Chapter 1: Champagne and Collarbones
The penthouse air tasted like flowers and expensive soap. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Los Angeles glittered, a sprawling galaxy of artificial stars far below, indifferent to the tiny, trembling universe inside. Whitney traced the intricate ink swirls on Colson’s bare chest, her fingertip skating over the raised lines and vibrant colors. Each tattoo felt like a secret chapter she hadn’t read yet.
He poured champagne, the golden liquid fizzing violently in the crystal flute. His hand, knuckles dusted with faded ink, was steadier than hers felt. “Nervous?” His voice was rough velvet, the kind that scraped pleasantly down her spine.
“Is it that obvious?” She tried to laugh, but it came out shaky. The silk robe felt flimsy suddenly, too thin, clutched tightly closed over the lace lingerie beneath. She’d chosen it carefully – beautiful, but armor nonetheless. His eyes, dark and intense, saw right through it.
He handed her the glass, his fingers brushing hers. A spark. “Yeah. Kinda cute, actually.” He took a sip from his own glass, his gaze never leaving hers. The silence stretched, thick with anticipation and the low thrum of the city. He set his glass down on the cool marble counter with a soft clink. “You set the pace tonight, baby.” He stepped closer, the heat radiating off him tangible. “I just get to worship every inch of you.”
His words melted something inside her, a knot of anxiety loosening fractionally. Worship. Not conquer, not take. Worship. She took a gulp of champagne, the bubbles sharp and cold on her tongue.
Then his hands were on her waist, big and warm, turning her gently. Her back met the cold, unforgiving marble of the kitchen island. The contrast – the heat of him pressing close, the chill seeping through the silk at her back – made her gasp. His body caged hers, not trapping, but claiming the space. Her breath hitched.
“Colson…”
“Shhh.” His inked fingers slipped beneath the lapel of her robe, the rough pads grazing the sensitive skin just above the lace edge of her bra. The silk slid easily under his touch, pooling slightly at her elbows. He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, a low growl vibrating in his chest that she felt more than heard. “Tell me to stop and I stop.” His other hand slid down, palming the curve of her hip, possessive and grounding. “But God, Whitney… I hope you don’t.”
Her blue eyes widened. His hunger was palpable, a live wire crackling between them, yet his restraint was absolute. Held back by sheer will. For her. It was terrifying. Exhilarating. Her knuckles were white where she still gripped the robe’s belt. She couldn’t find words. Only sensation – the firm pressure of his hand on her hip, the teasing drag of his thumb along the lace at her ribs, the dizzying scent of him, clean sweat and expensive cologne and something uniquely Colson. The city lights blurred behind his shoulder.
A sharp, intrusive knock shattered the moment. “Mr. Baker? Complimentary amenities from the management.”
Colson didn’t flinch. Didn’t move his hand from her hip or his gaze from hers. He held her there, pinned not just by his body but by the intensity in his eyes. Waiting. The concierge’s voice was muffled, unimportant. A fly buzzing against the windowpane of their world.
Whitney barely registered it. Her gaze locked with his, seeing the want, the promise, the raw vulnerability he rarely showed anyone. That desperate hope beneath the growl. I hope you don’t. The last thread of her nervous hesitation snapped. A needy whimper escaped her lips, echoing softly in the vast space, as his fingers flexed possessively on her hip, pulling her just an inch closer against his hard body.
The knock came again, more hesitant this time. “Sir? Just leaving it by the door…”
Silence followed. Then retreating footsteps.
Colson’s lips curved into the faintest, most predatory smile. Her whimper was the only answer he needed. He dipped his head, his lips hovering a breath away from the frantic pulse point at the base of her throat. She arched into him instinctively, her head falling back against the cool marble, the robe slipping further open. The lace of her bra strained against the swell of her breasts.
“Mine,” he breathed against her skin, the word a vow, a brand. Not a question.
One strong arm slid behind her knees, the other wrapped securely around her back. He lifted her effortlessly off the counter. Her arms flew around his neck, clinging, the silk robe now hanging loose. He held her cradled against his chest, her legs dangling. He looked down at her, his expression fierce with tenderness and barely leashed desire. The city lights painted shifting patterns across his tattooed skin and her flushed face.
He didn’t head towards the opulent living room. He turned towards the shadowed doorway leading deeper into the penthouse suite, towards the bedroom. The forgotten champagne flutes stood sweating on the marble counter, bubbles dying in the golden liquid. The sprawling, indifferent city continued its glittering dance far below. But up here, suspended in Colson’s arms, Whitney felt the world narrow to the heat of his skin, the pounding of his heart against her side, and the thrilling unknown of the path he carried her down. The night, their night, had barely begun.
