Chapter 16: Sprinkling Desires 2
The door clicked shut behind them, a sound that seemed to seal the world away. The bedroom was dark, save for the ambient glow of the city bleeding through the unshuttered windows. Grey light painted the furniture in shades of charcoal and silver.
Philip's hands found her waist in the darkness. His mouth descended on hers again, slower this time, deliberate. The urgency from the car had banked into something deeper, more patient. He kissed her like he had all night, like the clock had stopped mattering.
Mildred's fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt. Her hands trembled slightly, not from nerves but from the sheer intensity of being this close to him. She could feel the heat of his skin through the cotton. The firm wall of his chest beneath her palms.
He shrugged the shirt from his shoulders. It fell somewhere behind him, forgotten. His hands moved to her blouse, finding the small buttons with practiced ease. Each one slipped free with a whisper of fabric. He pushed the silk from her shoulders, and it pooled at her feet.
"You're beautiful," he murmured against her throat. Not a compliment. A statement of fact.
She laughed, soft and breathless. "You've seen me before."
"Doesn't change anything." He kissed the hollow of her collarbone. "Doesn't make it less true."
Her hands found his belt. The leather was warm from his body. She unbuckled it slowly, the metal clinking in the quiet room. The zipper rasped as she pulled it down. His trousers loosened, and he stepped out of them, kicking them aside.
He was hard against her thigh. She felt the press of him through the thin fabric of his boxers. Her breath caught.
He paused. His hands stilled on the clasp of her skirt.
"You remember what I told you?" His voice was low, rough at the edges.
She looked up at him. In the dim light, his grey eyes were almost black. His jaw was set, the muscles tight. She nodded, her arms still looped around his neck. "The shower. You said we would take a shower tonight."
The corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile. Something hungrier. "Yes." He unfastened her skirt, letting it slide down her legs. She stepped out of it, standing before him in nothing but her underwear and the thin camisole she wore beneath her blouse. "Now let's go. We're almost naked."
He took her hand. His palm was warm, calloused in places she hadn't noticed before. He led her through the bedroom, past the massive bed with its dark linens, to a door on the far wall.
The bathroom was larger than her first apartment. Black marble covered every surface. A freestanding tub sat in one corner, big enough for two. But it was the shower that dominated the space. A glass enclosure, floor to ceiling, with multiple showerheads mounted on the walls and ceiling. A bench of dark stone ran along one side. The mirrors on the opposite wall reflected everything, doubling the space into infinity.
Philip reached inside the enclosure and turned the dial. Water erupted from the ceiling head, a soft, warm rain. Steam began to rise almost immediately, fogging the glass.
He turned back to her. His hands found the hem of her camisole. He lifted it slowly, drawing it over her head. Her hair came loose from its careful pins, tumbling down her shoulders. He tossed the garment aside.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of her underwear. He knelt before her, pulling the fabric down her legs. She stepped out of it, her hand finding his shoulder for balance.
He looked up at her from his knees. The sight of him there, this powerful man brought low before her, sent a shiver through her body.
He rose slowly, his hands trailing up her legs, over her hips, her waist. He unhooked her bra with a single, practiced motion. The straps fell away. She let it drop.
They stood facing each other, completely bare. The steam from the shower curled around them, warm and wet.
"Come," he said.
She followed him into the enclosure. The water hit her skin, a warm cascade from above. She closed her eyes, letting it wash over her face, her hair, her shoulders. The heat seeped into her muscles, loosening tension she hadn't realized she carried.
His hands found her waist in the steam. He pulled her close, her back against his chest. His mouth found her neck, kissing a trail from her ear to her shoulder.
She turned in his arms. Her hands found his face, pulling him down to her. She kissed him, slow and deep, tasting the water on his lips.
They stood like that for a long moment. The water falling around them. Their mouths moving together. His hands tracing the curve of her spine, the swell of her hips.
He pulled back. His forehead rested against hers. Water dripped from his hair onto her cheeks.
"Stroke me," he whispered.
Her hand moved between them. Her fingers found him, hard and thick, slick with water. She wrapped her hand around his length and stroked slowly, feeling the texture of his skin, the ridge of his head.
His breath hitched. His hips pressed forward into her grip.
His own hand moved down, finding her between her legs. His fingers parted her folds, finding her clit. She gasped, her body jerking against his hand.
