The corridor to my room stretches endlessly. I'm cradled against Hugh's chest, my face pressed into the curve of his neck where his scent is strongest—cedar and something spicy underneath.
Each breath I take steadies me a little more, the panic receding as his warmth seeps through my feverish skin.
"Almost there," he says, his voice rough in a way I've never heard before.
I shouldn't feel safe like this. I'm burning alive and nothing makes sense, but his arms around me feel like the only solid thing in a world spinning apart.
He kicks my bedroom door shut behind us and the click of the lock sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room.
He carefully lowers me onto the bed and the loss of his body is a physical ache in my lower belly. Immediately my skin is screaming. The dress—this beautiful, expensive dress I spent hours choosing—feels like sandpaper against my oversensitive skin.
"I can't… It burns… Everything is…" I whimper.
What is happening to me? What’s wrong with my body? Why do I feel like a cat in heat and a firefighter at the same time?
The panic hits full force immediately. That champagne…
“Am I drugged? Henry gave me champagne and I don’t remember if I drank it and… Oh my god… Am I going to die at my own birthday party?”
"Claire." Hugh drops to his knees beside the bed, his hands framing my face, forcing me to look at him. "Listen to me. You haven't been drugged, you're not poisoned. And you're going to be okay."
"Then what…" My hands are clawing at my dress, trying to get it off, trying to get relief from fabric that feels like it's attacking me. "What's happening to me?"
His jaw tightens, and I catch something flickering in those gray eyes—knowledge he's not sharing. "I can't explain everything right now, but I'm going to take care of you. I swear on my life, you're safe with me."
"That's not an answer!" I'm sobbing now, frustration mixing with panic and this overwhelming need that's building in my core like a dam about to burst.
He clearly knows something, he’s so certain it's not drugs, and still he’s not telling me!
"You didn’t drink the champagne, I’ve seen it. Trust me." His voice drops lower, almost a plea. "Please, Claire. Just… trust me."
But I can't think about trust or answers or anything except this unbearable heat. "I can't. The dress… I need it off."
Without hesitation, he reaches for the zipper. His movements are controlled, clinical, but I can see the war he's fighting—the tension in his jaw, the way his hands aren't quite steady as he peels the dress away from my burning skin.
He leaves me in just my matching black lace underwear, and the relief of cool air makes me gasp.
It helps, for about five seconds. Then the heat is back, worse than before, and there's this ache low in my belly that's growing into something desperate and overwhelming.
"Please." I don't even know what I'm begging for. "Please do something. Help me. I want… I need…"
My hand reaches for him, grasping his shirt, muscles refusing to let go.
I need him.
The thought is immediate, almost instinctive. But it feels so right. That strange certainty that he’s the only one who can make it go away, who can make it better, who can help me.
The only one who can touch me.
Driven by instincts I don't understand, my shaking hands fumble with the buttons of his shirt. When that proves too difficult, they migrate toward his belt with single-minded determination.
He catches my wrists, but doesn't let go—just holds them while his thumb presses against my racing pulse.
"Claire, you don't know what you're asking. You're only nineteen, you're Richard's daughter. Your father is downstairs right now, and I'm..." He swallows hard. "This is wrong on every level that really matters."
"I don't care." More tears spill over. "I don't care about any of that. Just make it stop… Please make it stop."
Something breaks in his expression and he closes his eyes for a long moment.
When he opens them again, there's this strange shade of amber mixed with the gray. "Tell me to leave. Tell me to send someone else. Your father, a doctor, anyone but me. Reject me."
"No…" I'm crying in earnest now, overwhelmed and frustrated and burning alive. "Don't leave. Please don't leave me. I need you."
His control doesn't just crack—it shatters completely.
"Fuck," he breathes, and then he's moving with sudden decision. "Come here."
He positions himself against my headboard and pulls me up to sit between his legs, my back pressed firmly against his chest. His strong arms wrap around me from behind, one hand splaying across my stomach while the other gently tilts my head back against his shoulder.
