“Grayson…” I started, then trailed off when he took my hand, pressing it against his cock. Thoughts fractured. All I could focus on was the hard iron throbbing beneath my fingers. How is that going to fit inside me?

Inside me.

Is that where we’re finally headed? After months of teasing, is it finally happening?

“Rub my cock, little nun.” His lips were on mine again, his tongue plundering, hot and wet.

Pop.

Another button and I couldn’t think. An onslaught of lips and tongue. I did as he told me, palming his thick, iron cock over his pants. His belly-flipping groan was my reward, dripping down through my throat like warm whiskey.

Pop. Pop.

His soft fingers slid inside my newly exposed back, edging my shoulder blade.

I rubbed harder, faster, anything to hear his groan again.

“Fuck.” His hiss was hot and warm against my lips. “I’ll come in my pants, Snitch.”

I smiled against his lips. “Well, you’re a virgin. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

He shoved me against the wall, biting my neck so hard my vision blacked. “Always with the jokes.”

His tongue swirled over his bite mark, stoking fire. Another three pops and my shirt was only hanging on by my shoulders, my back entirely exposed.

“Unzip me.”

It was real. It was happening.

I froze. “Here?”

Amid the antique paintings and white clothed statues, where I’d stolen his love, where I’d rewritten all our fates.

He wanted to do it here?

He gripped my face between his palms, demanding I look into his eyes. “I see you now, Story Hale.”

He kissed me, deep and searching, until my legs were jelly and all that held me up was Grayson’s palms on my cheeks. I think my heart stopped beating, or at least, when it started again the rhythm was completely irregular—new.

Rewritten according to Grayson, a rhythm that only beat for him.

He came to my shoulders, finding the fabric of my shirt, and I let him pull it down. Inch by inch, exposing me. His jaw was harder than stone, eyes gleaming.

I wanted him to touch me, bruise me, bring me back into a kiss.

So when he turned away, to the opposite side of the room, my chest bottomed out. Intrusive thoughts spiraled.

He’s done with me. It’s a prank. This was all to torture me.

From the wall he grabbed an ornate rug that must have been worth millions, tossing it to the floor. He threw satin pillows, jewel toned and looking like they belonged in a Russian czar’s palace, not on the floor in this storage room.

“Lie down,” he said.

“I’ll ruin them,” I said.

He grinned, wolfish. “Good.”