He steps inside, and it hits me—this is the first time he’s ever been in my room. Now, with him in it, the space feels smaller. All those boundaries I thought were carved in stone? Already melting.
He closes the door behind him. The sheer joy in my chest—because he came here, to me—makes my heart hurt more. I’m too far gone. Too addicted.
I fold my arms under my chest, tilt my chin up like armor. “Did you need something, Mr. Grayson?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns the lock with a quiet click, then walks straight to my bathroom. A moment later, the shower roars to life.
Shit, Sophie’s room is right across the corridor. And her dad is here, behind a locked door with me.
My pulse races. My core flutters in helpless anticipation.
When Nathan comes back, his jaw is tight, his shoulders set. I have to lock my knees to keep from throwing myself at him.
He stalks toward me and like some startled bird, I step back. My calves bump the edge of the bed. His gaze flicks past my shoulder, taking in the pink sheets, the heap of soft toys, the blown-up photo of Mom, the snapshots of Sophie and me, and the one from last Christmas with him wedged between us, smiling.
It’s like he’s peering into my heart, and I can’t tell if it makes me feel exposed or seen.
When his eyes return to mine, they’re molten and unyielding. The force of it only stokes the heat pooling low in my belly. We’re not touching, yet I’m leaning toward him, softening like a chocolate straw in warm milk.
“Did you need something, Mr. Grayson?” I repeat.
“You don’t look at me in front of Sophie?” His voice is calm enough to make mine sound loud, but there’s a vein throbbing at his temple.
He’s angry that I wouldn’t look at him in front of Sophie?
The realization drips through me slow and sticky, like honey, until my own words spill out, sharp and unplanned. “You didn’t look at me for the whole freaking drive.”
“I was on a call. I was giving you space,” he snarls. The anger isn’t at me—it’s at himself. Guilt and regret dance in his eyes.
If he’s regretting last night, I’ll shatter into fragments at his feet. “Space from what?” I say, pushing closer. Our bodies are inches apart. “Already changed your mind?”
“What, no?” He thrusts a hand through his hair. His chest rises and falls as he takes a calming breath. His hand clasps my jaw with a tenderness that might shatter me too. “I hurt you. At dawn.” His breath feathers over my lips. “That’s twice now, little bird. I should have better control around you. I hate it that I don’t.”
Relief and joy thread through me like twin flames lighting up a city. I lean into his hold, kiss the center of his palm. “Well, I liked it,” I say, clutching his arms.
Maybe I can’t declare my love, but I can tell him how much I like what we do. If he probes deep enough, the truth is laid out in my actions for him to see.
“Yes, I’m walking wonky this morning, and it hurts when I stand or sit, but God, I liked it. No—I loved it, Mr. Grayson. I loved that you left an impression on me. Inside me.”
His lush mouth curves into a smile, not the full-wattage one that takes me out at the knees. Smaller. Sharper. Like he knows something I don’t.
I keep talking, desperate to make him understand. “You told Zayn it wasn’t a big deal, so I thought maybe you’d already written me off, that I was—”
Before the rest can spill out, his hand comes up, firm and warm, pressing across my mouth. The gesture steals the breath from my chest. His eyes are steady on mine, pinning me in place.
I won’t hide what he does to me anymore. I lean into him, giving him my weight. My chest drags against his, my nipples loving the ache. He’s a wall of warmth and hardness, not budging an inch.
His hands clutch my arms. “Why the hell would I tell my grumpy asshole brother that I’m fucking my daughter’s best friend? Without protection, like an irresponsible teenager? That I’ve lost my mind for the first time in nearly two decades over a young pussy that feels made like it was made for me?”
Without protection…a cold chill grips me for one moment.
God, I didn’t even think of protection.
Neither is there an ounce of worry that his sperm might be implanting in my womb even now. I don’t care how reckless that very thought makes me. Because whatever he gives me—dominance, frustration, a freaking baby—I’ll take it.
Own it.
Make it all mine.
