My gaze trails down the planes of his chest, over the ridges of his abdomen, and settles on the hard length of him jutting proudly from a nest of dark curls. He's thick and long and my mouth waters at the sight of him. I lick my lips without thinking, and his hand wraps around his shaft, stroking slowly while he watches me watch him.
The groan that rumbles from his chest makes my thighs clench beneath the water.
He steps closer to the tub's edge, and my lips part in anticipation, desperate to taste him. But instead of offering himself to my mouth, he tips his chin toward the front of the tub.
"Move forward for me, baby girl." His voice is gravel and command. I obey without hesitation, sliding forward through the warm water until there's space behind me. He steps into the tub and settles against the back, pulling me against his chest, his hard cock pressing against my lower back like a brand.
The contact is electric. Every nerve ending in my body seems to wake at once, aware of every place where his skin touches mine.
For a long moment, he just holds me. His arms wrap around my waist, heavy and warm and solid. The water laps gently at our bodies. The light is low. The only sound is our breathing.
I've never been held like this — with such warmth and safety. The steady beat of his heart against my shoulder blade grounds me.
Then his hands move to my hair.
He washes it with a gentleness that makes my throat tight with emotions I wasn't prepared to feel. His fingers work through the wet strands, massaging my scalp in slow circles that send shivers down my spine. He tilts my head back to rinse the soap away, cradling my skull in his palm like I'm something fragile, something precious.
No one has ever touched me like this. Like caring for me is a privilege rather than a burden. Like my comfort matters more than his desire.
His hands slide down to my shoulders, kneading the knots that have taken up permanent residence there. I melt into his touch, boneless and trusting in a way that would have been impossible a week ago. A soft moan escapes my lips as he works out a particularly stubborn tangle of tension, and I feel his cock twitch against my lower back in response.
Then his hands move lower.
"Tell me to stop and I will."
His voice is rough against my ear, his breath warm on my neck. I can feel the evidence of his desire pressing against me, hard and insistent. But he doesn't move. Doesn't push. Just waits, hishands resting on my ribcage, his thumbs tracing idle patterns just beneath my breasts.
I think about all the reasons I should stop this. The contract between us. The debt he owns. The fear that if I give him my body, I'll be just another transaction in a long line of transactions that have defined my life. I think about Jonah, who pushed and wheedled and made me feel broken for not wanting what he wanted. I think about Victor, who made me feel like my body was currency rather than my own.
But Drake isn't Jonah. Drake isn't Victor.
Drake is the man who stopped when I said wait. Who gave me a library full of first editions and asked for nothing in return. Who called in protection for my family before I even thought to ask. Who holds me like I matter, like I'm precious, like I'm the most important thing in his world.
I'm not ready to give him everything. Not yet. My virginity is mine. The one thing Victor couldn't take and Jonah couldn't pressure out of me. I've held onto it through years of feeling like everything else was being stripped away piece by piece. I'm not giving it up for a contract.
And yet, I don't tell him to stop.
His hand slides down my stomach, through the water, between my thighs. When his fingers part my folds and stroke along my entrance, I arch against him with a moan I couldn't contain if I tried.
"That's it, little rose." His voice is gravel and honey against my ear. His thumb circles my clit while two fingers push inside me, finding the spot that makes me see stars. "Let me hear you."
The water sloshes against the edges of the tub as I move with him, riding his hand, chasing the pleasure he's building inside me. His other arm bands across my chest, holding me against him while his mouth finds my neck. His teeth graze my earlobe. His breath comes hot and fast against my skin.
"You have no idea how many times I've imagined this." The confession rumbles through his chest and into my spine. "You, wet and wanting in my arms. Coming apart on my fingers. The sounds you make when pleasure takes you."
I'm climbing toward the edge, every nerve ending on fire. My body is wound so tight I might shatter at any moment. The pressure builds low in my belly, coiling and coiling until I can barely breathe.
His fingers curl inside me. His thumb presses harder against my clit. His teeth sink gently into my shoulder.
And I shatter.
The orgasm rips through me in waves, my body clenching around his fingers as I cry out his name. He works me through every pulse and tremor, drawing out my pleasure until I'm trembling, oversensitive, gasping for air.
But he doesn't stop.
Before I can come down from the high, his hand disappears and I'm being lifted, turned, set on the wide edge of the tub. The cool marble shocks my heated skin, the contrast making me gasp. But the sensation is forgotten the moment he parts my thighs and settles between them, his gray eyes dark with hunger as he looks up at me.
"Drake, what are you?—"
