He guided her backward, step by deliberate step, until her back met the arm of the oversized couch. His hands framed her there, not trapping, not crowding, simply claiming the space between them.
“I want you,” he said gruffly. “But this isn’t the club. We’re coworkers. I won’t cross a line we can’t come back from.”
“I think we crossed that line when you took me over your knee for ‘practice.’”
A faint curve touched his lips, not quite a smile, not quite a warning. “So we did. But I need you to say the words because once you do, I’m not holding back.”
The storm rattled the shutters, rain pounding against the roof. But the real storm was between them. The weeks of tension, desire, and unspoken truths finally broke open.
“I don’t want you to hold back, Rhys. I’m done pretending I don’t want you.” She strained on her toes enough for her lips to brush his. “Or that I don’t want this,” she breathed.
His mouth crashed onto hers, no hesitation, no restraint. The kiss was fire and fury as he pulled her closer, lifting her off her feet like he couldn’t stand the distance anymore.
She clung to him, legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her through the villa like she weighed nothing. He didn’t ask where. The couch. The bed. The wall. It didn’t matter.
He chose a bed and laid her down. Beneath his hands the towel and dress gave way. They roamed her body, exploring curves and valleys, sending a shiver racing through her that chased away the last whispers of doubt. His mouth found her neck, her breasts, and descended her trembling belly. She held her breath, anticipating more, but then he shifted, rising above her.
“You’re mine tonight,” he said, his turbulent blue eyes burning into hers. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” she gasped.
“Louder.”
“I’m yours. Rhys. All of me,” she cried, arching into him.
That released the last of his restraint. His head dipped, a deep growl rumbling in his chest as he recaptured her lips. His knee nudged her thighs apart and aligned their hips.
The air, thick and humid, vibrated less from the storm and more from their unbridled desire. She breathed out, half sigh, half moan, as the warm head of his shaft glided through wetness.
Had she ever yearned to be possessed with such fierce intensity? When he slid into her with a slow, deliberate thrust, a profound sense of fullness and undeniable completeness washed over her, and she knew the answer was a resounding no.
Still, that was just a taste. His fingers laced through hers, and he pinned her hands above her head, eyes blazing into hers,as he moved inside her. The rhythmic friction intensified, and she couldn’t look away, mesmerized by the man and his second-nature dominance. Every touch, every command, every breath was Rhys unleashed.And she craved all of it.
He took her as if he’d been waiting a lifetime, driving her higher with every deliberate plunge and withdrawal, and every whispered demand. She met him stroke for stroke, yielding not because she was weak but because she chose to. Because, with him, surrender felt like strength.
Her fingers curled into his, and her heels dug into his backside when the storm within her finally broke. She cried out, shuddering with wave after wave of pleasure. Rhys followed close behind, his shout rivaling the booming thunder vibrating through the house.
He lay above her, breath ragged, his face in the bend of her neck. “Bloody hell, woman. What you do to me,” he whispered. “I tried so damn hard to resist this.”
She smiled, fingers tracing the smooth muscles of his back. “Honestly, I’m glad you couldn’t. This is the only way to ride out a storm.”
His head came up. Steel-blue darkened to black as his gaze traveled over her. Not restrained but also not casual. As if this mattered. As ifshemattered. Then his eyes flashed, and he rolled onto his back, with her on top.
“I believe I did all the riding. Your turn.”
Her laugh was breathless. But when he wrapped a hand around her nape and pulled her down, his lips claiming hers once again, she was as guilty as him. Unable to resist.
***
Morning slipped through the glass doors in soft, golden streaks. The storm had passed, but its echo lingered in the hushof the villa, the warmth of the sheets, and in the faint ache between her thighs.
Gaby stirred slowly, mind reluctant to wake. She didn’t want to disturb the moment. Rhys lay curled around her, one arm draped over her waist, face tucked against her hair as if he belonged there.
And for a few stolen hours, he had.
Careful not to wake him, she eased onto her side to see his face then stilled, memorizing him like this—unguarded, unarmored. Her gaze traced his morning-scruffy jaw, the thick fan of dark lashes, the sensual curve of his mouth.
As if he sensed her watching, his eyes opened.
