When I finally shatter, it’s with a sob that comes from somewhere deep inside. The release crashes into me like a soul-shaking exorcism. Oliver embraces me through it, murmuring praises.

  The relief is overwhelming, devastating, and…

  Beautiful.

  Just like the scarlet hue of my ass.

  I’m still trembling when he lifts me from the water and wraps me in a plush towel. He carries me to the massive bed at the center of his sanctum, each step lulling what’s left of my nerves.

  The sheets welcome my fevered skin, cool as silk on a winter day. Sleep tugs at me, promising the kind of deep rest that’s eluded me since my world slid off its axis. Even as he splays my thighs, I’m ready to let it pull me under.

  But Oliver has other plans.

  The vibrator hums to life against my sensitive flesh, and I gasp, trying to squirm away.

  “Please, I can’t⁠—“

  “Who’s in control?” he asks, one hand pinning my hipbone to the bed. His lids hang low, dark eyes smoldering with command.

  “You are, sir.”

  “And if I want to give you ten more orgasms, what will you do about it?”

  “I-I don’t…what do you mean⁠—“

  “You’ll do nothing but lie there and take each one.”

  The wand pulses harder, forcing me back to a state of arousal with cruel intentions. My back bows off the bed as reckless need shudders through me. Before I can reclaim my breath, he slides down and replaces the vibrator with his tongue.

  Each wet stroke unleashes fresh tremors. I clutch the sheets, voice splintering into hoarse cries as another climax surges.

  “Sir,” I sob, trembling. “No more.”

  “Every time you beg me to stop, I’ll add another.”

  I bite my lip, holding back the plea. Unbidden, my knees inch closer together.

  “Wide open, Novalee.” He slaps my inner thigh. “Do I need to get the rope?”

  “No, sir.” Shaking my head, I groan.

  He returns to my pussy, lips nipping, fingers lodging inside me. The vibrator aids him in breaking me apart.

  I’ve lost all control, my muscles cramping with each forced climax.

  He doesn’t stop at two or even three.

  Oliver holds me captive through five more since the one I gave him in the tub, each orgasm harsher than the last.

  By the end, I’m wrecked.

  Tears streak down my cheeks as I tremble in the wreckage of overstimulation. I sag against the bed, every layer unraveled, and only then does he show mercy.

  He gathers me into his arms, tucks a blanket around us, and draws me to his chest. My head rests beneath his chin, cheek pressed to the warm rise and fall of his breath. One of his legs hooks over mine, cocooning me in a tender hold.

  We sink in the aftermath, skin to skin. Sometime later, as my thoughts begin to surface, I realize…

  I’m confused.

  Not only by my response to him, but by the gentleness of his touch, the steady beat of his heart against my ear, the soft brush of his foot nudging mine under the covers.

  Mostly, I’m confused because he made me come in endless agony, yet he’s lying here, awake and…

  Hard.

  I shift slightly, pressing into the thick ridge straining between us. His cock twitches, but he doesn’t move or ask for anything.

  “Sir?”

  His lips tilt, a smile I sense more than see. “You can relax that bratty tongue. No more punishment for tonight.”

  I lift my gaze, and he angles back to meet it. My pulse stumbles, because he’s sexier than I’ve ever seen him.

  His black hair, tousled from the humidity of our bath, falls in thick waves that tempt my fingers. He smells fresh, with something deeper underneath—a hint of earth wrapped in mahogany.

  “Novalee?” His gravelly voice reels me in, and I blink, caught staring with an ember of attraction too raw to hide. “What’s on your mind?”

  “What about…?” I trail off, nodding toward the unmistakable bulge between us.

  “Ask what you want to ask.”

  “Don’t you want to…finish?”

  “I finished you six times. Was that not enough?” The question’s blunt, but his tone teases.

  “I meant you.”

  “Tonight’s not about me.”

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, so I snap it shut.

