"I'm still angry about the article," I tell him, needing honesty between us if we're to move forward. "About the surveillance. About the decisions you made without considering my feelings."
"I know," he says, acceptance rather than defense in his voice. "You have every right to be."
"But I'm tired of fighting this," I admit, the confession both terrifying and liberating. "Fighting you. Fighting myself. Fighting whatever this is between us."
His free hand rises slowly, giving me every opportunity to pull away, to reestablish distance. I remain still as his fingers finally make contact with my face, tracing the curve of my cheek with a gentleness that undoes me more than any passionate advance could have.
"Whatever you want, Clara," he says, my name a caress on his lips. "However much or little you're willing to give. I'll take it. I'll be grateful for it."
The surrender of power from a man defined by its acquisition leaves me breathless. I bring my own hand to his face, feeling the slight roughness of stubble beneath my palm, watching his eyes darken at my touch.
"I want this," I whisper, the decision made somewhere deep in my core, beyond the reach of rational arguments or cautionary warnings. "I want you."
The kiss happens in slow motion, both of us leaning forward with deliberate intent, eyes open until the last possible moment. Unlike our kiss at the gala—hungry, urgent, fueled by champagne and moonlight—this is slower, deeper, weighted with the honesty that's passed between us.
His hand cradles my face like I'm something precious, his touch reverent despite the hunger evident in the tension of his body. I press closer, sliding between his knees where he sits, my fingers tangling in his hair. He tastes of coffee and possibility and the sweet ache of surrender.
The kiss deepens, his arms encircling my waist, pulling me flush against him. Heat blooms between us, transforming gentleness into something more urgent, more primal. My body responds instantly, embarrassingly—heart racing, skin sensitized, a liquid warmth pooling low in my belly.
"Clara," he murmurs against my mouth, my name half question, half plea.
I answer by pressing closer, my hands slipping beneath the borrowed sweatshirt to find the warm skin beneath. His sharp intake of breath is immediately followed by his mouth reclaiming mine, the kiss turning hungry, demanding, a perfect reflection of the need coursing through my own veins.
Time loses meaning, measured only in heartbeats and shared breaths and the steady percussion of rain against the windows. The rational part of my brain—the part that remembers boundaries and caution and all the reasons this man is dangerous to my hard-won independence—grows quieter with each passing second, drowned out by the more insistent voice of desire.
"Upstairs," I whisper against his lips, decision made. "My apartment."
He pulls back just enough to see my face, to search my eyes for certainty. "Are you sure?"
I appreciate the question more than he can know—this respect for consent from a man accustomed to taking what he wants. It confirms what I already suspected: Alexander Devereux may bulldoze boundaries in business, in pursuing what he thinks is best, but never, ever in this most intimate arena.
"Yes," I say, the single syllable carrying the weight of deliberate choice.
He grabs my chin and stares at me solemnly. “I need you to know, Clara, because, baby, once I start with you, I don’t think I’ll be able to control myself.”
My heart trips in my chest at his words, and I nod again.
And it’s like something inside him snaps.
With a groan, he stands and lifts me with him as if I weigh nothing.His mouth claims mine before I can catch another breath, one palm bracing my jaw and the other curling around my hip, fingers digging in just this side of pain. My feet aren'teven on the floor anymore—he's carrying me, walking blind through the darkened bakery with his mouth fused to mine. He tastes like coffee, rain, and desperate restraint on the edge of breaking. By the time we reach the stairs, my hands are clawing at his shoulders, trying to get closer even as his grip tightens like he might lose me if he loosens it by a molecule.
We half-stumble, half-stagger up the stairs, bumping into the wall hard enough to leave a bruise on my hip but neither of us cares. The apartment is barely lit—one sad lamp in the kitchenette and the orange glow of the streetlamps filtering through the rain-smeared window. He sets me down just inside the door, only because it takes both his hands to yank off the borrowed sweatshirt. It comes over his head in one brutal motion, leaving his chest bare and his hair wild.
Jesus. He's all hard muscle and sharp lines, not an ounce of softness anywhere except his mouth—and even that is a weapon. My hands go to his chest without conscious permission, and he shudders at the touch, like he's starved for it. He backs me against the kitchen counter, lips at my ear. “Say stop,” he rasps. “Say it now if you’re going to, because?—”
I cut him off with my mouth, biting his lower lip until he groans, and then it's a blur: my shirt pulled off, his hands under the band of my bra, thumbs circling until I'm gasping. He kisses me like he's inhaling my soul. Every time I think he's going to slow down, he finds a new place to touch, to press, to claim.
He lifts me onto the counter, pushes my thighs apart, stands between them so close I feel every frantic heartbeat. My head tips back, hair falling over his arm as he kisses a line down my throat, pausing at the pulse like he's memorizing it. His hands work their way under my skirt, up the backs of my thighs, and when his fingers find the edge of my underwear, I nearly sob.
I’m not the only one falling apart. His breathing is ragged, his hands shaking, like he’s fighting himself even as he stripsme down. He kneels on the cold tile, mouth at my stomach, and when he finally drags my panties down I forget my own name. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to. He’s moving with that same terrifying, relentless focus he brings to hostile takeovers and gala ballrooms, but now it’s directed at me, at making me come apart in his hands.
He makes me wait for it. He teases, nips, breathes me in, and then—when I’m about to beg—he finally gives me what I want, tongue and fingers working together until I’m shaking, clutching the edge of the counter so hard my nails splinter. I don't make a sound at first, but when I come, it’s a violent, unstoppable thing and I cry out his name and shudder so hard he has to steady me with both hands.
He stands and kisses me hard, tasting exactly what he's just done. The possessiveness in it should scare me. Instead, it makes me want to let him mark me everywhere. He lifts me again—this time cradling me close to his chest, bridal-style, ridiculous and sweet but still somehow urgent. He carries me to the bedroom, kicks the door open, lays me down like I’m made of spun sugar and then tears the rest of our clothes off with less gentleness than a rabid animal.
He hovers over me, bracing on his forearms, eyes searching my face in the half-dark. “Clara.” My name again, rougher this time. Like it’s the last thing he’ll ever say. “I?—”
“Don’t say it,” I whisper, because I can’t survive it, not now, not like this, not when I want him so much I could die from it.