"I've got you," he murmurs against my ear, his hand sliding down my stomach to my thigh in a way that makes me arch into him. "Just focus on me. Can you do that, sweetheart?"
I nod frantically, and then his fingers are sliding under the edge of my panties, finding where I'm already embarrassingly, desperately wet. The first touch makes me arch off the bed with a sound I didn't know I could make.
"That's it," he murmurs, his other hand pushing my hair back from my face. "Just let go and you’ll be fine, I've got you."
His fingers move with devastating precision, circling and stroking in a rhythm that makes my brain shut down entirely. Every nerve ending I have is focused on that single point of contact, the building pressure that's both relief and torture.
"Hugh…"
"I know, sweetheart… I know." His thumb finds my clit and presses in slow circles while two fingers slide inside me, and oh god, I didn't know it could feel like this.
The stretch is a bit painful but perfect. The pressure is exactly what I need, and when he curls his fingers just right I see actual stars.
That's when he does something that nearly destroys me completely.
His mouth finds the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and his tongue traces a slow, hot line up to my ear. The sensation is electric, like he's found some secret nerve that connects directly to every pleasure center in my body.
My entire spine lights up, and suddenly every touch of his fingers is magnified tenfold.
"More," I manage to gasp out. "Please… harder."
He obliges, his fingers moving faster, deeper, his palm grinding against my clit with each thrust. The pleasure builds impossibly higher, tightening like a coil in my lower belly.
"Let go," he tells me, his voice rough against my skin. "Come for me, Claire."
The words, combined with his tongue on my neck and his fingers doing absolutely sinful things, makes me come apart completely. The orgasm hits me like lightning, making me cry out and arch against him as my body clenches around his fingers.
He doesn't stop as his mouth continues its assault on my neck—licking, kissing, occasionally letting his teeth scrape gently against the sensitive skin. But relief lasts maybe thirty seconds before the burning need comes roaring back.
"I need..." I hear myself saying, almost sobbing with frustration. "It's not enough—"
"I know." He's already moving, his other hand joining the first, working me with a skill that would be embarrassing if I had any brain cells left for embarrassment. "As many times as it takes. I'll take care of it."
The second orgasm comes faster, harder, leaving me shaking and gasping.
And then the third. And fourth.
He stares down at me for a long moment, his chest rising and falling rapidly, pupils blown wide with barely controlled desire. His hands are shaking now, and when he speaks, his voice is rough with desperation.
"Claire, I need..." He swallows hard, his jaw working like he's fighting himself. "I need to taste you. I know I shouldn't, I know this is already too much, but I'm losing my fucking mind here and I really need—"
His words cut off abruptly, and he closes his eyes like he's in physical pain.
"Please," he whispers, and the word sounds torn from his throat. "Please tell me I can lick you clean."
The raw honesty in his voice, the way he's practically shaking with want, makes something deep inside me clench with desire.
"Yes," I breathe without hesitation. "Please, yes."
The sound he makes is pure relief mixed with hunger, and then he's laying me on bed, moving down my body with purpose.
The first touch of his tongue against my clit makes me scream and grab his hair with both hands. He groans against me like he's the one being pleasured, the vibration sending shockwaves through my entire body.
It makes me come again almost immediately, my back arching off the bed as I cry out his name.
He doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. Just keeps working me with his mouth and fingers, alternating between gentle teasing and devastating intensity, like he's trying to memorize every response, every sound I make.
Time becomes meaningless. It could be minutes or hours of him systematically destroying and rebuilding me, never crossing that final line but taking me to heights I didn't know existed.
My body climbs and crashes over and over—his tongue, his fingers, sometimes both together until I'm a sobbing, shaking mess of need and satisfaction.
"Please," I finally manage during a brief moment of clarity. "I need all of you."
He lifts his head, his mouth and chin glistening with evidence of what he's been doing to me, and the look in his eyes is pure torment.
"Not like this," he says firmly. "Not when you're not yourself. Not when you'll hate me tomorrow."
"I could never—"
"Shh." He presses a gentle kiss to my inner thigh. "Let me take care of you. Just this."