  He watches me a moment longer, dark lashes heavy over eyes that haven’t lost their heat. “This confuses you.”

  “Yes! None of you have ever put me first.”

  Except Sebastian.

  I lock the thought away before it guts me.

  “Don’t mistake my restraint for an act of gentlemanly behavior. I’ve had plans for you since you walked into my house.”

  The warmth seeps out of me, chased off by suspicion. “You used Dr. Price to groom me, didn’t you?” I glance around the room, taking in the apparatuses Oliver introduced me to.

  “I did. But only because you needed preparation.”

  “Preparation for what? This?” As soon as the words settle between us, I know better.

  He means the trip to the States in two days.

  “The initiation,” I say, anxiety fluttering in my stomach. “What’s going to happen there?”

  “Tonight was about you. What happens in the circle is about what I get to take from you.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Your sassy mouth.” He slips a finger between my lips. “My cock will initiate all the places I’m allowed to explore.”

  “You plan to take me anally.”

  “Yes.”

  “And orally.”

  “Most definitely.”

  “And I’m not allowed to come.”

  All statements. All true.

  “Not in the circle, but if you behave, I might give you relief later that night.”

  “I’m more worried about my safety than an orgasm, Oliver. The last time I went abroad…” My voice thickens, and I have to swallow past the remembered anguish. “Well, you know how that turned out.”

  “I won’t let anything happen to you.” His palm curves over my cheek. “I’ve already hired private security.”

  “Why do we need security?”

  “Just a precaution.” His calm voice steadies the fragile trust growing between us. “It’s a team I’ve worked with before. A guard will be stationed outside your suite the entire time we’re at the Davenport Estate. I want you to feel safe.”

  “We’re going to have our own rooms?”

  “Of course.” His brows furrow. “Outside of this room, I don’t share my personal space with anyone.”

  Something about that stings. “I wasn’t assuming anything.”

  “That came out wrong.” He tucks a tangled lock behind my ear. “What I should have said is that I haven’t since Talitha. It’s not something I do, Novalee.”

  “No need to explain. I understand.”

  “Do you?” He lifts my chin, forcing my gaze back to his. “I know you have complicated feelings for the chancellor, and your love for Sebastian goes without saying. But tonight, you and me…what should have been merely physical was a bit more, don’t you think?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “Fair enough. You’re not ready to define this, just like I’m not ready to open up certain parts of myself.”

  “Like your personal space.” My tone is wry, all hurt gone at reading between the lines of his explanation.

  He doesn’t deny it, and yet his expression is unguarded in a way I didn’t think was possible for the always-in-control Oliver Whitney.

  What passed between us tonight was brutal and beautiful, raw enough to reach something untouched inside me.

  For the first time since losing Sebastian, I wasn’t spiraling in grief. I was alive, every inch of my skin tingling, every breath steeped in sensation.

  Oliver gave that to me.

  And I suspect I gave him something, too.

  Not solace or healing, but an intense union between two souls still carrying the ones they lost.

  His grief wears the name Talitha.

  Mine will always whisper Sebastian.

  We may never be whole again.

  But in this moment, tangled in each other’s arms, we don’t have to be.

  20

  The flight is a blur of tinted windows and restless sleep. We arrived late last night at the sprawling Davenport Estate, the chauffeur guiding us through an iron gate that separates the brick mansion from Portland’s glittering skyline.

  After a fitful night, I spent the day drifting between jet lag and anxiety in my private suite, with the promised guard stationed outside my door.

  Oliver kept his word.

  “You look stunning,” he says, offering his arm. As I slide mine into the crook of his elbow, his fingers glide along my skin, leaving a possessive trail. “And I’m pleased you’re wearing your own design.”

  “Thank you. I worked around the clock to finish it in time.”

  The sweetheart gown drapes like liquid sin, sculpted from the same burgundy silk that once hung unfinished on a mannequin. What began as a skeletal vision now clings to me, every seam a quiet resurrection.

