SOLD TO AUGUST CHILDE

009

AUGUST

Shit.

Shit s**t s**t.

I knew she was packing heat under that thin T-shirt. I’d felt the curves when I carried her, the weight of her in my arms, the way her body molded into mine. But nothing had prepared me for the moment the fabric cleared her head and those full, perfect breasts bounced free.

My eyes locked on them, as if they were the only thing in the room. In the whole damn world.

Time slowed. Everything else disappeared.

She moved fast. Hands flying up to cover herself. That little action snapped me out of whatever trance I’d fallen into, like a cold splash of water to the face.

I cleared my throat. Loud and forced. My pulse thundering in my ears. I reached for the soap and sponge I’d already set on the wide marble ledge. The steam curled around us, thick and warm, heavy in the air.

Ama had told me Camilla cried herself to sleep on the floor last night. The image clung to me, heavy as guilt, pressing into my chest. The guilt had sat heavy in my gut all morning.

I hadn’t meant to lose it when I caught her trying to run. Seeing her bolt for the elevator flipped a switch in my head. The dark one. The one I usually keep locked down tight. Before I could pull it back, the whip was in my hand and her tears flowing freely.

I still didn’t know why I’d paid twenty million for her. Why I couldn’t just walk away from that club and leave her in Rico’s cage.

All I knew was the second she glared at me from that stage, something possessive roared awake. Something that said mine.

The bathroom smelled of soap, citrus, and warm marble. Steam rose in lazy coils, wrapping us in its haze.

I lathered the sponge until thick suds dripped from it. Started on her back on purpose. Kept my eyes fixed on the smooth line of her spine, memorizing every subtle curve, every shift of her shoulder blades.

I tried not to look down. Tried not to let my gaze drift to the way the water beaded on her skin.

Damn this girl.

She had me completely undone. Me, August Childe, the man who stared down boardrooms full of sharks, who closed billion-dollar deals with nothing more than a steady gaze and a single raised brow, was now standing in my own bathroom, heart slamming against my ribs, palms slick with more than just bathwater.

Every thought in my head had narrowed to her. To her body. To the way she moved, the way she shivered under my touch. All because of her.

The steam rose thick around us, warm and heavy, clinging to my skin like a second layer. It made my clothes stick in uncomfortable ways, but I didn’t care. The water below me rippled lazily, reflecting the soft light from the overhead lamps, the marble gleaming and slick under my feet.

I’d stepped into the tub fully clothed—sweatpants and T-shirt now plastered to me, dark and transparent, outlining every line of muscle, every tense inch of my body. I didn’t care.

The heat of the water soaked through, but it was nothing compared to the fire licking under my skin every time I touched her, every time I imagined what she might do next, or how she’d react.

I forced myself to maintain some control. But God, it was impossible. Her skin was silk under the suds, warm and flushed from the heat, and every tiny shiver that ran through her body traveled straight to my c**k, demanding attention I wasn’t ready to give.

A soft moan escaped her lips.

My gaze snapped up. Her head was tipped back, eyes closed, and dark lashes fanned against her cheeks. Lips parted just enough to let another breathy sound slip free.

She liked it. f**k, she liked it.

I dragged the sponge higher, circling her shoulders, then let it drift down again. The sides of her breasts first—soft, teasing brushes that made her breath hitch. Then over the peaks. Her n*****s were already tight and dark against her skin, begging for attention. I circled them slowly, pressing just enough to make the friction delicious.

Another moan. Deeper this time. Throatier.

Her hand moved. Fingers trailing down her flat stomach, inching toward the place between her thighs where I knew she was already wet, already aching.

I caught her wrist. Smacked it away. Sharp enough to sting.

“Don’t.”

Her eyes flew open. Dark, glassy with need. “Please… please let me.”

The plea in her voice nearly broke me. For a moment, I had to stop myself from doing exactly what she asked, from letting everything I’d been holding back just collapse. My chest tightened. My palms slicked further. I leaned in closer, brushing my chest against her through the soaked fabric of my shirt, just enough to remind myself I was still in control.

I pressed the sponge harder against her n*****s, slow drags that pinched and rolled the sensitive buds. She arched into it, a whimper spilling out. Her hips rocked forward instinctively, chasing the pressure, chasing release. I felt the tremor start in her thighs, felt her body coil tight—right on the edge.

And I stopped. Pulled the sponge away completely.

She cursed under her breath, low and frustrated. “You asshole.”

I laughed—low, rough, and edged with hunger. “You have to beg me to make you come, princess. Your whole being belongs to me now.”

She chuckled, but the sound was breathless and shaky. That fire I craved sparked in her eyes again. “So that’s why you paid that much, huh? Couldn’t get a girl to f**k you, so you bought one who wouldn’t complain.”

My hand moved before I could think. Wrapped around her throat—not choking, just holding… tightly.

“Watch it, Camilla.”

She huffed, defiant even now, but she didn’t push further. The way she held herself made my chest tighten in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

When I was done, I helped her stand. Water sluiced down her body, tracing paths I wanted to follow with my tongue. She shivered slightly, hugging herself, and I could feel the tension in her muscles, the shyness and defiance mingling in a way that made my chest pound.

I wrapped her in the thickest towel, warm from the heater, and tucked it around her like she was something precious. She shivered again, hugging it close, eyes flicking up to mine for a brief, silent acknowledgment.

“Wait for me outside,” I said, voice gravel-rough, careful, and steady. “I’m coming.”

She nodded. “Thanks.”

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts, my body, and the steam. I peeled off my clothes in seconds. Sweatpants dragged down my thighs. T-shirt yanked over my head. Boxers last. My c**k sprang free—thick, heavy, and already leaking at the tip. The cool air hit my overheated skin, and I hissed.

I wrapped my fist around myself. One hard stroke. Then another. The memory of her moans, the way her n*****s pebbled under the sponge, the defiant spark in her glare when she pushed back—it all slammed into me, every nerve screaming.

I was still stroking—rough, desperate—when the door opened again.

Camilla stepped inside. Froze.

Her eyes dropped straight to my c**k. Wide. Dark. Hungry.

She licked her lips. Slowly. A pink flash of tongue that sent heat roaring through me, coursing down to the tips of my fingers.

That was all it took.

I came hard. A low groan tore from my throat. Thick ropes spilled over my fist and my stomach. Wave after wave until my vision blurred and my knees threatened to give.

When the last shudder left me, I looked up.

She cleared her throat. Dragged her gaze back to my face. Cheeks flushed deep pink.

“Someone is at the door, Mr. Childe.”