All I Am: Drew's Story

  starting at her pussy. She screams. I growl.

  And I can no longer endure my own torture.

  Grasping my cock, my knuckles brush the metal links between her thighs as I level myself up, and I grunt as I take that first, out-of-this-world thrust. I go limp against her, searching for strength to see me through this. It comes in the delivery of one word.

  “Drew,” she murmurs, short of breath.

  I reach up and yank off her blindfold, suddenly desperate to see those eyes. The shards of light that spill the second she blinks them open blinds me. She breathes in my face, her insides hugging my cock, pulling me deeper. So much deeper. Deeper into her body, and deeper into her world.

  Our gazes are locked as I roll my hips, reaching for the backs of her thighs and pulling them up to my waist. Her bound hands hook over my neck. There’s so much energy radiating from her eyes, I’m convinced she must be plugged into the sun. Intensity, heat, vivid color—it’s all shining on me, lighting up the room. Lighting up me.

  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?”

  “Hi.” I breathe, opening my eyes while bracing myself for the vision of her. She’s loaded down with bags, her hair a wet mess, her white T-shirt sopping wet. “Raining again?” I ask like a chump, my eyes cemented to the pink bra reveal
ed through the wet material. Nipples like bullets. Skin pink and cold. A few licks and I would have her body temperature back to where it should be. Boiling.

  She dumps her bag on the worktop, and I vaguely register her torso arching inward, her hand peeling the material from her skin. “The buyer’s still here?”

  “Taking measurements. It’s a good sign.”

  “Drew!” she snaps, and my stare jumps up from her chest to her face. She narrows her eyes on me, and I can’t lie: the disapproval hurts. I’ve seen every inch of her skin. It shouldn’t bother her now, and it bothers me that it does. “Should I leave?” she asks.

  I’m just about to tell her that would be wise when heavy footsteps descend the stairs. We both turn to find Mr. Watts has made his way down.

  I slap myself back to life and pull in my jacket. “Mr. Watts, this is Miss Rivers, the owner.” I move over to join them. “All done?”

  He doesn’t answer, and it takes a moment to realize that he’s too busy staring at Raya to hear me. Or staring at her fucking chest. A beastly rage creeps up on me, and next thing I know, I’ve moved between them, blocking his view, shielding her. “All done?” I repeat, not snarling but not far from it. He looks up at me, and I raise my eyebrows expectantly, to hell with what he thinks. To hell with the sale and commission. Good God, hold me back.

  “Yes, sorry.” He shakes himself back to life, the dirty bastard, and backs up toward the stairs, eventually turning and taking them quickly. It takes everything in me not to chase him down and poke his eyes out.

  I redirect my attention to Raya, huffing to myself, until I register her expression. She looks fuming mad.

  “What the hell was that about?” she asks, all bristly.

  “What?”

  “That there.” She points past me, to the man fleeing her home. With a lack of anything else coming to me, I look over my shoulder, racking my brain for an explanation for my cavemanlike behavior. I have nothing, so I go with the truth. “He was staring at your chest.”

  “And what has that got to do with you?”

  My teeth grate as I return to face her. “It was inappropriate.”

  “No, what you did was inappropriate. And, while we’re on the subject of you being inappropriate,”—her finger comes up and points in my face, making my head retract on my neck—“What the hell were you doing intruding on me and Kirk at Hux?”

  That gets my hackles up more than the pervert who just scuttled out of her house. “Me? What was I doing? What the hell were you doing?” My temper is barely contained.

  “You made it clear you couldn’t help me anymore. You just fucked me, remember.” She uses my words against me, a weapon that I would say was hitting below the belt if it didn’t make me a hypocrite. “So don’t come into my life and my house and throw your weight around like you have some right over me.”

  I shrink. Ouch. Well, that’s certainly put me in my place. “There will be more buyers,” I mutter, sounding as timid as I feel. Angry Raya is quite something.

  She takes her bag from the counter, and it drops to her side. It’s kind of how my insides feel, everything sinking quickly. She’s mad at me. I don’t like it. “You’d better hope so, Drew. And maybe it’s best you aren’t the one to show them around.”

  “Anyone would think you’re desperate to sell.”

  “I am.”

  “Why?” I demand, unable to stop myself. “Explain, Raya. This house, that constant sadness deep in your eyes. I want to know. Explain it to me.”

  She recoils a little, going from livid to cautious in a heartbeat. “I don’t owe you an explanation. I don’t owe you anything.” She turns and heads back up the stairs, not looking back. “I don’t need anything from you or any other man. You’re all the damn same.”

  Something primal and possessive comes over me, something way past my ability to control. Not that I try to. I fly after her, catching her halfway up the stairs.

