“Faster, please, Dane.”
And he complies each time, letting out grunts of satisfaction, indications to me that he likes me asking for what I want.
In the height of the moment, he reaches up and tangles his hand around my hair, tugging it gently so I have to look up, my back arching. Without meaning to, I glance to the side and see the image of us reflected in the windows that line the suite.
On the other side is Amsterdam. Perhaps the entire city is watching.
But in the reflection isus.
Me, bent over the couch, hair wound up in his hand. Dane, tall and strong, lithe abdomen giving way to a broad chest, his arm flexing as he holds my hair, his other hand tight on my hip, his eyes shut, chin down, a look of utter need on his face.
And, at the sight of that—of him fucking me so determinedly—I come.
It’s a tidal wave, and the moment I tighten around him, he picks up the pace, so we both chase the orgasm together. My fingers are numb on my clit, and no matter what I do, it’s likeI can’t get close enough to him, can’t take him deep enough to satisfy the itch.
When it’s over, I go boneless, sweaty and breathing hard, and he leans down, clearly just as affected as me.
“I shouldn’t be winded,” I joke, when he plants a kiss on my temple and turns, heading into the bathroom. A moment later, he returns with a warm cloth. “You did all the work.”
“You werenotstar-fishing, Lucy,” he says, simply, and I think that he’s going to retreat back to his room, call this a lesson in the books, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he sits down on the couch—still nude—and takes me into his lap like it’s nothing, settling a blanket over me and playing absently with my hair.
It’s intimate. I wonder if I should press the issue, ask if this is something I need to study up on, too—after-sex cuddling. I could ask if it’s standard for a one-night stand. A courtesy.
But I don’t, because if he’s not already, I don’t want to prompt him to think about it.
We sit like that, warm and comfortable, for long enough that I start to doze off, then Dane’s phone rings from the pocket of his pants on the floor.
It makes me jump, and his hands tighten on me.
“Are you going to get it?” I ask, when the ringing stops for a moment, then starts again.
“No.” He says it definitively enough that I think that’s all he has to say, but then, quieter, he says, “It’s my father.”
That hangs in the air for a moment, and slowly, I raise my hand to his chest, running my fingertips over his skin. It’s satiny and warm, and, oddly, I’m struck by his humanity.
Obviously, I’m aware of the fact that he’s a person. But you hear aboutthe Dane Rourkeenough, and he starts to seem more like a myth. You spend enough time around him, and hisintimidating nature starts to convince you that he’s more stone than flesh.
I’ve felt him, touched him, and after he said robotically that what we did was a mistake, even I started thinking of him as a being without weakness, without any soft spots.
But he has them. I can feel them under my fingers and hear them in the way he saysmy father.
“You don’t answer his calls?” I venture, hoping he’ll talk about it.
He shrugs a shoulder, then tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, “Sometimes. Not now. Usually, I avoid them for as long as I can.”
“Why?”
He’s quiet for a long stretch, then, “I’ve never leaned on my father for much. When my mother died, we grieved her separately, despite the fact that we were the two people in the world who loved her most. He’s always tended to think of me more as a project, and less as a son. It made me who I am, and I’m grateful to him. Indebted to him, actually. But he tends to try to take advantage of that debt as frequently as he can. The pressure can be…”
In an uncharacteristic move, Dane trails off, and I bite my tongue, surprised at the tears that push at the backs of my eyes. Partly for what he’s going through, and partly for how much I can relate to the feeling. Loving a parent and resenting them at the same time. “That sounds awful.”
His gaze refocuses on me, and he tightens his grip, like reminding himself that I’m here.
“When do you get to paint, Lucy?”
The question is so surprising—and a blatant change of conversation—that it takes me a second to grapple with it, before coming up with an answer that feels right. “After leaving the office in the evenings sometimes, and more so on the weekends.”
