"Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He didn't. Built a rhythm that had me gasping, clinging to his shoulders, meeting every thrust. My back arched, taking him deeper, and he groaned into my neck.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough.
I did. Held his gaze while he moved inside me, while pleasure built and crested and threatened to break me apart.
"I see you," he said. "All of you. And you're beautiful."
His hand slid between us, finding where we were joined, his thumb circling until I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, could only feel.
"Come for me," he whispered. "Let me see you come apart."
I did. Shattered completely, crying out his name, my body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through me.
He followed seconds later, his whole body going rigid, then collapsing against me, both of us shaking and breathless and utterly spent.
We lay tangled together afterward, hearts pounding against each other, his weight pressing me into the mattress in a way that felt like safety.
"That," he said finally, his voice muffled against my neck, "was worth waiting for."
I laughed shakily, running my fingers through his hair. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He kissed my shoulder. "That was you. Really you. Finally."
We dozed for a while, wrapped around each other in the tangle of sheets. When we finally stirred, mid-morning sun was streaming through his windows, painting everything gold.
"We should probably get up," I said reluctantly. "The celebration tonight—"
"Is hours away." He pulled me closer. "Stay here a little longer."
So I did. Let myself have this—the warmth of his body against mine, the quiet intimacy of just being together without words or walls or fear.
Eventually, though, reality intruded. We had to get ready. Had to face the town. Had to step into whatever came next.
BY LATE AFTERNOON,we were showering and getting ready. The Valentine's Festival closing gala at The Pinnacle started at six—cocktails first, then Evelyn's announcements, buffet dinner, and dancing.
I'd just finished drying my hair when Gil appeared in the bathroom doorway, already dressed in charcoal slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
"About the executive chef position," he said quietly. "The offer I made Saturday night."
I turned to face him, wrapped in his robe. "I was terrible to you. I ran away."
"You had reasons. And now we've cleared the air." He crossed to me, leaned against the counter. "The offer still stands, Ruby. If you want it."
"I want it." The words came easier than I expected. "I want to accept. Partnership, profit-sharing, creative control—all of it."
"You're sure? No pressure. We can take time to—"
"I'm sure." I reached for his hand. "I'm tired of running from what I want. And I want this. With you."
He pulled me into his arms. "Then it's yours. We'll work out the details next week—contracts, timeline, menu development, hiring staff."
"Thank you for not giving up on me."
"Never." He kissed my forehead. "I'll let you finish getting ready. We should leave in about forty-five minutes."
He slipped out, closing the bathroom door to give me privacy.
