Chapter 77: Morning After

NOAH

The first thing I became aware of wasn’t the sunlight or the soft hum of the hotel’s air conditioning. It was the fact that I had been hit by a freight train. Or perhaps a freight train had hit me, backed up, and hit me again for good measure.

I lay face-down in the pillows, my brain a sluggish puddle of gray matter. For one blissful, sweet, ignorant second, I existed in a vacuum. Then, like a dam bursting, the memories of the previous night came roaring back in high-definition, 4K resolution.

The club. The photo. The jealousy. The toys.

The begging.

“Oh—god,” I muffled into the silk pillowcase, the sound coming out as a pathetic, gravelly croak. I didn’t move. If I didn’t move, maybe physics would stop applying to me and I would simply phase through the mattress and disappear into the floorboards. “Someone shoot me.”

I did a mental inventory of my body, and the report was grim. My wrists were throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache where the silk restraints had held me. When I finally dared to lift an arm, I saw the faint, telltale red bands circling my skin… a literal souvenir of my own bad decisions. My jaw felt like I’d spent eight hours chewing on a particularly stubborn piece of leather. My throat was raw. My lips were so puffy I felt like a botched Botox ad.

And then there was the rest of me.

Every time I shifted, my body sent a memo to my brain: Everything is sensitive. Everything hurts. Also, you have no dignity left. Please exit the premises. My nipples brushed against the sheets and I nearly hissed. They were swollen and so oversensitized that even the air felt like an insult. Lower down, the lingering ache of being stretched… of being ruined… made me feel heavy and hollow all at once. Even though I was alone, my body was still reacting, my cock half-hard and tender, coated in a sticky residue that reminded me exactly whose hands (and mouth) had been where.

I am a disgrace, I thought, staring at the wall. I am a fallen man. I have been dismantled and reassembled into a puddle of absolute shame.

I winced as I shifted on the bed.

“I’m never drinking again,” I told the ceiling. “I am a saint now. I am a monk. I will join a monastery and dedicate my life to silence and sensible shoes.”

Seriously, every catastrophic decision in my life started with a drink. Getting drunk was why I’d gotten into that ridiculous contract with Cassian in the first place. Getting drunk was why I’d sent that photo to provoke him.

A sharp ding from the nightstand made me flinch. I reached out with a trembling hand, hoping it was a message from the universe saying it was all a dream.

It was my mother.

MOM: Noah, why are you being so stubborn? Your father is waiting for an apology. Just call him and say you’re sorry for being disrespectful. Don’t let your pride ruin your family.

I stared at the screen, a bubble of hysterical laughter rising in my chest. Pride? Mom, I don’t have pride anymore. Cassian Wolfe took my pride, put it in a blender, and fed it to me for dinner. I’m currently wondering if I’ll ever be able to walk in a straight line again, and you want me to apologize for being “disrespectful”?

I dropped the phone. The sour mood from the family drama mixed with the physical aftermath of Cassian’s “punishment” created a very specific, very volatile cocktail in my chest.

How did he even know how to do all that? Where does a man learn to be that specifically, artistically sadistic? Was there a class in prison? Advanced Petty Retribution 101?

And that was the worst part. He’d admitted it. He’d ignored me on purpose. He’d watched me spiral like a Victorian debutante having a breakdown, watched me send that stupid photo to provoke him, and he’d just waited. He’d let me play right into his hands.

I wasn’t just his assistant. I was his favorite plaything, and I’d basically wrapped myself in gift paper and handed him the scissors.

I turned my head toward the nightstand and saw it. A piece of crisp, cream-colored hotel stationery. The handwriting was neat, slanted, and utterly authoritative.

Noah,

Put the toy I left in the drawer inside you before you join me for breakfast.

Don’t make me wait.

— C

I stared at the note. I read it three times. Then I looked at the drawer.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I whispered to the empty room.

I leaned over… wincing as my core muscles screamed in protest… and yanked the drawer open. There it was. A sleek, black vibrating plug. It was smaller than the one from the night before, shiny and modern, looking more like a high-end tech gadget than an instrument of my continued humiliation. Next to it sat a fresh tube of lube.

The sheer, unmitigated gall of the man.

The old Noah… the one from twenty-four hours ago… might have obeyed. He would have been too flustered, too overwhelmed by the lingering heat of Cassian’s touch to say no. But this Noah? This Noah was sore, tired, and currently being guilt-tripped by a woman who thought his biggest problem was a lack of manners.

Spite is a powerful motivator. It’s the only thing that survives when pride has been cremated.

“Absolutely fucking not,” I said, slamming the drawer shut.

Getting out of bed was an Olympic event. I swung my legs over the side and had to wait for the world to stop spinning. I stood up, and for a second, my knees did a very convincing impression of a newborn deer on ice.

I waddled to the bathroom… there was no other word for it, it was a waddle… and caught my reflection.

“Oh, no.”

I looked like I’d been lost in the woods for a week. My hair was a bird’s nest, matted with dried sweat. My face was flushed, my lips a deep, bruised red. The marks on my wrists were unmistakable, and as I turned, I saw a few dark hickeys on the side of my neck where Cassian had gripped me while… well, while destroying me.

I looked like a man who had been thoroughly, expertly handled.

I turned on the shower, the hot water Hissing against the tile. Stepping in was an ordeal; even the spray felt too intense on my skin. I washed myself with the care of someone handling unexploded ordnance. Every time the soap hit a spot where Cassian’s fingers had dug in, I felt a jolt of memory that made my toes curl.

I stayed in there until the steam filled the room, pointedly ignoring the fact that a vibrating black object was waiting for me in the other room.

When I got out, I realized I couldn’t bear the thought of putting on the clothes I’d worn to the club. They smelled like Alex’s cologne, the scent of cheap gin, and my own bad decisions.

I walked into the dressing room and looked at Cassian’s suitcase.

If you’re going to treat me like your property, I’m going to treat your wardrobe like a thrift store.

I pulled out a soft, grey designer T-shirt. On Cassian, it was a slim-fit piece that emphasized his chest. On me, it hung off my frame like a tent, the neckline sliding down to expose one of my marked shoulders. I grabbed a pair of his black sweatpants and had to tie the drawstring so tight it looked like I was wearing a paper bag.

I looked ridiculous. Like a kid who had raided his older, much scarier brother’s closet.

Perfect, I thought. Let’s go see the Boss.

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