I remember Angie’s green eyes glinting with mischief and joy every single time she mentioned Nick’s name.
I think about Maeve’s words.About the way she describes her marriage as real and messy and worth every sacrifice.
Then, I turn my focus to Shelby.
My husband, who came home yesterday with that carefully controlled distance in his attitude.Who looked at me across the dinner table like I was a mission objective rather than a woman he’d kissed senseless a few hours before.Who’s trying so hard to protect me, to protect himself, that he’s building walls high enough to keep out everything, including me.
I’m tired of walls.
By the time I arrive at the penthouse, I’ve made a decision.
I find him on the rooftop terrace.
Of course I do.I know precisely where Shelby goes when he needs to burn off the tension that’s been coiling between us.
The penthouse terrace is a study in contradiction; a slice of heaven suspended forty stories above Boston’s gritty reality.The glass-skin facade transforms the floor-to-ceiling windows into mirrors, reflecting the late-afternoon sunlight, making the entire space shimmer between interior and exterior.The city sprawls beyond the edge, all steel and ambition, but up here, there’s only the howling of wind and the grunting sounds of controlled exertion.
Shelby is a symphony of violence.
I lean against the door frame and watch my husband move across the terrace with the precision of a man trained to destroy.His shirtless body gleams with sweat.The chiseled muscles of his chest and shoulders ripple with each punch to the heavy bag suspended from the terrace’s steel frame.He takes a nanosecond pause between punches, which tells me he knows I’m here.He doesn’t turn around to acknowledge my presence.Instead, his bandaged hands connect with the leather bag again and again.His dark hair is plastered to his forehead.His blue eyes are focused on a point beyond the bag, beyond the city, beyond anything in this moment except the physical release he’s chasing.
He wears only loose black boxer shorts, the fabric hanging low on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of his obliques and the faint trail of dark hair that disappears below the waistband.His glasses sit on the nearby weight bench, abandoned, which means he’s been out here for a while.Long enough to work through whatever demons have been clawing at him.
The bag swings back after his last combination, and I step out onto the terrace fully, letting the glass doors slide shut behind me with a soft hiss.The sound is barely audible over the fierce wind, but Shelby’s body goes rigid.His hands drop to his sides.Slowly, deliberately, he turns to face me as he removes the protective bandage.
“You’re back early,” he says, reaching for a towel draped over the edge of the terrace railing.He wipes his face, and I watch a bead of sweat track down his neck, disappearing into the hollow of his throat.
“I had lunch with Maeve and Angie,” I say, moving deeper onto the terrace.The glass facade catches the afternoon light, and for a moment, I see both of us reflected in the mirrored surface, like two people suspended between reality and illusion.
“How was that?”His tone is carefully neutral, but his body language betrays him.The way his shoulders tense.The way his hands grip the towel like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.
“Enlightening.”I move past the weight bench, past the dumbbells arranged in descending order, toward him.The action is deliberate.It’s a statement written in my posture instead of words.“Maeve said something that stuck with me.”
“What’s that?”He tosses the towel aside and leans against the steel frame of the terrace, trying to look relaxed.Failing.His erection is already apparent, straining against the thin cotton of his boxer shorts, proof that his body knows what his mind refuses to accept.
I walk toward him slowly, watching as something flickers in his expression.Recognition, maybe.Or fear.Probably both.
“She said that in our world, the right thing isn’t always what the law says.Sometimes it’s what your heart demands, even when your head is screaming that it’s impossible.”
Shelby’s jaw tightens; a muscle ticks under the scruff on a cheek.“Serena?—”
“No.”I cut him off before he can retreat further behind his walls of logic and protection.“I’m not finished.”
I close the distance between us with three steps.I round him and pull him away from the steel frame in one smooth motion that catches him off guard.His hands come up automatically, settling on my waist, and I feel the moment he realizes what I’m doing.The moment he understands that I’m not asking for permission or forgiveness or any of the things his carefully constructed plan requires.
I’m asking for surrender.
“I know what you’re doing,” I say, keeping my voice low and intense.The glass facade beside us catches our reflection.It’s sexy and dirty and so fucking hot.“I know you’re trying to maintain distance because you think it’s what’s right.Because you think you’re protecting me.You want to protect yourself.But it doesn’t work like that, Shelby.It just makes everything worse.”
“Serena, we talked about this.The investigation?—”
“Fuck the investigation.”The words are sharp enough to cut, and his eyes widen at the vehemence in my voice.“I mean, yes, we’ll do the investigation.We’ll take down my father, Cesare, and everyone involved.But we’re not doing it by pretending that whatever is going on between us is temporary.We’re not doing it by treating each other like operatives instead of real partners.”
I reach down and grip the elastic waistband of his shorts, and he could stop me if he wanted to.His body is trained to respond to threats, to defend against unwanted contact.But instead, he lets me strip him, watching as I drag the fabric down his muscular thighs and let it fall to the terrace floor.
His cock springs free, fully erect, impressive in its readiness.
“What are you doing, Serena?”His voice is rough, dangerous, like gravel and desire wrapped together.
