Beneath His Sheets

Three

WARNING: The content is NOT suitable for ages 17 below. If you're in that age bracket, please leave this book immediately. Read at your own risk.

Grace's POV

I’m kissing him. Damien Valentini—my boss. He doesn’t recognize me, and yet here I am, pressing my lips to his.

I take my time, tracing his neck with my tongue, sucking at his skin, inhaling his scent. Jesus Christ, he smells perfect. I’ve smelled him before—lingering on his pillow, clinging to his clothes—but up close like this? Intoxicating.

Every time my tongue glides over his vein, I can feel his shaft twitch beneath me. I don’t think he notices, but I can’t stop. My hands unbutton his shirt, craving more skin, more warmth. Is this really him? Somehow, he’s being caught off guard with every move I make.

When he pulls back and mutters, “What the f*ck?” panic strikes me. Am I too forward? Too inexperienced? Obviously, I can’t match the skill of all his past conquests, but I know how to kiss. College taught me that—long hours of practice with my ex, our lips pressed together for the thrill of it.

I watch him button his shirt back up. I feel ridiculous, thinking I could ever measure up to his usual girls. I straighten my dress, ready to bolt if he rejects me, but instead, he’s leading me toward his car. I’ve seen this vehicle before—I washed it countless times—and now I’m sitting in it.

“We’re gonna… f*ck?” I whisper, the words tasting like disbelief.

“Baby, where do you think this is going?”

Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m here, why I didn’t run the moment I saw him, why I’m letting him touch me. I should’ve left when I had the chance. But frozen in place, captivated by him, all reason fled.

Damien drives us somewhere. Not home. Not his mansion. Thank God. We stop in front of a building. A valet opens my door and offers me his hand. Another man holds the passenger door—an absurdly unnecessary gesture—but I take his hand anyway.

Inside, the concierge stares. Shock, curiosity, maybe irritation—her face is a mix.

“Mr. Valentini.”

He doesn’t respond. The moment she hands him a card, he pulls me in front of the elevator. The doors haven’t opened yet, but he’s already kissing me again. I know people are watching. I don’t care. I need him. I need this.

Inside the elevator, pressed close, he doesn’t leave my lips. Even when he hits his floor, we stay locked together. I push him lightly, trying to breathe, but the world spins from lack of oxygen—and maybe a touch of alcohol.

“Baby, you gotta keep up,” he says, a teasing smile on his lips.

“I thought you don’t f*ck in hotels?”

“Other hotels,” he replies, lips twitching.

The elevator doors open to reveal a stunning living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the city lights below. A perfect view. His other place. Another space for his conquests. And yet… it’s all for me tonight.

He spins me into his chest. “I’m breaking my own rules for you. Just so I can rip this f*cking dress off you.”

Breaking rules. I barely register it before his lips are on mine again, pressing me against a door. His hands roam the back of my dress, unzipping it, leaving me almost bare, the silver fabric pooling at my feet.

I’ve always felt average. Legs that aren’t endlessly long, a waist that doesn’t scream perfection, soft places I wish weren’t. Not petite, not curvy, not model-slim—just… me. Yet here he is, pulling me closer, eyes raking over my body, and my insecurities flare. I wrap my arms around my chest, blushing crimson.

“What are you doing?” His lips hover over my neck, warm, teasing. “You can’t be that shy when your body looks remarkable.”

“I…”

My breath hitches as he kisses me there. His hands slide around my waist, peeling away my defenses. With a few steps, we’re on his bed.

Damien unclasped my bra and tossed it aside. He massages one breast, sucking the other. My whimpers escape before I can stop them. Sensitivity I didn’t know I had.

He smacks and squeezes playfully, then kneels, removing his shirt.

Holy f*ck.

Broad shoulders, firm chest, muscles rippling with each breath. Not bulky, just perfectly balanced strength and power. His tattoo along his left ribcage—“essere al settimo cielo”—catches my eye. Words curved elegantly, intimate, almost forbidden.

I resist the urge to touch him. He notices. A smirk spreads. He grabs my hand, sliding it over his chest, down his abs. “I bite, but you can touch,” he murmurs.

“You look unreal,” I admit, pressing my fingers harder on his abs. Solid. Sculpted. Perfect.

He laughs, placing my hand on his already-hard rod. “This is all your fault. You and your dress.”

I help unbutton his pants, sliding my hands beneath his boxers. Thick. Veined. Alive under my touch. He chuckles.

“Okay, playtime’s over,” he mutters.

His fingers hook on my panties, pulling them down. Without pause, his mouth finds me. My thighs drape over his shoulders, one held down. His velvet tongue explores, teasing, consuming.

“Oh, God! Dame!”

My moans grow louder. I’ve never climaxed like this before. My stomach tightens, and I clutch the sheets.

Suddenly, he pulls back, crawling to my face, his hand playing with my button just enough to keep me on edge.

“Why stop?” I gasp.

“Teasing,” he whispers. A sloppy kiss on my lips. “You taste divine.”

“I hate you,” I murmur.

“Let me change that.”

He kisses me fiercely now, slipping two fingers inside me. My gasp gives him license to deepen the kiss, tongue against tongue, while his other hand massages and pinches me perfectly.

I arch my back, losing myself in the sensations. He sucks my neck, moves to my other breast, tugging my n****e.

“Say my name,” he commands.

“Damien, please,” I beg.

“Please what?”

“I need to c*m. I’m going to cm. Please.”

He keeps his pace, his fingers and mouth orchestrating waves of pleasure I’ve never known. My body trembles, eyes rolling back, knuckles whitening as I grip the sheets.

“Oh, Dame…”