I rock into her gently, mindful of the harsh metal cage she’s shackled to. And with each stroke, I gasp. With each retreat, I swallow. Our ragged breaths echo around us, steeped in a craving that’s palpable. Clenching around me, she drops her head back, keeping her eyes on mine, her arms resting lightly on my shoulders as I carry us toward oblivion.
It’s like the calm before the storm, the center of a tornado. Silent but deafening, calm but deadly. I choke when it hits me, my skin so sensitive, my teeth gritting to get me through it. Hot cum fills her and she stiffens in my hold, her thighs crushing me between them. She rides the waves of her release silently, rolling against my body, her neck losing all power to keep her head up. Our foreheads meet halfway, our eyes closing for a few breathless moments.
My breathing still shot, I slip out of her, unable to hold back a hiss as her flesh strokes my sensitive cock. I lower her to her feet, unfasten and unravel the chains from her body as she watches me, and then drop them in a pile at her feet.
I pull my jeans and T-shirt on, and slip my feet into my shoes, turning toward her. She hasn’t moved a muscle, her eyes watching my every move as I approach slowly and dip, placing a light kiss on the corner of her mouth.
Then I walk out.
Chapter 8
The sky is gray as I head to work Friday morning, casting a dreary shadow across London, and, just my luck, the heavens open when I’m halfway from the car park to my office.
Umbrellas spring up around me as I break into a run, dodging the puddles and people, my body instantly heavy from the water my suit is holding. I burst into the office and drop my briefcase. “Fucking weather,” I mutter, shrugging my jacket off. I’m soaked through, my white shirt sticking to my torso.
“Morning.”
I look up to find Andrea staring at my chest. Every muscle is defined through the thin material of my shirt, and though not shy of my body, I hurry to the men’s room.
“Give me ten minutes,” I call, shutting the door behind me. I go straight to the hand dryer and turn the nozzle onto my chest, blasting myself with hot air. The mirror reflects back a drowned rat of a man, his attire crumpled, his hair sodden and falling all over his face. “Great start to the day.” I give up. I look trashed, my usually impeccable facade pretty damn shameful.
Once settled at my desk, I stare at my phone, mentally warning myself not to. Don’t call Hux. I don’t need or want to know if Raya’s been back. “Fuck it.” I bow to my relenting curiosity and swipe up my mobile. There’s no discreet way of asking, so I just go right ahead and question Cole whether Raya’s been there again. I hold my breath waiting for his answer. And the air gushes out when he tells me no. No, she hasn’t. I don’t want to be relieved, but I’m learning quickly that controlling what I want is pointless where Raya’s concerned.
“Thanks, Cole.” I hang up as Andrea swans in, looking chirpy.
“I have good news,” she tells me, taking a seat opposite.
“Good. Get my day back on track.”
“The Georgian in West London. I have a bite. Young, single professional. Annie Ryan. She’s been looking for months. I think this might be right up her street. I’m showing her around later today.”
“Sell hard.”
“She’s an architect. She’ll have the vision that other buyers have lacked.”
“Still, sell hard.”
She rummages through the papers in her lap. “Here are the details for Miss Rivers’s place.” A file slides across the desk before me, but I barely look. I sent Andrea to take the pictures, telling myself I needed to stay away. Cold and detached.
“Have they been posted online?” I ask, looking busy at my computer.
“Yep. We’ve had a few viewings already and another this evening with a Mr. Watts. He’s got piles of cash and impatient with it.”
Just the kind of buyer I like. Quick turnaround, little stress. “I’ll meet him.” The words surprise me as they come out of my mouth.
“Okay.” Andrea doesn’t question it, getting up from her chair. “Five o’clock. Miss Rivers will be at work so take the keys.” She leaves, minimizing the opportunity for me to back out. Of course, I could go after Andrea, tell her that I have a meeting that I forgot about, but something keeps me in my chair. Perhaps I’ll get some answers to my questions. Like who’s in that photograph. Do I really want to know? I slump back and drop my head into my hands. I don’t know. I really don’t know, and it’s sending me off the deep end.
*
Fifteen minutes ahead of my appointment, I approach Raya’s front door cautiously, even though I know she’s not here. I head straight downstairs to the area where I’d seen her photos and come to an abrupt stop when the cabinet comes into view. The picture of her with the other man is gone. Every other picture remains, but that one is gone. I stare at the empty space, mind whirling with possible explanations. She’s hidden it, a precaution in case I happened to come back and snoop, or she’s got rid of it, because she wants what it represents banished from her life. I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying not to think too hard about it. Yet the harder I try, the more I fail. “Damn, Drew.” A knock at the front door offers relief, if only for a while.
I make my way upstairs, opening the door to my potential buyer. “Drew Davies.” I extend my hand to the man before me. “Mr. Watts?”
His face is tipped up, taking in the exterior. “Yes.” He drops his head, a warm smile on his face. “Pleasure to meet you, Drew.” His hand in mine is solid.
“Please, come in.”
You know a buyer is serious when they check every nook and cranny, feel every wall, try out every appliance and tap. Mr. Watts is serious, asking all the questions I would expect of someone who’s truly interested in paying this kind of money. He roams the house for over an hour.
“It’s in spectacular condition, as you can see.” We pass Raya’s bedroom, and my feet waver in their pace toward the stairs. The bed. The sheets. A dress draped over the back of the chair.
“I’m just going to have another circuit, if that’s okay,” Mr. Watts says, casting his shrewd eyes around the high cornicing of the landing as he pulls a tape measure from his pocket. “Take some measurements.”
“Sure. Take your time.” I head downstairs, leaving him to it. Back in the kitchen, I sit on a stool and pull my phone out to check my e-mails, anything to stop me looking around, anything to stop my mind straying to Raya. What a joke. I’m sitting in her fucking house, and, like the twat I am, I put myself here.
“Hello?” Her voice drifts down the stairs, and I shoot up from my stool, looking around, like—what? I can hide? Run away? Then steps, dainty and measured, hit the wooden steps. The ball of my fist meets my forehead, my eyes clenched shut. “Drew?”