Page 46 of Playing the Field

I’ve never felt safe like this before.

And that scares the absolute hell out of me.

Graham sighs, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek. “You think I don’t know that?”

His voice is softer now. Less teasing, more something else. Something serious.

I lift my head, and he’s already watching me. Those blue eyes sharp, unreadable, studying me like he’s trying to figure out exactly what I’m thinking.

I swallow hard. “Then tell me. What are we doing?”

His fingers trace slow circles against my back. “I don’t know yet.”

It’s honest. Maybe too honest.

I bite my lip, my stomach flipping with uncertainty. “That’s not very reassuring.”

His lips twitch. “I never promised reassurance.”

I huff out a laugh, despite myself, and that tiny flicker of amusement—it shouldn’t make the tension crack. But it does. Just a little.

Then, Graham shifts, sitting up, taking me with him.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice low, almost coaxing. “Shower first. Talk after.”

I hesitate. I should say no. I should tell him I need space, time to think.

But instead, I let him pull me to my feet, let his fingers slide between mine as he tugs me toward the bathroom.

Which is ridiculous.

Not just in a wow, this is fancy way, but in an I think I just stepped into the spa section of a five-star resort kind of way. The kind of luxury that makes my brain short-circuit because who actually lives like this?

Everything is sleek, modern, and exudes quiet, understated wealth. The kind that doesn’t need to scream money because it just is money. Smooth black marble stretches across the double vanity, speckled with subtle veins of white and gold. Above it, an oversized mirror is backlit, casting a soft, warm glow that makes the space feel impossibly elegant.

To the right, a glass-walled shower dominates the room, so massive it could probably fit an entire rugby team. The dark tiles are a deep slate, with a rainfall showerhead mounted into the ceiling and multiple side jets embedded into the walls. Because of course Graham Callahan wouldn’t settle for just one option—why not have an entire hydrotherapy experience every time he showers?

And then there’s the tub.

It’s the kind of thing you only see in high-end architectural magazines—a freestanding, matte black soaking tub positioned beneath a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the city skyline. Because of course. Of course, he has a view. Because the world apparently needs to look just as expensive from inside his bathroom as it does from his penthouse.

Everything smells insanely good, too. Subtle, masculine. A mix of cedarwood and something fresh, clean, like bergamot. His scent lingers in the air, curling into my senses, making it impossible to forget where I am and who I’m here with.

I drag my fingers over the marble countertop, barely registering the warm towel warmer built into the vanity or the high-tech touchscreen panel next to the mirror that probably controls everything.

This bathroom is indulgence. Decadence.

And I have absolutely no business being here.

Yet, when Graham steps behind me, his hands sliding over my hips, his lips ghosting against the shell of my ear, my last coherent thought is⁠—

Maybe, just for a little while, I don’t care.

He turns the shower on and tests the water before pulling me inside with him. We had sex last night and it was mind-blowing — the man’s stamina is unreal — but with all his naked flesh on display, I feel my mouth go dry. I glance down and see that he’s hard, his erection reaching his navel. It feels so clichéd to mention the size of his cock, but it’s a tight fit when he’s inside me. And the stretch is downright delicious. He clears his throat as he steps under the hot spray, and I feel my cheeks warm from embarrassment. He caught me staring and while I should probably be a bit more bashful about it, I tilt my chin and meet his heated gaze. He smirks and that little lift of his lips makes my insides tighten with anticipation. I watch as he soaps himself up, the rich aroma of his body wash filling the space as the steam billows up and up and up. God, this man is sexy. My gaze catches on his new tattoo — an intricate map of Cape Town, the place we met. He moves one hand over the ink, as if he knows that’s what I’m looking at, and then slides it down his abdomen to his erection. He fists himself and slides his soapy hand up and down at a slow, deliberate pace.

“Come closer,” he says, his voice hoarse.

Like a Marionette puppet, I obey. Until we’re standing toe-to-toe.