"Shh," he murmured. "Just feel."
He circled her clit with a slow, steady pressure. Her knees weakened. She leaned into him, her free hand gripping his shoulder for balance.
His other hand found a bottle mounted on the wall. He pressed the pump, and a stream of liquid soap pooled in his palm. The scent of sandalwood and something else, something clean and sharp, filled the steam.
He released her for a moment, working the soap into a lather between his hands. Then his palms found her shoulders, sliding down her arms, over her chest, down her stomach. The warmth of his hands penetrated through the water and the soap, a heat that had nothing to do with temperature.
She reached for the bottle, pumped soap into her own hands. She touched his chest, her palms flat against the firm muscle. She spread the lather over his pecs, down his abdomen, feeling the ridges of his stomach. Her fingers traced the line of hair that disappeared below his waist.
He pulled her close again. Their bodies slid together, slick with soap and water. His mouth found hers. She tasted the water on his lips, felt the heat of his breath in her mouth.
His hand returned to her clit. He pressed harder now, circling faster. Her body arched into his touch. A moan escaped her throat, swallowed by his kiss.
She reached for him again. Her hand found his cock, harder now than before, if that was possible. She stroked him with the same rhythm he used on her.
"You're almost ready," she whispered against his mouth.
"And you're almost hard," he replied.
She laughed, a breathless sound. "That doesn't make sense."
"No," he agreed. "But it's true."
His fingers moved faster. He pressed against her clit with his thumb while his middle finger slid lower, finding her entrance. He didn't push inside, just circled the opening, teasing.
Her body jerked. Her hand tightened on his cock.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let it happen."
She felt it building. A pressure, a heat, a coiling in her belly. Her thighs began to tremble. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps.
He kept his rhythm steady. His thumb on her clit. His finger circling her entrance. His other hand holding her hip, keeping her upright.
The wave crested. Her body arched. A cry tore from her throat, loud and echoing off the marble walls. The shockwaves pulsed through her, starting at her core and radiating outward, through her chest, her limbs, her fingertips.
"Yeah," Philip whispered, his voice thick with lust. "That's my girl."
She sagged against him. Her forehead rested on his shoulder. Her breath came in ragged pulls.
He gave her a moment. His hands gentle now, stroking her back, her hair.
Then he spoke. "Are you really a virgin?" His voice was curious, not accusatory. "Or are you preparing how to act during sex?"
She didn't answer immediately. The steam curled around them. The water continued its endless fall.
She lifted her head. Looked at him. His grey eyes were waiting.
"I really have no clue what to do during sex," she admitted. "But I've watched things. Videos. I know the general... mechanics." She paused. Swallowed. "I am a virgin. But I'm not innocent. I know what I want. I know what my body likes. I've just never had someone to do it with."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "A horny virgin, I guess."
She felt her face heat. "Something like that."
He kissed her. Soft this time. Almost tender. "I like it. I like that you know what you want."
His hands found her hips. He spun her slowly, turning her to face the glass wall. The surface was already misted, droplets running down in long streaks. Her reflection was a blurred shape, ghostly in the steam.
He stepped close behind her. His chest pressed against her back. His mouth found her ear.
"Watch," he whispered.
His hand slid down her stomach, his fingers finding her again. She watched their reflection in the fogged glass, the shadow of his hand moving between her legs.
His other hand gripped her hip, steadying her. She felt the press of him against her backside. The heat of him. The hard length of him.
He positioned himself. She felt the head of his cock pressing against her entrance.
"Relax," he murmured against her ear. "Breathe."
She inhaled. Exhaled.
He pushed inside.
She gasped. A sharp, startled sound. The stretch of it, the fullness. Her fingers splayed against the glass, nails scraping the wet surface.
"Mr. Dawson..." she whispered.
He leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear. "This night belongs to us, Ms. Vale."
He began to move slowly. Small thrusts, shallow at first. Letting her adjust to the feel of him. His hand stayed on her hip, guiding her, steadying her.
Her breath came in short, sharp pulls. Her forehead pressed against the glass. The steam condensed on her skin, mixing with the sweat already forming.
He thrust deeper. She moaned, a low sound that echoed off the marble.
"You feel..." He paused, his voice strained. "You feel perfect."
