Page 38 of Property of Booker

“You really designed this?” I ask, stepping toward him.

“I did,” he says, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Every beam, every window. I wanted to build something that wouldn't break. Something that was strong enough to hold onto us.” He’s including me in this, but I can tell it was built before I ever made it to the clubhouse. Does this mean he was constructing this with Vixen in mind? One day I’ll ask him, but that day isn’t today. It doesn’t feel important, what does, is the fact that he built this with me in mind, no matter what persona I wear.

I reach out, taking his hand, feeling the callouses that mark his work. He's built this for us, a fortress of glass that lets in the light instead of keeping the world out. It’s the ultimate contrast to the basement, the cages, the steel bars that once dictated our lives.

“It's perfect,” I tell him, leaning in until my forehead rests against his chest. I can hear the steady, reliable beat of his heart. “It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

He wraps his arms around me, holding me tight, and for the first time in years, I don't feel the need to look over my shoulder. The windows stand as a promise, a wall that guards us but keeps us connected to the life we're finally choosing to live. Here, within these glass walls, we're finally free to start over. We don't have to hide anymore. We don't have to survive. We just get to live.

“Show me the rest. I want to see the kitchen, the bathrooms, the bedrooms, and more importantly, I want to see the closets,” I tease, knowing one day I’ll have a wardrobe to fill it.

He laughs, a genuine, warm sound that fills the empty hallway. “Closets are crucial, got it. Come on.” He guides me deeper into the house, his hand never leaving the small of my back. The kitchen is our first stop, and it’s everything I imagined and more. The cabinets are a rich, dark wood that glows under the recessed lighting. There’s a massive island in the center with a butcher-block top that looks like it’s seen a few test runs, even if the house is brand new. “I built the island tall enough so you wouldn't have to hunch over while you're working,” he explains, his pride showing in the way he taps the smooth wood. “I figured you’d spend a lot of time in here since you told me once that cooking settles you.” I smile because when I told him that, it was in reference to my previous life, the one before Jerome took me and kept me.

I run my fingers over the surface, feeling the grain. It’s solid, reliable. “It’s perfect,” I say, repeating my previous words about this house. “It’s a real kitchen. I don't think I’ve had a real kitchen since I was a teenager.”

I open a cabinet, and it's perfectly organized, a testament to how meticulous he is. “I stocked some of the basics,” he adds, his voice dropping an octave. “Things like flour, spices, coffee. I didn't want you to have to worry about the little things when you move in.”

When, not if. He was certain I’d want to live here, and he was right, I do.

Next is the bathroom, and the moment I step inside, I stop breathing for a second. It’s huge. The tub is claw-footed and sits right beneath a window that faces the dense woods, giving us total privacy while we soak. “I wanted a place where you could just relax,” he says, leaning against the doorframe, watching me. “No sirens, no rushing, just quiet.” The thought of sitting in that water, listening to nothing but the wind in the trees, makes my knees feel weak. It’s such a simple luxury, one I never thought I’d be allowed to have. I turn the faucet, and the water pressure is strong, a steady, powerful stream. It feels like a small rebellion against the years of deprivation.

Then he leads me to the master bedroom. It’s simple, with a bed frame he clearly built himself, crafted from thick, rustic beams. But my focus lands on the closet door off to the side. I pull it open, and my breath hitches. It’s massive. There are shelves for shoes, racks for dresses, and enough room to actually organize a life. I step inside, turning around to see the floor space. For the first time, I imagine hanging up dresses that aren't meant for hiding or blending in. I imagine buying soft fabrics and colors that aren't gray or black. “It's empty,” I whisper, looking back at him.

Booker stands in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the soft hallway light. He’s watching me with an intensity that makes me feel seen in a way I never have been before. “It’s ready for you,” he replies. “I want you to fill it. I want you to have your own space here. Not because I’m giving it to you, but because this is your home now.”

I walk out and close the gap between us. “You really thought of everything,” I say, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

Booker

I reach out and snag her hand, hauling her against the heat of my chest. “I had a lot of time to think while I was guarding those monitors,” I murmur, my voice sounding like it’s been raked over gravel. “I spent months dreaming up a place where we could just be.”

We trudge back toward the living room, but she lingers near the door as if she's afraid the floorboards might vanish if she looks away. I watch her eyes track the naked walls and the empty floorboards. She’s already seeing the colors and the textures that’ll turn this shell of a home into something real.

“We have a lot to do,” she says, gesturing to the expanse of the bedroom.

I let a slow, crooked smile pull at my mouth while the tension finally drains out of my marrow. “We have all the time in the world,” I tell her.

Kendall looks up, her eyes darkening as the playful tension shifts into something carnal, something hungry. She takes a half-step closer, her hand sliding up my chest, her fingers curling against the collar of my shirt. I mirror her movement, reaching out to touch the soft skin of her neck. Her pulse thrums beneath my thumb, a frantic rhythm that matches the thud in my own ribs. The quiet of the house isn't peaceful anymore. It's charged, vibrating with the weight of everything we haven't said.

“I don't want to wait,” she whispers, her voice a low, trembling plea that instantly wrecks my composure and shatters whatever restraint I had left. “Booker, make love to me. Here. Right now.” The admission strikes me with a visceral intensity, igniting a surge of heat that races down the length of my spine. The desperation radiating from her gaze mirrors the urgent, driving pulse of my own blood, and in that fleeting instant, the remaining shadows of hesitation are incinerated. I reach out to cradle her face, my thumb tracing the sharp curve of her cheekbone as I haul her against me, claiming her mouth with a kiss that blurs the line between deep sanctity and primal, unbridled hunger.

