The direct acknowledgment of the tension that's been building for weeks leaves me speechless. I've been so careful to maintain the fiction of our professional relationship, to pretend that the electricity between us is merely my imagination or one-sided attraction.
"I don't..." I begin, but the lie withers under his steady gaze.
"Don't insult either of us by pretending," he says, his voice gentle despite the commanding words. "I've respected your boundaries. I've moved slowly. But my patience has limits."
He rises to his feet in one fluid motion, powerful and graceful as a predator. I should feel threatened, but instead, a treacherous heat blooms between my thighs. He extends a hand to me, an invitation that feels monumental.
"Come here," he says softly.
My body responds before my mind decides, hand sliding into his, allowing him to draw me to my feet. We stand close—so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the pulse beating steadily at the base of his throat. His eyes hold mine, searching for resistance or fear. Finding none, his free hand rises to cup my face, thumb brushing gently across my cheekbone.
"I've wanted to touch you like this since the moment I saw you," he confesses, voice rough with restraint. "Standing alone at that auction, seeing everything that others missed."
My skin burns beneath his palm, leaning into his touch like a flower seeking sunlight. "This is a bad idea," I whisper, even as my body betrays my words.
"Is it?" His thumb traces the outline of my lower lip, sending shivers cascading down my spine. "Or is it simply inevitable?"
He draws me closer, his other hand releasing mine to slide around my waist. Our bodies align, his solid warmth against my softer curves. I should push away, maintain professional distance, protect the commission that represents my big break in the art world. Instead, my hands rise of their own accord to rest against his chest, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath expensive fabric.
"Tell me to stop," he challenges, his mouth hovering inches from mine, "and I will."
But the words don't come. Can't come. Every cell in my body is reaching toward him, craving completion of this circuit ofdesire that's been building since our eyes first met across that crowded auction room.
When I remain silent, something fierce flashes in his eyes—triumph, hunger, possession—and then his mouth claims mine with devastating precision. The kiss begins controlled, measured, his lips firm but not demanding as they move against mine. A question, an invitation, a declaration of intent.
Then I make a small, involuntary sound of surrender in the back of my throat, and something in him breaks loose.
His hand slides from my face to the nape of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, demanding entry that I willingly grant. The taste of him—wine and desire and barely leashed power—floods my senses. My hands clutch at his shirt, needing an anchor in the storm of sensation.
The kiss transforms, becomes consuming, devouring. No longer careful or measured but hungry and insistent. His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me against him until no space remains between us. I feel the hard evidence of his desire pressing against my stomach, and heat pools low in my belly in response.
My world narrows to points of contact—his mouth devouring mine, his hand fisted in my hair, his arm iron around my waist, his body hard against mine. I'm drowning in sensation, rational thought dissolving like sugar in rain. Nothing exists outside this moment, this man, this consuming fire between us.
When we finally break apart, both gasping for breath, his forehead rests against mine, unwilling to allow even that small separation. His eyes have darkened to storm-cloud gray, pupils blown wide with desire. I must look equally affected—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, breathing unsteady.
"This changes everything," I manage to say, voice scarcely recognizable to my own ears.
His hand tightens in my hair, not painfully but possessively. "This changes nothing," he counters. "It merely acknowledges what has always been there."
Before I can process his words, his mouth captures mine again, more demanding this time, brooking no argument or analysis. My body responds with embarrassing eagerness, melting against him, opening to him, surrendering to the onslaught of sensation.
His hands begin to wander—sliding down my back, cupping my hips, pulling me more firmly against him. Each touch brands me through my clothing, leaving ghost imprints that I know will linger long after we part. When his fingers brush the side of my breast, even through layers of fabric, a whimper escapes me.
The sound seems to snap something in his control. He breaks the kiss abruptly, stepping back, creating space between us that feels like physical pain. His breathing is ragged, his hands clenched at his sides as if to prevent them from reaching for me again.
"Go to your room, Wren," he says, his voice a rough command.
I stare at him, confused by the sudden withdrawal, still dazed from his kisses. "What? Why?"
"Because if you stay here another minute, I won't be able to stop at kissing you." The raw honesty in his voice sends a shiver of both fear and excitement down my spine. "And your first time with me will not be a rushed encounter on my study floor, no matter how much I want you right now."
First time with me. Not "if" but "when," spoken with absolute certainty. The presumption should offend me, but instead, it sends another wave of treacherous heat through my body.
"This is—we shouldn't—" I struggle to form coherent thoughts through the haze of desire still clouding my mind.
"We already have," he interrupts, eyes boring into mine with frightening intensity. "This was inevitable from the moment I saw you. The only question remaining is how long you'll continue denying what we both know."
I take a step back, needing distance to think clearly. My legs feel unsteady, my body still humming with unfulfilled desire. "I need to think. This is too fast."