The muffled thud of the suite door closing behind them barely registered. Colson walked with purpose, carrying Whitney down the dimly lit hallway towards the master bedroom, his strides long and sure. The plush carpet swallowed the sound of his footsteps. Whitney clung to him, her arms looped tight around his neck, her face buried against the warm skin where his collarbone met his shoulder. She could feel the steady thump of his heart beneath her cheek, a counter-rhythm to the frantic flutter of her own. The air here was cooler, scented faintly of starched linen and the lingering trace of his cologne. City light, fractured by the hallway's single narrow window, painted shifting stripes across the walls as they moved.
He didn't rush. His grip was secure, almost reverent, one arm solid beneath her knees, the other wrapped firmly around her back, his large hand splayed possessively against the thin silk covering her spine. Every few steps, his thumb would stroke a slow, maddening arc against the fabric, sending fresh shivers cascading down to her toes. The robe, loosened at the counter, felt like a fragile shield about to crumble.
"Too heavy?"she murmured, his lips brushing the crown of her head. The roughness of his voice was a tangible thing in the quiet hallway.
She shook her head, her dark hair catching against his stubbled jaw. "No. Never. Are you ok?" His voice was barely a whisper, thick with an emotion she couldn't name – anticipation, yes, but something deeper, more profound. Trust. Belonging. "Just… holding on."
He made a low sound in his chest, a rumble of pure satisfaction. "Good. Hold on tight, Mrs. Baker."
Her breath caught at the name. Mrs. Baker. It still sent a jolt of disbelieving joy through her. She pressed a soft, impulsive kiss against the vibrant ink swirling over his pulse point.
He stopped walking. They were framed in the open doorway of the bedroom. Moonlight streamed through another vast window, silvering the rumpled king-sized bed, the deep pile rug, the sleek modern furniture. It was quieter here, the city's hum a distant throb. The air felt charged, thick with the unspoken promise hanging between them.
He didn't set her down. Instead, he shifted his grip, his arms tightening just slightly as he turned enough to face the moonlit room, her body still cradled against his chest. His gaze, dark and molten, locked onto hers. The intensity was almost overwhelming. Gone was the playful rockstar swagger; in its place was a raw, focused hunger, tempered only by a visible, almost painful restraint.
"C'mere," he breathed, his voice gravel scraping velvet. He eased her down slowly, incredibly slowly, letting her body slide gently against his until the soles of her bare feet touched the cool wood floor just inside the threshold. One arm remained looped around her waist, keeping her anchored against him. The front of her silk robe hung completely open now, revealing the delicate black lace bra barely containing her full breasts and the matching high-waisted panties below. The moonlight kissed the dusky gold of her skin, highlighting the soft curves he’d vowed to worship.
He didn't look down. Not yet. His eyes held hers, searching, asking a silent question. She nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. Permission. Desperation.
Only then did his gaze drop. It traveled over her exposed skin with agonizing slowness – the slope of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts rising and falling rapidly above the lace, the dip of her waist, the generous curve of her hip. A muscle ticked in his jaw, his breath escaping in a slow, controlled hiss. His free hand rose, knuckles tracing the line of her collarbone with infinite care, the faded ink stark against her skin. The touch was electrifying.
"Jesus, Whit," he rasped, the words thick. "Look at you." There was awe there, pure and simple, mixed with the heat.
He leaned in, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear. His hand slid from her collarbone, drifting lower, skimming the upper curve of her breast just above the lace. A gasp tore from her throat, her head tipping back instinctively, baring her neck to him. His lips followed the exposed column, hot and demanding, leaving a trail of fire. His other hand, still firm on her waist, slid around to the small of her back, pressing her even more firmly against the hard plane of his body. She could feel the unmistakable evidence of his need straining against his jeans, pressed against her hip.
His mouth moved to hers, capturing her gasp in a searing kiss. It wasn't gentle anymore. It was deep, claiming, a culmination of months of longing and a lifetime of waiting for this moment. His tongue swept against hers, tasting of champagne and desperation. One hand fisted gently in her long, dark hair, tilting her head for better access, while the other roamed lower, his inked fingers splaying wide over the curve of her backside, kneading lightly through the silk still tangled around her arms.
The kiss broke, both of them breathing raggedly. His forehead pressed against hers, his eyes blazing down into her wide, blue ones. "This thing," he growled, his voice a low vibration against her lips. His fingers tightened on the silk bunched around her elbows. "It's in my way."
He didn't wait. With a smooth, decisive motion, his hands moved to her shoulders. The silk, already loose and slippery, offered no resistance. He pushed the fabric down her arms in one fluid gesture, letting it slither off and pool in a whisper-soft heap around her ankles on the polished wood floor.
He pushed the fabric down her arms in one fluid gesture, letting it slither off and pool in a whisper-soft heap around her ankles on the polished wood floor.