He moved faster. His rhythm built, a steady, driving pace. Her body rocked with each thrust. Her breasts pressed against the cold glass, the contrast of heat and cool sending sparks through her nerves.
His hand came up, tangling in her wet hair. He pulled her head back gently, exposing her throat. His mouth found the curve of her neck, kissing, biting softly.
"Harder," she whispered.
He froze. His hips stilled. "What?"
She turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder. Water dripped from her lashes. "Harder. I want more."
He studied her face. Whatever he saw there made his eyes darken.
He pulled out slowly. Then slammed back in.
She cried out. Her hands scrabbled at the glass, leaving streaks in the mist.
"Yes," she gasped. "Like that."
He found his rhythm again. Harder now. Deeper. Each thrust drove her against the glass. The sound of their bodies, wet and slapping, filled the enclosure.
Her fingers clawed at the misted glass, leaving marks. The pleasure built again, coiling in her belly, tighter than before.
He pulled her hair again, harder this time. A sharp tug that arched her spine.
"You want me rough?" His voice was a growl. "Is that what you want?"
"Yes," she whispered. "Please."
The word seemed to break something in him. He released her hair, his hand sliding around to her throat. He gripped her, not tight enough to cut off air, but enough to apply pressure. Enough to make her feel his strength.
"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the water.
"Yes," she breathed. "Yes."
He increased his pace. His thrusts came harder, faster. The sound of skin on skin echoed off the walls. The steam swirled around them, thick and hot.
She felt the pressure building again. Her body was shaking. Her legs barely held her. If not for his hand on her throat, his body pressed against her back, she would have collapsed.
"I'm close," she gasped.
"Me too," he replied.
His hand tightened on her throat. Not choking, just holding. The pressure of his palm against her pulse. The weight of his fingers.
His thrusts became frantic. Desperate.
"Come with me," he said. "Now."
The wave broke. She shattered. A cry tore from her throat, loud and raw. Her body clenched around him, pulsing with release.
He followed a moment later. A low groan escaped his lips. His hips drove forward once more, burying himself deep. She felt the warmth of his release, flooding inside her.
They stayed like that for a long moment. Both of them trembling. Both of them spent.
His hand released her throat. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her back against his chest. They slid down together, collapsing onto the stone bench in the corner of the shower.
The water continued to fall around them. Warm and endless.
She turned her head, resting her cheek against his chest. His heart pounded against her ear, a rapid counterpoint to her own racing pulse.
"That was..." She couldn't find the words.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Yeah."
They sat there, tangled together, the water washing away the sweat and the evidence of what they'd done. The mirrors reflected them back, a blurred image of two bodies, intertwined.
She felt him soften inside her. A strange intimacy in the aftermath.
"We should clean up," he said eventually. But he made no move to rise.
"In a minute," she murmured.
He laughed softly. "Okay."
The water ran over them, warm and steady. The steam began to thin. The world outside the glass enclosure slowly came back into focus.
She traced a pattern on his chest with her finger. A circle. Then another.
"What happens now?" she asked.
He was quiet for a moment. His hand came up, stroking her wet hair.
"Now," he said, "we dry off. We sleep. And tomorrow..." He paused. "Tomorrow we figure out the rest."
She nodded against his chest.
He reached up, turning off the water. The silence that followed was profound. Only their breathing remained. The drip of water from their bodies. The distant hum of the city below.
He helped her to her feet. They stepped out of the shower. He grabbed a towel from a warming rack and wrapped it around her shoulders. Then he took one for himself.
She watched him as he dried off. His body was powerful, yes, but there was something else. A vulnerability in the way he moved. The way his eyes kept finding hers.
"Philip," she said.
He looked up.
"Thank you."
He tilted his head. "For what?"
She didn't answer. Just smiled. Pulled the towel tighter around herself.
He didn't press. Just took her hand.
They walked back into the bedroom. He pulled back the covers on the bed. She slipped under them, the cool sheets a contrast to her still-warm skin.
He joined her a moment later. His arm found her waist, pulling her back against his chest. His body curled around her, warm and solid.
She felt his breath on the back of her neck. Slow. Steady.
"Sleep," he murmured.
She closed her eyes.
The last thing she felt, as consciousness began to fade, was his hand finding hers. His fingers lacing through her own. A simple gesture. A promise.
She slept.