  She turns, startled, and falls to her arse a few steps above me. I look at her, my face poker straight. “Don’t tell me I’m the same. Do you get these insane feelings with anyone else?”

  She doesn’t answer, her face challenging, her jaw tight.

  I shove her skirt up her thighs. “You gonna stop me?”

  “Fuck you, Drew,” she breathes, already short of breath. She’s mad with herself. Welcome to the fucking club.

  I smirk and pull her knickers down, and my mouth is on her in a heartbeat—licking, swirling, kissing, and nibbling. I plunge my tongue, bite at her lips, dig my fingers into the damp flesh of her thighs. Her moans fill my head, fill the whole damn house. I give her no breathing space. I don’t give her a second respite. I’m a man on a mission, though what that mission is I have no fucking clue.

  The entire house rocks with the power of her orgasm, her scream never ending, her shakes violent. I swallow it all down, savor the flavor. Jesus, how did I think I could do without this? The taste of her, the feel of her, the life coursing through me. The satisfaction of knowing I’m helping her.

  Her brown eyes look down to where my face is still nestled between her thighs, and her hand reaches for my hair, tugging. With her silent order, I crawl up her body until I’m splayed against her. “You do owe me something,” I whisper, kissing the corner of her mouth.

  A slow, lazy smile breaks. “What?”

  “An orgasm.” We’re all teeth and low laughter, trying to kiss and smile at the same time. “And a massage, too.” I roll my shoulder, wincing as I push myself up and help her to her feet, arranging her skirt.

  “Thank you.” She takes the stairs, eyes flirting with mine as she passes, and fetches a glass of water.

  I follow her down. “Who’s in that picture with you?”

  With her glass at her lips, she stares at me. “You noticed it’s missing, then?”

  I shrug. “You were quite speedy in turning it down.” Sadness. That Godawful sadness slopes back onto her face and tarnishes the brightness. Tarnishes my mood, as well as hers.

  Fuck, are there tears bubbling in her eyes? “I know what you’re thinking,” she says quietly.

  “Good, then maybe you can help me out, because I don’t know what to think.”

  “Why do you care?” She eyes me carefully, assessing. I don’t know why I care, but it seems I do. So I just shrug lamely. With my head in such a tangle, I haven’t got much hope of explaining to Raya. “You think it’s an ex,” she states.

  “It’s not?”

  She shakes her head. “There is an ex. Dean. We split up four weeks ago after I found him in bed with someone.” A single tear slides down her cheek.

  Well, damn. “I’m sorry.” What else can I say?

  “Don’t be. It didn’t cut half as deep as losing my grandfather the day before.”

  I recoil, somewhere between shock and disgust.

  Raya takes a deep breath and paces over to the cabinet where the picture once stood. She pulls open the top drawer and takes out the frame, staring down at it in silence.

  Her sadness saturates the air around us both. I can feel it, thick and heavy. Christ, I can’t even begin to imagine her hurt and anger. Damn her fucking ex. I want to cut off his balls, the heartless arsehole. I wander over, coming to a stop behind her. Instinct is the only explanation I have for nuzzling my face into her neck.

  I glance down at the photo, seeing Raya’s arm draped over the shoulders of a silver-haired man, his face radiating the same light I’ve seen in her a few times. But now he’s gone, and he’s taken Raya’s spirit with him.

  “I miss him so much.” Her voice cracks, and her shoulders start jumping, grief wracking her petite body.

  “Shit.” I turn her in my arms and cuddle her, the urge too strong, the need overwhelming. When she snuggles, not just because she needs to, but because she wants to, I tighten my hold of her, resting my lips on the back of her head, closing my eyes and breathing her into me, just holding her while she sobs.

  “I’m sorry.” She sniffs an
d pulls away, lowering her head, as if ashamed.

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  Turning away from me, she refocuses her attention on the picture of her and her grandfather. “Now all I have left is a huge house that he left me and an ex who suddenly wants me back.” My lip curls. He can think again. I move in close behind her, curling my arms around the tops of her shoulders, joining her in looking down at the photograph. “You have his eyes,” I say, seeing the zest for life in the old man’s—something I wish I could see more of in Raya’s.

  She nods. “He was so wise. Seemed to have the answer for everything, you know? He told me not to trust my ex, but I didn’t listen to him.” She sniffs a little. “He told me he would break my heart, and he was right. I won’t disappoint him again.”

  “Cold and emotionless,” I murmur, everything falling into place. This explains so much.

  “Hux is the perfect solution.”

  “You’re going to maintain that for life? No dating, no trusting?” My questions make me a hypocrite but, God, it seems like such a waste.