Dirty little secret.

Ivy.

Avoiding Patrick became impossible by noon.

Not because he chased me. 

Because he didn’t.

He moved through the house with that infuriating calm, every glance measured, every word deliberate. Meanwhile, I was falling apart.

I nearly dropped a plate when his fingers brushed mine passing the salad. I forgot what my mother asked me twice in one conversation. 

At dinner I caught myself staring at his mouth while he spoke to my father and I had to press my thighs together under the table when a rush of heat flooded between my legs.

He stayed perfectly composed.

Which only made me wetter.

By evening my parents finally left for their airport hotel. The house grew quiet the second the front door closed behind them, thick snow falling heavily outside while warm Christmas lights glowed through the rooms.

Just us.

I stood at the kitchen island pretending to scroll on my phone, but every nerve in my body was locked on him as he poured whiskey across the room. The black sweater stretched across his broad shoulders. The way his pants hugged his thighs when he moved made my mouth dry.

“You’re nervous again,” he said quietly, without even looking up.

“I’m not.”

His eyes lifted over the rim of the glass, dark and knowing.

“You start lying faster when you’re wet, Ivy.”

My breath caught. The crude word in his calm voice sent a fresh pulse of slick heat straight to my core.

I shoved my phone in my pocket. “You think you know everything about me just because you watched me fuck myself on camera?”

His gaze sharpened. He took a slow sip of whiskey and stepped closer.

“I don’t know everything,” he said, voice low. “But I know the version of you that comes alive after midnight. The one who moans like she’s starving when she rides that pink toy. The one who begs strangers to tell her how they’d ruin her.”

The words slid through me like silk and sin.

My nipples tightened painfully against my sweater.

“That girl is fake,” I whispered.

“No.” He stopped just inches away. “That’s the only version of you that isn’t apologizing for how badly she wants to be fucked.”

The air between us crackled.

I could smell him. My pussy clenched hard at the scent of whiskey on his breath.

“You make this sound so twisted,” I breathed.

“Maybe because it is.” His eyes dropped to my mouth. “And you like it.”

God, I did.

I looked away, wrapping my arms around myself, but it only made my sensitive nipples drag against the fabric.

“You know normal people would think this is insane,” I said.

A faint, dangerous smile curved his lips.

“Normal people don’t fall asleep with their hand between their legs listening to the same girl every night.”

My stomach flipped.

“You really fell asleep to my voice?”

“Many times.” He stepped even closer until I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “Cock in my fist. Your name in my throat.”

The confession hit me like a physical stroke. I was soaked.

“Ivy.”

The way he said my name now was pure filth—low, rough, intimate.

He reached up slowly and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, then let his fingers trail down the side of my neck. The touch was gentle, but his eyes promised anything but.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I hate how easily you do this to me.”

His thumb stroked along my jaw, then lower, brushing the frantic pulse in my throat.

“You do the same to me.” His voice dropped even lower. “You have no idea how many times I imagined bending you over this counter while your father was in the next room.”

I whimpered—actually whimpered—at the image.

Patrick’s control finally frayed. His hand slid to the back of my neck as he closed the last inch between us.

The kiss was hungry.

His mouth claimed mine, deep and demanding from the first second. I melted instantly, opening for him, tasting whiskey on his tongue as he backed me against the kitchen island. One large hand gripped my waist, pulling me flush against him so I could feel exactly how hard he was.

Thick. Huge. Pressed against my stomach.

A broken moan slipped out of me.

He groaned in response, the sound vibrating through my chest as he kissed me harder, tongue stroking mine possessively. His other hand slipped under the hem of my sweater, palm sliding up my bare back, hot and rough.

When he finally broke the kiss, we were both breathing hard.

His forehead rested against mine, eyes black with lust.

“There she is,” he rasped. “My dirty little secret.”

My knees nearly buckled.

That voice, the same voice that had made me come untouched on stream more than once, was now right against my lips.

His fingers flexed on my waist like he was fighting not to rip my clothes off.

“Ivy,” he said, voice strained. “Tell me to stop right now.”

I didn’t.

Instead, I fisted his sweater and pulled him back down to me.

“Don’t,” I whispered against his mouth. “Don’t you dare stop.”