And fuck, I want both versions of her.
I want this husky, provocative Jasmine to come out and play with me. And I want the vulnerable, desperate Jasmine she was earlier, needing me like oxygen.
Only now do I realize I’m grinning. Like an idiot. Like a man who’s been thrown a lifeline.
I skip to the next audio. This one’s titledBoss-Nanny Jazz Final Draft.But it’s the same husky voice.
This time, the heroine is a nanny. And the boss comes home furious, demanding she explain why his daughter’s schedule was changed.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gray,” she says softly. “I forgot to inform you. I was just so busy running around, looking after your household. Can I make it up to you?”
He grabs her by the hips and bends her over the gleaming quartz island she just cleaned. The black coffee and blueberrymuffin she lays out for him every morning sit right by her head. He pushes her skirt up, groans at the sight of her soaked panties, and growls, “You can feed me the muffin after taking my load.”
I let out a hoarse laugh, forehead resting against the seat’s headrest.
I’m hard as a fucking rock but I can’t stop smiling.
Relief crashes through me like a tidal wave.
She wants me.
But she’s also the same quiet girl who’s been taking over my life in soft, steady strokes—my mind, my routines, my body.
And now I can’t stop picturing myself as the bridge between those two Jasmines—the sweet, obedient girl who makes me breakfast and the filthy-mouthed siren who begs to be used.
She asked for this trip. She kissed me first. She begged me to touch her, to make her come.
If she thinks this is going to be one fantasy evening, one filthy weekend to get me out of her system, she’s got it wrong.
So fucking wrong.
She deserves more than a fantasy. She deserves everything.
My time. My name. My protection. My filthy fucking fantasies.
My come, thick on her tongue, dripping down her thighs.
I palm my aching cock through drenched denim, the pressure doing nothing to dull the hunger. I shut off the engine and grab my bag and her phone.
The ache I feel isn’t going anywhere until I claim her fully. Until she’s mine in every possible way.
Chapter 10
Jasmine
The suite is dark and hushed, lit only by the thin silver wash of the storm through the wide window. Inside, the air smells of saltwater carried in on our clothes, tangled with the polished wood of the suite’s heavy furniture.
I sink deeper into the mattress, the sheets too smooth against my bare thighs. Damp strands of hair cling to my neck and cheeks, dripping into the pillowcase. The faint chill only makes me hotter, like the heat is trapped under my skin with nowhere to go.
Nathan’s T-shirt is too big on me but smells like him: faint cologne, clean soap, something warmer I can’t name. I shouldn’t have touched his things. But after tonight, what’s left to hide? Wearing his shirt feels like a claim I make when he won’t.
I burrow my nose into the collar, breathing it deep. The hem barely skims the tops of my thighs, and every movement makes the fabric brush over the ache between my legs. My core twinges, a sharp reminder of what he took without fully claiming me.
If he’s torn through my virginity, shouldn’t he at least take me properly? Give me all of him?
I go rigid as the suite door clicks open. My heart feels too big for my chest as his footsteps cross the carpet. He pauses, close enough that I feel his gaze along my spine. Then he moves on and the shower starts up in the bathroom.
Relief floods me—he didn’t leave me here. Of course he didn’t. Mr. Grayson is a gentleman. But neither does it mean anything.
