His tongue drags through my folds, and the question dies in my throat.
He devours me like a man starving. His mouth works against my center with a skill that steals my capacity for thought. His tongue circles my clit before dipping inside me, tasting me, claiming me with every stroke. His hands grip my thighs hard enough to bruise, holding me open for his worship.
I fist my fingers in his silver hair and hold on for dear life.
The pleasure builds impossibly fast, wound tight by what came before. His stubble scrapes against my inner thighs, rough and perfect. His tongue flicks against my clit in a rhythm that makes my vision blur. His groan of pleasure vibrates through my core, the sound as intimate as the act itself.
"You taste like heaven." The words are muffled against my flesh, but I feel every one of them. "Like you were made for my mouth."
I'm climbing again. Higher than before. The pressure is almost unbearable, coiling tighter with every stroke of his tongue.
And then I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me in waves, pulling sounds from my throat I've never made before. I clench around nothing, my body desperate for more, and Drake doesn't stop. He works me through the aftershocks until I'm trembling, oversensitive, pushing at his shoulders because I can't take any more.
He rises from between my thighs with wet lips and eyes that burn with satisfaction. Water runs down his chest in rivulets, catching the candlelight. He looks like a god. A demon.Something in between that I'm not sure I should want but desperately, terrifyingly do.
Then he lifts me from the tub's edge like I weigh nothing and carries me to his bed.
The sheets are cool against my flushed skin as he lowers me onto the mattress. The dark red fabric is soft as silk, a stark contrast to the heat still pulsing through my body. He disappears briefly, returning with warm towels that he uses to dry my hair, my skin, every inch of my body that's still trembling from what he did to me.
His touch is gentle now. Reverent. He handles me like I'm something precious, something that might break if he's not careful.
Then he wraps himself around me and pulls the covers over us both.
We lie in the darkness for a long time, my back against his chest, his arm heavy across my waist. The candles have burned low, casting the room in shadows and amber light. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Chicago glitters like a field of earthbound stars.
His hand traces lazy patterns on my hip. The rhythm is soothing, hypnotic. I should be satisfied. I should be drifting toward sleep. But there's still so much I don't know about this man who has upended my entire life.
"Tell me about your mother."
The words leave my lips before I can second-guess them. I feel him go still behind me, his hand pausing its gentle movement.For a moment I think I've pushed too far, asked for too much too soon.
Then he exhales, his breath warm against my hair, and his voice comes soft and rough with memory.
"She was everything to me as a young boy." His thumb resumes its circles on my hip. "We had nothing. Less than nothing. My father was useless, in and out of prison, gone more than he was home. She worked three jobs to keep us fed. Cleaning offices at night. Waitressing during the day. Taking in laundry on weekends. I watched her hands crack and bleed from the work, and she never complained. Not once."
"You mentioned starting at the docks at sixteen. What was that like?"
"The foreman knew I was underage, but he didn't care as long as I could haul my weight." His arm tightens around me. "The docks taught me how the world really works. Who has power. Who doesn't. How to take what you need to survive."
I turn in his arms until I'm facing him, our noses nearly touching on the pillow. His gray eyes hold a vulnerability I've never seen before, something raw and exposed that he's offering to me like a gift.
"She got sick when I was forty," he continues, his voice roughening. "Cancer. By then I had money, connections, the best doctors in the city. None of it mattered. The money couldn't save her. The power couldn't stop the disease from eating her from the inside out."
"I'm sorry." The words feel inadequate, but I reach up and cup his face in my palm. His stubble prickles against my skin. "Truly."
"She made me promise something. Before she died." He turns his head and presses a kiss to my palm, his lips soft against my lifeline. "She wanted me to find someone who meant something to me and build a family. She wanted me to leave something behind besides money and enemies. She knew more about the criminal side of my life than I thought."
The heir clause. His mother's wish. The pieces click into place with devastating clarity.
"Is that what I am?" I need to ask, even though I'm afraid of the answer. "Someone to fulfill a promise?"
He's quiet for a long moment. His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone with a tenderness that makes my heart ache.
"You were. At first." The honesty in his voice cuts through me like a blade, but I'm grateful for it. Lies would be worse. "I claimed your wish because I needed an heir. Because I'd made a promise. Because I thought I could treat this like a business arrangement and keep my heart out of it. You were in need. I liked you. And then nothing turned out like I planned."
"And now?"
