His voice has the heat quickly returning to my stomach. I curl my toes against the toe of my heels, pressing my hand to the wall to steady me.
I’m close to coming. I’m going to come all over Holt’s hand. I start to panic, wondering if I’ll be able to stifle my cries once it comes. I feel it cresting. I’m at the top of the peak. I’m toe to toe with the edge of a cliff. All I need to do is step out and I’ll be falling. I’m practically there when Holt abruptly tears his hand away from me. My eyes snap open, and the elevator doors open with them, the group surrounding us leaving quickly. We’re one level from the roof now, and the only ones left aside from the elevator attendant.
I feel the absence of Holt immediately, silently cursing the universe for denying me an orgasm. Or was it Holt?
I’m left gasping for air when he brings his mouth to my ear again and whispers, “There’ll be punishment for your indiscretion later, Wallflower. Don’t worry.”
I want to tell him he’s already punished me. He pulled me toward the edge of the cliff but jerked me back at the last second. My body is screaming at me, weeping for not getting the gratification of release.
Once we reach the roof, Holt reaches for my hand and gives a courtesy nod to the elevator attendant before leading us to his helicopter waiting. He helps me get buckled in as he did on the way here, but this time is different. He doesn’t offer up jokes on my fear of flying. He doesn’t offer me reassurances, either. We don’t speak about what happened in the elevator. In fact, we don’t speak another word the entire flight. It’s as if his mind is somewhere else, not completely tethered to me in the here and now.
Sensing his shift, I don’t press him. He simply stares out the window in silence until we land back at his place.
After stepping out, Holt asks his driver to take me home.
I crumble when he wraps his arm around my waist, his hand resting on the base of my spine. He pulls me toward him and places a gentle kiss to my forehead. He lingers for a few seconds, his lips causing electricity to crackle along my skin before he’s bringing his mouth to the shell of my ear and whispering, “I’ll text you later, Wallflower.”
Then he breaks our connection.
He doesn’t come with me. He doesn’t give me a proper kiss goodbye. He doesn’t even give me the punishment he promised when we were alone.
Once I’m finally home, lying in my bed, staring at the ever-growing crack in the ceiling, I toss and turn. I turn so much, I end up tangled in the sheets.
Disappointment over how the night ended eats me up inside. It shouldn’t. I don’t do love. I don’t fall for anyone. Ever.
But if that’s true, then why can I not stop thinking about Holt’s touch and how him calling me Wallflower made me feel like this? Why did I allow myself to cross this invisible line? What would Julianna think if she knew how far her brother and I went tonight? Is Holt feeling the same disappointment?
Probably not, because even if he did, I could never trust it to be true.
Everything has changed. Or maybe nothing has at all.
Maybe it was all a dream, and when I wake up in the morning, the echo of his touch across my skin will have finally disappeared.
FOURTEEN
HOLT
It takes me precisely sixty seconds after watching Howard escort Selene into the elevator before I’m finally moving.
I didn’t want to leave her the way I did, but it’s for the best. I don’t know what the fuck I’m walking into, and I need to keep her safe at all costs.
Checking Cory’s message once more to make sure I read his emergency text correctly, I spin on my heel and head back toward the waiting helicopter. Normally, I wouldn’t take this method of transportation to the office, but with Howard taking Selene home, it’s the fastest way there.
I hop in and instruct the pilot to take me to Scribe.
Within fifteen minutes, I’m walking into my office to find a panicked Cory sitting on the leather sofa situated on the opposite side of the room. He bounces out of his seat. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so pale.
“Thanks for coming, Boss,” he pants, almost as if he’s out of breath. “I’m sorry to message you so late, but I swear, I didn’t know what else to do.”
At twenty-seven, he’s usually calm, cool, and collected. Asone of my best editorial writers, he’s been with the company for three years now, but I’ve never seen him like this.
Beside him is one of our other staff writers, Macy, who I just hired on permanently after a yearlong internship. I’m not entirely sure why she’s here. I’m assuming it has to do with his emergency text Cory sent me at dinner.
Code Red.
The codeword Cory and I agreed we would use if shit hit the fan regarding the investigation into Rhys O’Connell’s connection to the Irish mafia.
Cory and I were scheduled to meet in the morning to discuss what he learned from his questioning of Rhys’s known associates down by the docks yesterday. I assumed all was well but apparently not. Cory wouldn’t have used the codeword unless it was absolutely critical.
