That first touch sends electricity skittering across my skin, goosebumps rising despite the warmth building between us. His hand cradles my face like I'm something precious, his thumb tracing my cheekbone with a tenderness that makes my breath catch. I've been kissed before, but never like this—never with this mixture of hunger and control, desire and care.
I respond without conscious decision, my body making choices my brain is still debating. My hands find his chest, feeling his heartbeat thundering beneath expensive fabric. He's as affected as I am—this powerful man who makes boardrooms tremble, trembling himself at the simple touch of my lips on his.
The kiss deepens gradually, his restraint evident in the careful way he tests boundaries, advancing only when I respond with equal fervor. But as my fingers slide up to the nape of his neck, something shifts. A sound escapes him—part groan, part surrender—and the careful exploration transforms into something rawer, more urgent.
His arm encircles my waist, pulling me flush against him. My body arches instinctively, seeking more contact, more pressure, more everything. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, requesting rather than demanding entry, and I open to him willingly, the taste of him—champagne and something darker, more essential—flooding my senses.
The world narrows to points of sensation: his hand splayed across my lower back, pressing me closer; his other hand tangled in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss; the solid wall of his chest against mine; the almost painful thudding of my heart. I'm drowning in him, in us, and have no desire to surface.
This is nothing like the tepid kisses exchanged with previous boyfriends, those careful negotiations of affection and expectation. This is a conflagration, consuming rational thoughtand careful boundaries with equal disregard. Every romance novel cliché I've ever mocked suddenly makes perfect sense—the weak knees, the forgotten surroundings, the feeling of coming home to a place I've never been before.
Alex kisses like he does everything else—with complete focus and undeniable skill. But there's something else too, something that catches me off guard. A vulnerability, a need that goes beyond physical desire. His controlled exterior cracks further with each passing second, his breathing ragged against my lips, his hands less steady than I've ever felt them.
When we finally break apart, it's only far enough to draw breath. His forehead rests against mine, our panting the only sound in the quiet garden. The string lights cast golden patterns across his face, highlighting cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and eyes turned molten with desire. He looks simultaneously more powerful and more human than I've ever seen him—a contradiction that makes my heart twist painfully in my chest.
"Clara," he whispers, my name a prayer on lips still wet from mine. He says nothing else, but the way he says that single word contains paragraphs, chapters, entire novels of meaning.
"I know," I respond, because somehow I do. Whatever this is between us—this magnetic pull, this recognition—it's mutual and inescapable and terrifying in its intensity.
His thumb traces my lower lip, slightly swollen from his kiss. "I've imagined this since the moment you walked into my house with flour on your nose and defiance in your eyes," he confesses. "But reality puts imagination to shame."
The admission of how long he's wanted this—wanted me—sends another wave of heat through my body. I should be scared by the intensity of his focus, the single-minded determination I've seen him apply to business now clearly directed at me.Instead, I find myself leaning into it, craving it, wanting to be the center of this powerful man's universe.
"Show me," I whisper, surprising myself with my boldness.
Something flares in his eyes—hunger, triumph, relief. His mouth claims mine again, but this time there's no hesitation, no careful testing. He kisses me like a man starving, like he wants to consume me from the outside in. His hands roam my back, tracing the contours of my body through the silk dress, learning me by touch as thoroughly as his eyes have studied me for weeks.
I match his intensity, fingers tangling in his perfectly styled hair, destroying the careful order as completely as he's destroying my reservations. My body molds to his, feeling the hard evidence of his desire pressed against me. The knowledge that I affect him this strongly—this man who controls everything and everyone in his orbit—is intoxicating.
We break apart again, both gasping for air. His lips trail down my jaw, finding the sensitive spot below my ear that makes me shiver. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs against my skin, echoing his earlier offer even as his actions make it clear stopping is the last thing he wants.
"No," I breathe, tilting my head to give him better access.
He chuckles against my throat, the vibration sending new shivers down my spine. "I usually don’t like hearing the word ‘no,’ but in this case," he teases, nipping gently at my pulse point. "I like it."
His hands span my waist, thumbs tracing the undersides of my breasts through the silk. Even this indirect touch sends sparks of pleasure radiating through me. I clutch his shoulders for support, my knees threatening to buckle.
"We should stop," he says, even as he presses another kiss to the hollow of my throat. "We're still at a charity gala. People will be looking for us."
"Let them look," I reply, throwing his earlier words back at him.
His smile against my skin feels like victory. "Careful, Clara. I might take you at your word."
The thought should alarm me—public discovery, gossip, judgment. Instead, it only fuels the fire building between us. I've crossed a line tonight, stepped over a boundary I drew for my own protection. There's no going back from the knowledge of how Alex Devereux's mouth feels against mine, how his hands can simultaneously worship and possess, how the taste of him is already becoming an addiction I'm not sure I want to break.
Every warning sign, every red flag, every cautionary tale about men like him and women like me fades to background noise, drowned out by the thundering of my heart and the certainty, dangerous as it is, that this—whatever this is—is worth the risk of eventual heartbreak.
Because right now, with Christmas lights twinkling above us and his arms around me, heartbreak feels like a distant, abstract concept compared to the very real, very immediate pleasure of surrendering to the moment—and to him.
The sound of voices approaching the terrace finally breaks the spell between us. Alex pulls back reluctantly, his eyes still dark with desire, his breathing uneven. "Someone's coming," he murmurs, his thumb tracing my swollen lower lip one last time before he steps back, creating a respectable distance between us. The cold December air rushes into the space where his warmth had been, making me shiver. My body feels simultaneously electrified and bereft, like a circuit suddenly broken mid-current.
I raise shaking hands to my hair, feeling the tangles his fingers created. My lips throb gently, tender from his kisses. The bodice of my dress sits slightly askew, and I tug it back intoplace with clumsy fingers. I must look exactly like what I am—a woman thoroughly kissed, barely holding herself together.
"Here," Alex says, stepping forward again. His hands move to my hair, deftly smoothing the wayward strands with surprising gentleness. "Turn around."
I obey without thinking, and feel his fingers at the back of my dress, adjusting something I hadn't even realized was misaligned. The simple domesticity of the gesture feels almost more intimate than the passionate kisses we just shared.
"Your lipstick is gone," he says, his voice carrying a note of masculine satisfaction that should irritate me but somehow doesn't. He reaches into his pocket and produces a handkerchief—of course Alexander Devereux carries a real handkerchief—and dampens it with a splash from his water glass. "May I?"