  Oliver looks equally devastating in a dark gray tux, tailored to the sculpted build of his frame. A hint of cedar and smoke envelops me as he steps close, sending an arrow of need straight to my core. He escorts me downstairs with two security guards in tow, who fade into the background as we enter the ballroom. I adjust the black mask covering the upper half of my face and can’t help but think…

  Another damn masquerade.

  Where Ford’s bash flaunted its debauchery behind gauzy curtains, this gathering hides its true nature beneath crystal chandeliers and champagne flutes. Society’s elite mingle over hors d’oeuvres and polite conversation, none the wiser to what will unfold later tonight for a select few.

  But maybe that’s part of the allure—masks, food, and wine before disappearing into parts unknown while the silent auction winds down.

  The contrast is striking.

  Here, women glitter in proper designer gowns, with no lingerie-inspired numbers in sight, while men stand tall in tailored tuxedos. A string quartet plays in the corner. Along one wall, the auction table gleams with curated charity items that disguise the evening’s true agenda.

  Whatever awaits, I can’t help but imagine it unfolding in some hidden space below, like the dungeon back home.

  An elegant couple approaches, dressed in gold and extravagance. It takes me a moment to recognize them as the Davenports, our hosts, whom I met briefly last night. Now they greet us with that same manicured grace, as if warmth were something they rehearsed for years.

  “We’re so glad you made it,” Mr. Davenport says, his blond hair smoothed back for the evening. He extends a hand to Oliver before turning to me with a smile full of perfect white teeth. “Miss Van Buren, lovely to see you again.”

  “You as well, sir.”

  The title slips out without thought or intention, and a hush lingers between us. Mr. Davenport raises my hand to his lips as Oliver shifts, sliding his palm over the small of my back.

  Virginia, his wife, breaks the tension. “I can hardly believe we have a real-life queen as a guest. We Americans tend to get a little excited over royalty.” She takes the hand her husband just kissed between her own. “I trust you slept well after your trip?”

  “Yes,” I manage, despite the lump of nerves in my throat.

  “Well, you look amazing.” Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, braided around the crown. “Your gown is flawless. Is it one of yours?”

  I nod, surprised she knows.

  “Mr. Whitney mentioned you’re a designer. I’m impressed.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mr. Davenport rests a hand on his wife’s shoulder in an ushering gesture and nods toward the dinner guests on the other side of the room. He guides us through the crowd, weaving between diamonds and tuxedos, until we reach a table where a couple is already seated.

  “I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Channing and his wife, Kayla,” he announces.

  The dark-haired man stands in greeting, his eyes a startling shade of blue that catches me off guard. For the briefest moment, I think of Sebastian.

  Then the thought is gone, swallowed by another round of handshakes and pleasantries.

  I take my seat beside Kayla, Oliver settling next to me, and ignore the chilled glass of white wine at my place. I’m not about to touch it—not after what happened in Los Angeles.

  The men begin discussing overseas investments, accounting issues, and a kind of restructuring talk that sounds too coded to be about business. I’m only half-listening when Kayla leans in, the chandelier threading glints of red through her auburn hair.

  “How are you enjoying your visit to the States?”

  “I’m still recovering from jet lag,” I admit, nudging the wine aside with a quiet scrape of glass on linen. “We arrived late last night, but I spent most of the day in my suite.”

  “Time zones can be brutal. Do you have plans to see the city while you’re here?”

  “Oliver promised to take me sightseeing before we return home.”

  “Portland has beautiful gardens,” Virginia cuts in.

  Kayla nods. “The coast is breathtaking too, even during the winter.”

  A female server approaches, wine bottle in hand. She looks close to my age, younger than the wives at the table, with her blond hair swept up in a classy twist.

  “More wine, sir?” Her voice drops to a honeyed whisper, fingers lingering on Mr. Davenport’s shoulder.