The air in the room suddenly feels too thin. I don't answer with words because I don't have them, I just reach for her. I take her hand and start walking her backward, toward the bedroom, my eyes locked on hers. Her heels click softly against the new hardwood, the sound hypnotic. She doesn't break eye contact, even as I steer her over the threshold. I'm not just moving her, I'm claiming this space with her.

The master bedroom is bathed in light, which excites me because she won’t be able to hide her luscious body from me. Morning sun pours through the tall glass, illuminating every curve and line of her silhouette. We stop at the foot of the rustic beam bed I had custom built, the heavy wood smelling faintly of cedar and polish. I want to memorize every inch of her, to erase the ghost of every hand that touched her before me. My fingers tremble slightly as I reach for the hem of her shirt, feeling the heat radiating off her skin. She helps me, lifting her arms, trusting me to peel the fabric away. The cotton slides over her skin, revealing the smooth, pale curve of her shoulders and the delicate arch of her spine. The light catches the fine hair on her arms, making her look like she's glowing from the inside out, completely captivating my attention.

I work on my own clothes with clumsy haste, impatient to bridge the tiny remaining distance between us. My leather cut hits the floor with a thud, followed by my boots, the sound echoing in the open space. She watches me intently, her dark eyes tracking the dark ink that covers my torso and shoulders. The black lines of the tattoos look stark against my skin in the bright morning light, telling stories of a past I'm finally ready to leave behind. She reaches out, her small hand warm as her fingertips slowly trace the curving tail of a dragon etched on my forearm, and I let out a low breath I didn't know I was holding. The heat of her touch is a shock, a sudden, grounding force that pulls me even closer to her. I unbutton my jeans, kicking them away onto the floor, and stand before her completely exposed. There's no armor here, no patches or leather to hide behind, just a man completely undone by the woman standing in front of him.

She unzips her jeans, the metal rasping loudly in the expectant silence of the room. The denim pools around her ankles, and she steps out of them with a slow, fluid grace. She reaches back to unhook her bra, letting the straps slide down her shoulders, and then her hands drop to the waistband of her black lace panties, peeling the fabric down until she steps free. She stands completely bare, a vision in the morning light that makes my throat tighten and my pulse hammer violently in my chest. I reach for her without hesitation, my hands settling firmly on her waist to pull her flush against me. The instant contact is purely electric, sending a jolt straight down my spine. The undeniable softness of her breasts pressing against the hard, rigid planes of my chest makes my head spin and my breath catch in my throat. I bury my face in the curve of her neck, inhaling deeply to fill my lungs with the intoxicating scent of her—sweet vanilla mixed with something entirely, uniquely Kendall.

She wraps her arms tightly around my neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck as she pulls me closer, closing every remaining inch of space between us. Lifting her off the ground, her legs wrap around my waist instinctively. I lay her back on the mattress, the wood groaning softly under our weight. The sheets are cool, but the heat between us is stifling. I hover over her, my weight supported by my forearms, just looking at her. She looks back, her face open and vulnerable, the fear finally gone. I start to kiss her, slow and deep, tasting the coffee and the desperation. My tongue sweeps against hers, a slow dance that promises everything. Her hands roam over my back, her nails digging into my skin, marking me as hers. I move lower, my mouth finding the sensitive skin of her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. She arches against me, a soft moan escaping her lips. It's the sound of release, of a woman finally letting go of the burden she's carried for too long. I use my teeth gently, and she shivers, her breath coming in short gasps. I work my way down her body, my hands following the curve of her hips, the slope of her thighs. Every touch is a question, and her body answers with a frantic ‘yes’.

When I finally move to enter her, she reaches down, her trembling fingers wrapping around me and guiding me home. The friction is intense, a slow, agonizingly sweet slide that feels like coming back from the dead. Every sensory detail overwhelms me—the slick heat of her skin, the subtle scent of vanilla lingering in her hair, and the soft, ragged gasp that escapes her lips the moment we join. I stop for a second, my forehead pressed firmly against hers, both of us breathing hard as the sheer weight of the connection washes over us. I want this to last forever, to memorize the cadence of her heart hammering against my chest, but the hunger driving us both is too great. I start to move, establishing a slow, steady rhythm that builds in power with every stroke. She meets me halfway, her hips rising fluidly to meet mine, her body moving in perfect, instinctual sync with every thrust. Her nails bite into the muscles of my back, anchoring me to the present, erasing every shadow and memory of the dark world we left behind. We're a tangle of limbs and relentless heat, the world outside these glass walls non-existent as we lose ourselves entirely in each other.

The climbing midmorning sun pours through the floor-to-ceiling glass in blinding, molten sheets and turns the air inside the room into a sweltering furnace. We ignore the harsh glare as we lose ourselves completely in the friction, the sweat, and the unbridled physicality of the moment. This isn't just passion—it is a purging. It burns away the rot and agony of our past, replacing every scar with something solid, pure, and everlasting. My muscles ache with the agonizing effort of holding back because I want her to feel every excruciatingly sweet second of this. She shouts my name with a breaking, breathless voice, and it is easily the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. It is a call to arms, a surrendered confession, and a declaration of belonging.