But he doesn’t look up.
He spreads me open with rough fingers and then buries his face in my core with a groan that pushes away my emotional needs.
I’m just his instrument now, and he’s playing me. Expertly.
His tongue is everywhere—inside, outside, up and down, in slow, slurping circles that make my knees buckle. One of my legs ends up over his shoulder. My hands tangle in his hair, and I sob as he devours me like he’s starving for it.
For me.
Nathaniel Grayson is drenched in my juices, eating me out as if I’m a feast. He fucks me with his tongue, relentless, until I’m coming—shaking, moaning, crying his name like a prayer. He doesn’t stop.
A second orgasm barrels through me, stealing my breath like a wave crashing over my head. I can’t even cry out this time as it wrings me out.
Somewhere far away, I realize I’m sobbing. My thighs quake. My fingers slip uselessly through his hair. But before I hit the floor—before I even remember how to breathe—he catches me.
My mind is splintering back into my body in shards made of sensation. And I still can’t believe what just happened. My impossibly untouchable, perfectly controlled, always-out-of-reach Mr. Grayson ate me out. Made me come like I was his. Like he knew my body better than I did.
I’m stunned. Shattered. Addicted already.
Because it wasn’t just release—it was salvation. Like he reached into me and quieted every ache, every hollow place. And now I can’t imagine wanting that from anyone else. Not ever.
My face burrows into his neck—wet and messy and completely undone. And he holds me like he’s afraid I’ll fall apart again.
When he pushes onto his feet with me in his arms, I feel like I’m floating on a cloud. I cling to him shamelessly, breathing in large gulps.
My eyes are closed but I hear the faucet turn. Water running. Oils splashing. The soft rustle of towels.
Then I’m being lowered into a warm bath, my head resting against a thick, folded towel. For just a second, he clasps my jaw with such tenderness that I gasp. Then, as fast as it came, his touch is gone.
He’s gone.
The door closes behind him.
And I’m alone. Bruised with pleasure. Trembling with fresh need. And yet I also feel like I’ve been put away back on the shelf.
Because while he gave me what I needed, he didn’t take what he needed.
He didn’t claim me like I want to be claimed.
Chapter 9
Nathan
The storm lashes sideways against the hotel awning as I stand in the fucking parking lot like a man who’s lost his goddamn mind.
Rain pelts down in cold sheets, soaking through my shirt, my pants, into my skin.
I don’t move. I can’t.
Because if I do, I’ll go back in there. Back to her. Back to the bathtub where I left her—naked, boneless, trembling.
A virgin, just… wrecked. By my goddamned fingers.
I press both hands to my face, trying to get a grip, but I only smear the water and her all over myself. Her scent is still there.
Jesus. Her scent.
It clings to my fingers. Sweet and slick and raw. And beneath it, a faint metallic tang that makes my stomach twist. I pull my fingers away, but then—I do the unthinkable. I bring them to my mouth.
