I nod, and he gently dabs at the corner of my mouth, removing what must be a smudge. His touch is careful, his eyes focused on the task with the same intensity he brings to everything. When he finishes, his gaze lifts to mine, and the heat there makes my breath catch again.
"There," he says softly. "Presentable enough for public consumption, though I much prefer you disheveled and gasping my name."
Heat floods my face. "I didn't?—"
"Not yet," he agrees with a small smile that promises future occasions when I will. "But you will."
The voices grow closer, and Alex steps away again, straightening his bow tie and running a hand through his own tousled hair. By the time the terrace door opens, admitting a laughing couple seeking their own private moment, we look reasonably composed—though I suspect the flush on my cheeks and the brightness of my eyes tell a story to anyone looking closely enough.
We make our way back to the main ballroom, Alex's hand at the small of my back once more. The contact feels different now that I know what those hands are capable of, how they feel tangled in my hair, tracing the contours of my body. My skin hums with awareness beneath the silk dress, every nerve ending awake and attentive to his proximity.
The gala continues unabated—champagne flowing, music playing, conversations humming at the precise decibel level that suggests wealth and restraint. But everything feels different. The lights seem brighter, the music clearer, the air charged with possibility. Or maybe that's just me, transformed by twenty minutes on a terrace and the taste of Alexander Devereux on my lips.
We're immediately approached by the hospital director, who wants to discuss final details about the catering contract. Alex keeps me tucked against his side during the conversation, his thumb making small, maddening circles against my hip—a secret contact that no one else can see but that keeps me in a constant state of simmering awareness.
I notice Victoria watching us from across the room, her gaze calculating as it moves between us, taking in our slightly rumpled appearance and the new intimacy of our body language. She murmurs something to her companion, whose eyebrows rise in response. I should care about becoming fodder for gossip. I should worry about my professional reputation, about being seen as just another conquest. Instead, I find myself leaning closer to Alex, a silent declaration that I've chosen this, chosen him, regardless of consequences.
The hospital's chief of staff appears, pulling Alex into a conversation about donation matching programs. He squeezes my waist gently before stepping away, his eyes promising a swift return. Without his commanding presence beside me, I feel suddenly exposed, as if everyone can see the marks his kisseshave left—not physically, but on some deeper, more essential part of me.
I move to the edge of the room, finding a quiet spot to catch my breath and process what's happened. What I've allowed to happen. What I want to happen next.
Alexander Devereux is dangerous—I've always known this. His intensity, his possessiveness, his unapologetic pursuit of what he wants…these are warnings, not enticements. He's a man accustomed to acquiring, conquering, and eventually discarding. My friends' cautions echo in my mind, alongside the evidence of his past relationships.
Yet the man who kissed me on that terrace wasn't calculating or cold. He was passionate, yes, but also vulnerable in a way that felt genuine rather than strategic. The tremor in his hands, the roughness in his voice, the way he sought my permission repeatedly—these don't align with the portrait of a manipulative playboy.
I watch him across the room, commanding attention effortlessly, and wonder which version is real—the ruthless businessman, the careful lover, or some complex combination of both. More importantly, I wonder if it matters. Because regardless of what happens in a week or a month or a year, right now I want him with an intensity that frightens me. Want to explore this connection, this recognition that feels like finding a missing piece I didn't know I'd lost.
Is it worth the risk of eventual heartbreak? The potential damage to my business if things end badly? The whispers already starting as people notice the change between us?
My practical nature says no, absolutely not. Run as fast as possible in the opposite direction.
But for once in my life, practicality seems like a poor substitute for whatever this is—this aliveness, this awakening,this feeling of stepping into a life more vibrant than the one I've carefully constructed.
Alex finds me again, appearing at my side with two fresh glasses of champagne. "Hiding?" he asks, handing me one.
"Recalibrating," I correct, accepting the glass.
His eyes search mine, sudden uncertainty crossing his features. "Regrets?"
The question carries weight far beyond this evening, beyond the kisses we've shared. It's about what comes next, about stepping willingly into his world, his life, his arms.
"No," I say, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. "No regrets."
Relief flashes briefly in his eyes before his usual confidence returns. "Good. Because I plan to give you many more opportunities to not regret things with me, Clara."
The promise in his words sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with anticipation. I take a sip of champagne to hide my reaction, but his knowing smile tells me he sees it anyway.
"The gala's winding down," he says, his voice dropping to a register only I can hear. "Come home with me."
Three hours ago, I would have refused immediately. Now, I consider it—the invitation, the implications, the morning after. It's too soon. Too fast. Too much.
"Not tonight," I say, though it costs me. "I need…time."
He studies me, then nods once. "I can be patient. For you."
As we prepare to leave the gala, gathering my wrap and his overcoat, I catch my reflection in a decorative mirror. I look different somehow—eyes brighter, cheeks flushed, something awakened in my expression that wasn't there when we arrived.
I'm playing with fire. Walking deliberately into danger with my eyes wide open. The warnings were right—AlexanderDevereux could break my heart, destroy my business, leave me in pieces when he inevitably moves on.