And somewhere in the darkness of the penthouse, the city continued its endless hum. The lights flickered. The world turned.
But for now, for this moment, there was only this room. This bed. This man.
There was only him.
She slept.
And the night held them both.
=======================================
The first light came slow through the windows, grey turning to pale gold, the city emerging from shadow inch by inch. She woke before him. A rare thing. His arm was still draped across her waist, heavy and warm. His breath moved against her shoulder in a steady rhythm she didn't want to disturb.
She turned her head. Just slightly. Enough to see the shape of him in the half-dark. His face was different in sleep. The hard lines softened. The perpetual tension around his eyes, gone. He looked younger. Almost gentle. She filed that image away somewhere safe.
She slipped out from under his arm with careful movements. The sheets whispered. He didn't stir. She found her clothes from the night before, scattered across the floor, and dressed quietly. The bathroom mirror showed her a version of herself she barely recognized. Hair loose and tangled. Lips still slightly swollen. A faint mark on her neck where his mouth had been. She touched it. A bruise blooming. She didn't mind.
When she came out, he was awake. Sitting up against the headboard, sheets pooled at his waist. His grey eyes tracked her across the room.
"You're up early," he said. His voice was rough with sleep.
"I'm always up early."
"I know." He rubbed a hand over his face. "Coffee?"
"I can make it."
"I know you can." He swung his legs over the side of the bed. "But I asked."
She followed him out of the bedroom. The penthouse was different in the morning light. Softer. The sharp edges of the architecture blunted by the pale sun. He moved through the kitchen with the same precision he brought to everything. Measuring beans. Grinding them. The ritual was almost meditative.
She sat at the island. Watched him. The muscles in his back shifted beneath his skin as he worked. He'd pulled on a pair of loose sleep pants but nothing else. The scars on his shoulder, faint silver lines she'd noticed before but never asked about.
"You're staring," he said without turning.
"You're worth staring at."
He glanced over his shoulder. One eyebrow raised. "That's forward."
"It's honest."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. He turned back to the coffee. The grinder whirred. The scent of fresh beans filled the air.
When the coffee was ready, he poured two cups. Black for himself. He paused. Looked at her. "Cream? Sugar?"
"Both. Two sugars."
He prepared it without comment. Slides the cup across the island. She wrapped her fingers around the warmth. He leaned against the counter opposite her, his own cup in hand. The silence between them was comfortable. Not the loaded quiet of the office. Something else. Something new.
"So," he said. "The office this week."
She took a sip. "The Mercer deal closed on Wednesday. That was the big one."
"I know. I was there." He paused. "I meant... you. How was your week. Outside of the deals."
She looked at him over the rim of her cup. "You're asking how I am?"
"I'm asking how your week was. Same thing."
She considered that. "Busy. Long. The usual."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the answer I have."
He set his cup down. Crossed his arms. "We're not at the office, Mildred. I'm not sitting across from you as your CEO." He held her gaze. "Feel free to ask about me."
She smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. A thin, careful thing. "What's the first thing you remember about your parents?"
He blinked. Not expecting that. "That's... not what I expected."
"Too much?"
"No." He shook his head slowly. "Just surprising."
He was quiet for a moment. His eyes drifted somewhere past her, past the walls. Into memory. She waited. The coffee cooled in her hands.
"I remember my mother's laugh," he said finally. "She laughed with her whole body. Head back, eyes closed. My father used to say she could light up a room just by walking into it." He paused. "He wasn't wrong."
Mildred didn't speak. Just listened.
"What were you and your brothers like?" she asked. "Before."
The word hung there. Before. They both knew what it meant.
He moved to the stool beside her. Not touching. But close. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him.
"We were... loud," he said. "Richard was always the instigator. Jeremy was his accomplice. Francis was the quiet one. Always watching. Always thinking." He picked up his coffee again. "I was the oldest. The responsible one. The one who made sure they didn't burn the house down."
"Were you always that way? Responsible?"
"When you're the oldest, you don't get a choice."
She nodded. She understood that.
"We used to spend summers at the cape," he continued. "A house my grandfather owned. Right on the water. Richard would sail. Jeremy would fish. Francis would sit on the porch with a book, but he was always paying attention. Always knew where everyone was." He took a sip of coffee. "I was the one who kept time. Told everyone when to come in for dinner. Made sure no one drowned."
