I catch my reflection in the dark windows and wince. My hair is a disaster, tangled and wild from his fingers. My lipstick is smeared across my chin. My skirt is wrinkled beyond saving. I look like a woman who was just thoroughly ravished in the front seat of a car, which I suppose I am.
I try to smooth my hair into something presentable. Wipe the lipstick from my face with the back of my hand. Tug my skirt back into place and straighten my blouse where it's come untucked.
I'm still fussing with my collar when the door opens behind me.
Drake's footsteps cross the room. Before I can turn, his hands close around my shoulders and spin me to face him.
"I told you to wait." His voice is low, dangerous. "Not fix yourself like you're ashamed of what we did."
"I wasn't?—"
His mouth captures mine, swallowing my protest. The kiss is hard, demanding, a claim staked with lips and teeth and tongue. His hands fist in my hair, tilting my head back to give him better access. I grip his lapels and hold on as he kisses me like he's trying to consume me whole.
We don't make it to the penthouse.
He pushes me against his desk, clearing it with a swipe of his arm. The cold surface bites into my back through my thin blouse. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my breasts above the silk. His hands are everywhere at once, tracing paths of fire across my skin.
I want him. God, I want him more than I've ever wanted anything.
But.
My virginity is the one thing I've protected through five years of Victor's threats and Jonah's manipulation. The one piece of myself that hasn't been bargained away or stripped from me bycircumstance. Jonah called me frigid when I refused him. Told me I was broken, that no man would ever want a woman so cold. I believed him for a while. Hated myself for it.
But I wasn't cold. I wasn't broken. I just refused to give something so precious to someone who made me feel like I owed it to him.
Drake makes me feel wanted. Cherished. Like my body is a gift he's desperate to unwrap rather than a debt I need to pay. And that terrifies me more than Jonah's cruelty ever did. Because if I give myself to Drake now, while his name is still on the contract that owns my debt, how will I ever know if I chose him freely? How will I ever know if this is real?
I need to come to him on my own terms. Not because he bought me. Not because I owe him. Because I want him and only him, with no shadows of obligation hanging between us.
"Wait." My voice quavers on the word.
The word comes out choked, barely a whisper, but Drake hears it. He stops immediately, stepping back so fast I nearly stumble. His chest heaves with ragged breaths and his eyes burn with desire, but he doesn't touch me.
He stopped. The moment I asked.
"We can’t do this. Not here. Drake, I'm not ready." The words scrape against my throat, raw with frustration and shame. "I want to be. God, you have no idea how much I want to be. But I can't."
"Tell me why." His voice is gentle despite the obvious strain. "Help me understand."
I press my palms against his desk and force myself to meet his eyes. "When I was with Jonah, I never told him about Victor. About the money. Because I didn't want him to think I was only there for what he could give me. I didn't want to become a transaction."
Understanding flickers across his features.
"You bought my debt." I swallow hard against the tightness in my throat. "You own it now. If I sleep with you, I become..." I trail off, unable to finish the sentence.
"A live-in escort." Drake's voice carries no judgment, only comprehension.
"There's no shame in that arrangement. For the women who choose it." I force the words out past the embarrassment burning in my cheeks. "But it's not who I am. It's not who I want to be. And if I give myself to you now, before I've figured out what this is between us, I won't be able to look at myself in the mirror come morning."
Drake is quiet for a long moment. Then he cups my face in his hands with a tenderness that makes my eyes sting.
"When you're ready." He presses a kiss to my forehead, soft and reverent. "Not before, little rose."
He takes my hand and leads me out of his office, down the hallway to the private elevator. We ride up to the penthouse in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand, and the simple touch grounds me in ways I didn't know I needed.
At my bedroom door, he stops. Cups my face again. Kisses the tip of my nose with a playfulness that makes me smile despite the ache still throbbing between my thighs.
Then he kisses my lips. Soft. Barely there. A promise rather than a demand.