  “Please,” he answers with a wide smile as she bends to refill his glass, offering a view down the front of her dress shirt. She rounds the table, paying special attention to the men, radiating flirtation and sugary perfume.

  The blonde reaches Kayla’s husband last. “You’re looking empty, sir.” Brushing against him, she tips the bottle with a teasing glance.

  Kayla’s shoulders tense. “Careful, sweetie. You’re pouring my husband’s wine, not auditioning your cleavage.”

  The server straightens, but it’s Mr. Channing’s expression that pulls my attention. His blue gaze narrows at his wife, subtle disapproval making her face flame. She snaps her mouth shut and stares at her lap.

  Virginia lets out a practiced laugh. “Our staff is always so attentive, isn’t that right, darling?” She places her hand over her husband’s, and he nods, clearly entertained.

  When the server reaches Oliver, he traces the condensation on his full glass. “I’m good, thank you.”

  I take in the dynamics, the subtle tension undercutting smiles and sips of wine—power and performance, masked by charm.

  By the time the first course arrives, conversation is in swing again, but the energy has shifted. Partway through the meal, Gage leans close to Kayla and whispers something in her ear that makes her cheeks flush as scarlet as my nails. Whatever he said, it wasn’t praise for her territorial display.

  Kayla swallows hard, but her composure recovers as she turns back to me. “I hear you’re a designer.”

  She catches me mid-bite, so all I can do is nod.

  “Talented and royal,” Mr. Davenport says, his interested gaze following the movement of my fork. “What a fascinating combination.”

  Oliver finds my knee under the table, and his possessive gesture sends a delicious shiver up my spine. His thumb traces a slow circle, dragging silk and lustful memories along with it. Desperate for a distraction, I change my mind about the wine and reach for my glass, hoping to douse the fire he so easily stirs.

  Halfway through, I regret taking the first sip.

  A flush spreads over my cheeks, the air suddenly too warm. When I glance his way, I find his knowing eyes already on me.

  Oliver stands, and the scrape of his chair draws more than a few glances. Napkins fall. Conversations pause.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” he says to our dinner companions. “I believe my date would like a dance.”

  I set my glass down and rise, legs tingling from wine, want, and anticipation. He offers me a hand, his expression magnetic, desire the gravity that pulls me to his side.

  Soft classical music lures us to the center of the floor, where couples glide in a sensual cadence. Drawing me flush against him, he slides a palm up my back and guides us into an easy, swaying flow.

  At first, neither of us speak.

  Our bodies do.

  His heat tantalizes me, urging me closer, barely a breath between us. “Oliver?”

  “Hm?” His chin rests on my head.

  “Will Kayla and her husband be present tonight?”

  “Yes.” A beat passes, followed by another whirl, and then he says, “Are you nervous?”

  “Should I be?”

  His rhythm falters, as if he’s considering the answer. “As long as you trust me, no.”

  “Do I need to call you sir?”

  “Only if you want to.” There’s a smile in his tone. “But you don’t have to say anything at all. The men don’t want to hear you speak, Novalee. Your job is to obey and look pretty, both of which you’re an expert.”

  I veer back and scowl at him.

  He laughs. “You’re excellent at scathing looks, too.” He dips until his mouth hovers near my ear, his breath igniting gooseflesh along my nape.

  “I can’t wait to hear you beg again.”

  He inches back, lips tilting into a smirk.

  My mouth parts.

  We’re much too close right now…which is ridiculous, considering the experience we shared a few nights ago.

  But this is different.

  This is intimate and…

  Too familiar.

  My heart aches as I push against his chest, gaining a few precious inches. “I won’t beg.”

  “Is that the same lie you told yourself the other night, before I made you scream?”

  “I’ve been thoroughly satisfied,” I counter, my tone egging him on. “You probably shouldn’t have given me so many orgasms.”

  “Oh, Novalee.” With a shake of his head, he chuckles. “Did you forget about Vance’s elixir?”

  Oh God.

 

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