"Do you still go? To the cape?"
The light in his eyes dimmed. "Grandfather sold it. After."
The silence stretched. Tick, tick, tick. The sun moved higher. The city beyond the windows woke fully, a distant murmur of traffic, the planes crossing the sky.
"Richard's fourteenth birthday," she said carefully. "You mentioned it. Before."
He set his coffee down. His jaw tightened. "Three days before. They were flying back from Brussells. My mother had a meeting. My father went with her." He stopped. Started again. "There was a storm. Wind shear. The pilot couldn't..."
He didn't finish.
Mildred reached out. Her hand covered his on the counter. He didn't pull away.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Everyone's sorry." His voice was flat. Not cruel. Just tired. "Sorry doesn't change anything."
"I know."
He looked at her. Really looked.
"Their deaths shaped us," he said. "All of us. We might have lost them, but we're still standing. Together. Grandfather held us when we were falling apart. Held the whole thing together. He's the reason we didn't shatter."
Mildred's eyes burned. She blinked. A tear slipped free. She wiped it before it could fall.
"You're the first person who's ever... apart from my brothers and my grandfather." His voice caught. He cleared his throat. "The first to wipe my tears."
She looked at him then. The tears were there. In his eyes. He was barely holding them back. She reached up. Her hand found his cheek. Her thumb traced the line beneath his eye. He turned his head into her touch. His eyes closed.
"It's okay," she whispered. "You don't have to be strong with me."
He opened his eyes. They were wet. He didn't blink. Didn't look away.
"I don't know how to be anything else."
She held his gaze. "Then let me teach you."
He stared at her for a long moment. The air between them was thick with something she couldn't name. Something that felt like trust. Like surrender. Like the beginning of something neither of them was ready to define.
Then he exhaled. A long, slow breath. He pulled back slightly. Not away. Just... recentering. The stony mask slid back into place. But softer now. More porous.
"Enough," he said. His voice was steadier. "I'm being emotional. We have a lot to do today."
"The first honest moment we've had and you're calling it a day?"
He shot her a look. But there was a glint of humor in it. A crack in the armor.
"I know what's underneath," he said. "It's not all this cold shell you've built," she said. She let her hand fall from his face. It slid down. Found his hand again. Squeezed. "You don't have to hide from me."
He was quiet. Then his hand tightened around hers. A silent acknowledgment. A surrender he wouldn't put words to.
They finished breakfast without further emotional excavation. But something had shifted. The air between them was different. Lighter. The silence no longer a barrier. A bridge.
As she stacked the dishes, he spoke again.
"When was the last time you bought clothes for yourself? Things you wanted. Not because you needed them."
She turned. Frowning. "What?"
"Clothes. Shoes. Things to make you feel like a person, not just an employee."
She blinked. Considered the question. "Six months, maybe? I needed new interview clothes last fall."
"Not needed. Wanted."
She didn't answer.
He stood. Crossed to her. Took the plates from her hands. Set them aside.
"You've been taking care of everyone else your whole life," he said. His voice was quiet. Firm. "Your family. Your job. Me. This weekend. When was the last time someone took care of you?"
"I don't need—"
"I know you don't need." He interrupted. "That's not the point. I want to."
She swallowed. "Philip."
"We're going shopping today." He said it like a decision. Because it was. "You're going to pick out things you love. Things that make you feel good. And I'm going to pay for all of it. No protest." He paused. "No ifs, no buts. Let me handle this. I won't take no."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. The protest died on her tongue. The look on his face, the earnestness there, stopped her cold. He wanted this. Not to control. Not to own. Just to give. To give back for reasons he wasn't saying.
She nodded. Once. Small and quiet.
"Okay."
He studied her face. "Good."
He picked up his coffee. Drank the rest. Then he set the cup in the sink.
"Meet me downstairs in an hour. Dress comfortable." He paused at the doorway, turning back. "And Mildred?"
"Yes?"
"This is what it looks like. Taking care of someone." His voice dropped. "Get used to it."
He disappeared down the hall. She heard the shower start in the distance. She stood alone in the kitchen. Heart pounding. The morning sun on her face. The sensation of standing at the edge of something vast and unknown.
She was falling. And for the first time, she wasn't afraid of the ground.
She was afraid of what would happen when she landed.