nearly enough. It feels like being in someone else’s dream—surreal, dangerous. A place where you say yes to things you’ll never say out loud again.
Then, I feel the dark shape of him moving towards me. I can’t help sneaking a glance over my shoulder.
His stubble was already rough at the reception, but now, under this dim light, wet and shadowed, it makes him look forbidding.
My breath barely comes as I press my forehead to the door again. Each inhale is shallow, tight, like my lungs are afraid of what they’ll let in. Heat whispers along my spine, then the solid press of his thighs against the backs of mine.
His fingers brush my lower back. He finds the zipper, tugging gently. It doesn’t budge.
“It’s stuck,” he says, breath hot and uneven against my neck. Then a shift.
His palm settles on my shoulder, wide and steady, pinning me. His chest brushes my upper back—not his full weight, but just enough contact to cage me in.
God, I love the sensation of being engulfed by him.
My shoulders tense as his other hand grips the zipper and jerks it down. The motion pulls me then slams me against thewood. I’m pinned—his hard, damp chest pressing into me from behind, his thighs locked to mine.
And lower.
I feel him.
Thick, long, unmistakable.
His cock presses against my ass through the soaked fabric of his pants, and I can’t think. Can’t move.
I’m burning.
My throat goes dry. A strange rush fills my ears, like surf crashing in time with my heartbeat.
He wants me.
God, Mr. Grayson wants me.
My billionaire boss wants me hard enough that he felt like a hot poker against my flesh before he pulled away.
It shakes me apart as I scrabble my fingers against the dress, trying to find purchase. “The fabric’s sticking,” I manage. “Help me pull it off.”