Whitney stood utterly revealed in the moonlight, clad only in the intricate black lace. The sudden cool air raised goosebumps on her dusky skin, a stark contrast to the furnace heat radiating from Colson’s body inches away. His gaze, dark and intense, swept over her – the generous swell of her breasts above the lace cups, the soft curve of her belly, the powerful lines of her thighs. There was no hesitation, no flicker of anything but pure, unadulterated hunger mixed with a reverence that stole her breath.
"Fuck," he breathed, the word thick, almost a groan. His hands hovered just above her skin, trembling slightly. "Whit... you're..."
Words seemed to fail him. He reached out, his calloused fingers tracing the lace edge of her bra strap with infinite care, his knuckles brushing the warm skin of her shoulder. The touch was electric, sending shivers cascading down her spine. His other hand settled possessively on her hip, his thumb rubbing slow, maddening circles against the sensitive skin just above the waistband of her panties.
He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. She could feel the rapid thud of his heart against her chest, smell the faint musk of his skin beneath the expensive cologne. "Tell me," he murmured, his voice rough velvet against her lips. "Tell me this is okay. That you're mine."
His vulnerability, raw and unexpected from the man the world saw as untouchable, unraveled her last thread of self-consciousness. "Yours," she whispered back, her voice trembling but sure. She lifted her hands, framing his stubbled jaw. "Always yours, Colson."
A low growl rumbled in his chest. He kissed her then, fierce and deep, claiming her mouth with a desperation that mirrored the wild beating of her own heart. His hands roamed her back, sliding beneath the lace straps, tracing the line of her spine, pulling her impossibly closer until every inch of her was pressed against the hard planes of his body. The feel of his jeans against her bare thighs, the undeniable evidence of his need pressing against her hip – it was overwhelming, intoxicating.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. His eyes, burning with an intensity that threatened to consume her, searched hers. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. With a strength that belied the tenderness in his touch, his hands slid down her back, one firm beneath her knees, the other securing her back.
He lifted her effortlessly.
Whitney gasped, her arms instinctively tightening around his neck as her feet left the cool floor. He held her cradled against his chest, her body draped over his arms, her head nestled against his shoulder. She felt weightless, cherished, utterly safe. The city lights painted shifting patterns on his concentrated face, on the vibrant tapestry of ink covering his arms and shoulders as he held her.
He turned, his stride purposeful and steady, carrying her away from the doorway, away from the scattered silk robe, towards the massive, moonlit bed dominating the room. The distance felt vast and intimate all at once. She could feel the powerful muscles working in his arms and chest with each step, the controlled power in his movement. His gaze remained fixed on hers, a silent conversation passing between them – reassurance, possession, a shared tremor of anticipation.
The soft mattress yielded beneath her as he gently lowered her onto the cool, crisp sheets. He didn’t immediately follow. Instead, he straightened, standing tall beside the bed, his silhouette dark against the moonlit window. His eyes devoured her, lying there amidst the pale linens, bathed in silver light, the black lace stark against her skin. His chest rose and fell with deep breaths, the tattoos seeming to shift and ripple with the movement.
He slowly, deliberately, pulled his own shirt over his head, revealing the full expanse of his inked torso – the intricate designs, the lean muscle, the stories etched onto his skin. He tossed the shirt aside, his gaze never leaving hers. He placed one knee on the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning softly under his weight. He leaned over her, bracing one tattooed forearm beside her head, his free hand hovering just above the curve of her waist.
"Mrs. Baker," he murmured, his voice a low, thrilling rasp that vibrated through her entire being. His thumb finally made contact, tracing the delicate lace edge just below her navel. "Ready to let me worship you properly?"
The moonlight painted silver streaks across the rumpled sheets, catching the intricate patterns of ink swirling over Colson’s shoulders as he leaned over her. His question hung in the air, thick with promise and raw need: "Ready to let me worship you properly?"
The cool linen pressed against Whitney’s back, a stark contrast to the furnace heat radiating from Colson’s bare skin hovering inches above her. His gaze, dark and intense, locked onto hers, stripping away the last shreds of her lingering nervousness. It wasn't just desire she saw; it was reverence, a fierce protectiveness, and a vulnerability that belonged only to her. The city’s distant hum faded into the background, replaced by the frantic drumming of her own pulse in her ears and the ragged sound of his breathing.
His thumb, calloused from guitar strings, traced the delicate lace edge of her panties just below her navel. The touch was light, almost questioning, yet it sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to her core. His other hand remained braced beside her head, the muscles in his forearm taut, holding his weight, holding himself back. Waiting. The restraint was palpable, a trembling tension vibrating through him. He needed her permission. He needed her yes.
She saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, quickly masked but there – the rockstar momentarily eclipsed by the man who loved her, terrified of misstepping, of hurting her, of this not being everything she dreamed. That flicker dissolved her last hesitation. Her lips parted, her throat tight. The word felt too small, too fragile for the enormity of the moment, for the tidal wave of love and want crashing through her.
She whispers yes.
It was barely audible, a breathy sigh lost in the vast silence of the moonlit room. But Colson heard it. His eyes flared wide, dark pools reflecting the silver light, then instantly narrowed with a fierce, possessive hunger. The trembling restraint shattered.
A low groan tore from his chest, primal and raw, as he surged forward. His mouth crashed down onto hers, not gentle now, but claiming, devouring. His tongue swept against hers, tasting the faint sweetness of champagne and her own desperate need. The hand at her hip slid lower, fingers digging possessively into the soft flesh of her thigh, hauling her body flush against his. She gasped into his mouth, arching instinctively against the hard ridge of his erection straining against his jeans, pressed insistently against her hip.
He broke the kiss only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin where her pulse hammered wildly. His free hand slid up her side, rough fingertips catching on the lace of her bra before finding the clasp. A deft flick, a soft snick, and the constriction vanished. He pushed the lace aside, his palm engulfing the full, heavy weight of her breast, his thumb rasping over her taut nipple.
Whitney cried out, her head falling back against the pillow, fingers tangling in his messy dark hair. The sensation was overwhelming – the heat of his mouth on her neck, the rough, possessive kneading of his hand, the sheer size and strength of him pinning her to the bed. "Colson..." His name was a plea, a gasp.
"Look at me," he growled against her skin, his voice thick, ragged. He lifted his head, his gaze molten as it dropped to where his hand covered her breast, his thumb circling her nipple with deliberate, torturous slowness. "See what you do to me? See how fucking beautiful you are?" His thumb pressed harder, eliciting another sharp gasp. "All mine."
His mouth descended again, this time capturing the peak he’d been tormenting. The wet heat, the suction, the scrape of his teeth – it sent shockwaves through her, coiling tension low in her belly. She writhed beneath him, her hips lifting off the mattress seeking friction, seeking him. His hand left her breast, sliding down her trembling stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her lace panties. He paused, his fingertips brushing the soft curls below, his gaze locking back onto hers, seeking confirmation, seeking surrender.
Her blue eyes, wide and dark with desire, met his. No words were needed. She arched her hips, pressing herself against his seeking hand, a silent, desperate invitation. A feral sound escaped him. His fingers slid lower, parting her folds, finding the slick heat waiting for him. The first deliberate stroke against her clit drew a choked sob from her lips. Her legs fell open wider, knees bending, heels digging into the mattress.
"Fuck, Whit," he breathed, watching her face intently as his fingers began a slow, relentless rhythm, circling, pressing, dipping slightly inside her wetness before returning to the swollen bud. "So wet. So ready for me." His voice was a dark caress. "Tell me how it feels."
"Good," she gasped, her voice trembling. "So good... don't stop..."
He didn't. His fingers worked her with devastating precision, his gaze never leaving her face, cataloging every gasp, every flutter of her eyelids, every hitch in her breath. His other hand slid back up to cradle her breast, thumb resuming its maddening circles on her nipple. The dual assault was relentless, pushing her higher, tightening the coil inside her until her entire body trembled with the strain. She clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging into the ink-stained skin, lost in the sensations he orchestrated.
His rhythm changed, fingers sliding deeper inside her this time, curling slightly, finding a spot that made her cry out sharply, her back arching violently off the bed. "There?" he rasped, his own breathing harsh now, his hips grinding unconsciously against the mattress beside her thigh. "That's it, baby. Come for me. Let me feel you."
The command, rough and urgent, shattered her last vestige of control. The coil snapped. Pleasure, white-hot and blinding, exploded through her, radiating out from her core in pulsing waves. She cried out, a sound ripped from deep within her, her body convulsing against his hand, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically around his fingers. Stars burst behind her closed eyelids as the world dissolved into pure, shuddering sensation.
Colson watched her climax with fierce intensity, his jaw clenched, his own body rigid with barely contained need. He kept his fingers moving inside her, gentling the strokes as the tremors subsided, prolonging the aftershocks until she lay boneless beneath him, gasping, her chest heaving, a sheen of sweat glistening on her skin in the moonlight.
He slowly withdrew his hand, bringing his wet fingers to his lips. His eyes, dark and predatory, held hers as he deliberately sucked them clean, tasting her. The sight sent a fresh, unexpected jolt of heat through her spent body.
"Just the beginning, Mrs. Baker," he promised, his voice a low, thrilling rasp thick with his own unsated hunger. He shifted his weight, his hands going to the button of his jeans. The metallic rasp was loud in the quiet room. "My turn."