And yet, as he helps me into his car, his hand lingering at my waist, his eyes dark with promises for later, I can't bring myself to walk away. Some risks are worth taking, even knowing the potential cost.
I just hope I'm strong enough to survive the inevitable flames.
Chapter
Eight
ALEX
The penthouse feels emptierthan usual tonight. I stand at the wall of windows, the city spread before me like a carpet of jewels, a glass of scotch untouched in my hand. My lips still burn from Clara's kisses, my body still hard with wanting her. I could have had any woman at that gala—a look, a word, a gesture would have been enough. Instead, I'm alone, fixated on the one woman who said "not tonight." The one woman I can't stop thinking about. The one woman I need with an intensity that should disturb me but instead feels like waking up after years of sleepwalking.
I set the glass down untasted and loosen my bow tie with a sharp tug. My tuxedo jacket lies discarded on the sofa, my cufflinks scattered on the marble counter. I'm not usually careless with possessions, but tonight my legendary control feels fragile, compromised by the memory of Clara's mouth yielding beneath mine, her soft gasps, the way her body fit against me like it was designed for that purpose alone.
Sleep is out of the question. I pace the length of the living room, energy thrumming through me like a live current seeking ground. I haven't felt this restless, this unfocused, since myearliest days building the company—when everything hung in the balance and failure wasn't just possible but probable. That same electric tension vibrates in my veins now, but it's not business that occupies my thoughts. It's brown eyes wide with desire. Chestnut hair tangled from my fingers. Soft curves in red silk.
Clara Benson. A baker. A small business owner. A woman who should have been a pleasant diversion at most.
Instead, she's become an obsession.
I've had beautiful women. Sophisticated women. Women who move through the upper echelons of society with practiced ease. Women who understand the rules of temporary engagement, who want what I can provide—status, luxury, carefully bounded pleasure—without expecting what I've never offered: permanence, vulnerability, myself beyond the carefully controlled exterior.
Clara wants none of these things. She looks at designer labels with suspicion. Treats my wealth as an obstacle rather than an enticement. Challenges me in ways both infuriating and exhilarating. She's seen through my armor from the beginning, her gaze penetrating facades that have fooled much more experienced players.
And tonight, when she melted against me on that terrace, when she whispered "Don't you dare" in response to my offer to stop, something fundamentally shifted inside me. Something I've kept locked away for longer than I can remember cracked open, raw and demanding.
I want her in my bed—that's a given. But I also want her in my home. In my life. I want to wake up to her sleep-softened face, to watch her move around my kitchen, to argue about insignificant things and make up with her body pressed against mine. I want to be the one she turns to with problems,with triumphs, with the mundane details that make up a shared existence.
I want to possess her completely—not just her body, but her trust, her laughter, her future.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it crystallizes into sharp, perfect clarity.
Clara Benson is mine. She just doesn't fully know it yet.
Her "not tonight" wasn't a rejection—it was a postponement. A wise one, perhaps. Clara isn't a woman to be rushed or pressured. Her caution, her self-protection, is part of what draws me to her. But it's also an obstacle to be carefully, methodically dismantled.
I pick up my phone, sending a message to my assistant despite the late hour. She's used to my irregular demands and will have everything arranged by morning. Then I open the secure folder Garrett compiled on Clara, reviewing details I've already committed to memory: her suppliers, her delivery schedule, her financial situation, her lease terms. The bakery is her weakness and her strength—the thing she's built from nothing, the physical manifestation of her determination and talent.
It's also my most direct path to becoming indispensable to her.
I've built an empire by identifying leverage points—the places where pressure applied correctly yields maximum results. With Clara, the approach must be more delicate. She can't feel manipulated or managed. She's too perceptive, too fiercely independent to respond to obvious maneuvering.
This will require patience. Strategy. A level of restraint that goes against every possessive instinct currently raging through me.
I close the file and return to the windows, watching the city that has bent to my will for over a decade. I've neverwanted anything I couldn't eventually acquire. Clara will be no exception, though the methods must be adapted to the unique challenge she presents.
The taste of her lingers on my tongue—sweet with a hint of tartness, like her personality distilled into physical form. I close my eyes, replaying every moment of our encounter: the soft sounds she made when my lips found her neck, the way her fingers tightened in my hair, the heat of her body against mine. The memory is simultaneously soothing and inflammatory, calming the desperate edge of my need while stoking the deeper fire.
My phone buzzes with confirmation from my assistant. The first piece is in place. Tomorrow begins the systematic campaign to make Clara Benson as essential to me as breathing—and me equally indispensable to her.
I've pursued corporate acquisitions with less planning, less focus, less determination than I'm bringing to this pursuit. The stakes feel infinitely higher. I can replace companies, recover from financial setbacks, rebuild empires if necessary. Clara feels irreplaceable. Essential. Necessary in ways I've never allowed anything or anyone to become.
This newfound vulnerability should concern me. It doesn't. It feels instead like stepping into a role I was always meant to play but never found the right counterpart for—until now.
Clara thinks she needs time. She'll have it—but each hour, each day will bring her closer to the inevitable conclusion: that she belongs with me.
Clara
The first delivery arrives before dawn, while I'm elbow-deep in breakfast pastry dough. A courier in a crisp uniform looks painfully alert for 5 AM, clutching a package wrapped in thick cream paper and tied with a blue ribbon that matches my bakery's colors exactly. I recognize Alex's attention to detail immediately, like a fingerprint pressed into the presentation.
