He nods once, sharp and decisive, and then there’s no more talking. His mouth finds my collarbone, my breast, my hip, every inch of skin mapped and claimed and seared into memory. When he finally thrusts inside me it’s slow at first, almost reverent, but the control only lasts a heartbeat before need takes over. I wrap my legs around his waist and dig my nails into his back and he groans like he’s dying. Every thrust is desperate, likeif he stops even once I’ll vanish. I meet him stroke for stroke, gasping his name, holding on like this is my only chance.
It lasts forever and not nearly long enough. When he comes, it’s with a shudder that leaves him shaking above me, forehead pressed to mine, both of us panting, clutching each other like we’re shipwrecked survivors.
We stay pressed together, slick and tangled, the storm outside matching the chaos inside me. He kisses my hair and my cheek and the corner of my mouth, softer now, like he’s afraid I’ll slip away in the morning. I don’t tell him I’m just as terrified. I just hold him tighter.
Eventually, he rolls to his side, keeping me wrapped in his arms, my face tucked into the hollow of his shoulder. I don’t think either of us sleeps, not really. We just lie there, listening to the rain, breathing in time, too full of each other to find words.
Dawn comes gray and cold, and he’s still here, still holding me, still Alex but not the Alex that wrecks businesses and ignores boundaries. This one is warm and rumpled and too big for my bed. He brushes a strand of hair from my face and just watches me for a while.
“Are you okay?” he finally asks, voice husky with sleep and something like worry.
I nod. “You?”
He gives the smallest, most genuine smile I’ve ever seen on him. “Better than I deserve.”
We don’t talk about what happens next. Not yet. We just lie there, a little bit ruined and a little bit remade.
Chapter
Twelve
ALEX
I've conductedbillion-dollar negotiations with less tension than I'm feeling watching this man order a cranberry scone. He's leaning too close to the counter, smiling too wide, eyes lingering too long on Clara as she boxes his order. My fingers tighten around my coffee mug, knuckles whitening with the effort of remaining seated instead of doing what every primal instinct is screaming for—physically placing myself between them, marking territory, establishing boundaries that no one with functioning survival instincts would dare cross.
The rational part of my brain—the part responsible for building an empire, for strategic decisions affecting thousands of lives—knows that Clara is merely being professional. That her smile contains nothing personal, that her efficient movements are simply good customer service. The rest of me doesn't care. Doesn't like how this stranger's eyes track her movements, how he deliberately brushes her fingers when taking his change, how he lingers at the counter well past the completion of his transaction.
Two weeks since that rainy night transformed everything between us. Two weeks of waking beside her in the mornings, ofwatching her dress for work with flour already dusting her hair, of learning the small rituals that make up her daily existence. Two weeks of a happiness so foreign, so unexpected, that I still approach it cautiously, as if it might shatter under direct examination.
The customer finally moves away, and I exhale a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Clara glances in my direction, a small private smile curving her lips, and something loosens in my chest. That smile is for me alone—genuine, unguarded, nothing like the professional mask she wears for customers. It's a reminder, a reassurance that I occupy a space in her life no one else shares.
This morning, she was warm and drowsy in my arms, her body curving against mine with sleep-softened contentment. "You don't have to come to the bakery today," she murmured, fingers tracing patterns on my chest. "Don't you have an empire to run?"
I caught her wandering hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "The empire can wait."
The truth—which I didn't voice—is that I can't bear to be away from her. After years of emotional self-sufficiency, of relationships conducted with clinical detachment, I find myself craving her presence with an intensity that would be alarming if it weren't so essential. Like discovering a need for oxygen only after taking the first real breath.
The bell over the door chimes, admitting another customer who immediately draws my attention—male, mid-thirties, expensive casual attire, the confident stride of someone accustomed to attention. He approaches the counter, eyes already fixed on Clara with obvious appreciation.
Something dark and primitive coils in my gut.Mine, it whispers. Mine, not yours. Never yours.
I force my attention back to my laptop, to the acquisition reports that should command my full professional focus. The words blur into meaningless patterns as my awareness remains stubbornly tuned to the interaction happening ten feet away—to the man's voice, pitched slightly lower than necessary, to Clara's professional responses, to the territorial instinct screaming through every cell in my body.
"I haven't seen you here before," the man says, leaning against the counter in a casual pose designed to display his physical advantages. "I would have remembered."
"We've been here eighteen months," Clara responds pleasantly but without encouragement. "What can I get you today?"
"What would you recommend?" The question innocent enough, but his tone suggests he's asking about more than pastries.
I close the laptop with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the small space. Several heads turn in my direction, including Clara's. Her eyes meet mine, and I see recognition there—she knows exactly what I'm feeling, what I'm fighting. A small crease appears between her eyebrows, equal parts warning and amusement.
The man continues, oblivious to the silent communication or the threat assessment I'm conducting on his continued existence. "Maybe you could help me decide. I'm torn between something sweet and something…satisfying."
Before I can rise—before I can do something that would likely end with restraining orders or property damage—Clara handles the situation with the calm efficiency that continues to impress me even as it frustrates my protective instincts.
"Our chocolate croissants offer both," she says, her tone cooling noticeably. "Though if you're looking for something more substantial, the café two blocks over serves full meals."She turns slightly, using her body language to include me in the conversation. "Alex, didn't you mention their lunch menu was excellent?"
The deliberate inclusion—her public acknowledgment of our connection—is both a balm to my possessive instincts and a gentle reminder that she doesn't need rescuing. The man's eyes flick between us, reassessing. I smile with deliberate pleasantness that doesn't reach my eyes.
