The way he’d kissed me like he meant it.
The way he touched me like he’d known my body for years.
The way I still feel tender and trembling in the best possible way.
My mother is midway through a story when I realize I’m smiling at my plate. I clear my throat and sip my glass of wine, hoping no one notices my blush.
My father occasionally glances at me, curious, maybe suspicious, but he says nothing. Their chatter blurs—names, rumors, trivialities. My thoughts drift back to last night. To Stephen. To how alive I feel.
I take another sip of wine and set down my glass, my heart beating just a fraction faster.
Because whatever last night was…
I want more.
SEVEN
STEPHEN
I sitin my car and wait. I have no driver today, having been down in this part of New York for a real estate business meeting, and I thought I’d look in and see if Dallen happened to come and go from her building. I’ve been here for an hour already. Not that I’ll tell her that—I’m not a stalker…yet—but I want to see her again. Already, the blood in my veins pumps fast at the thought of having her sweetness in my arms again.
These thoughts went against everything I am, what I was raised to be. Lucien fought hard to keep us younger siblings out of the life our father lived, but the old man always found a way. I’d seen things that Lucien didn’t even know of, and I hope never learned about. I had been my father’s right-hand kid, not man, kid far too often to count. I frown, hating the memory of what I did. Of what I’m capable of. When Lucien had killed Matteo Romero, that old surge of hate, of fury had risen within me, and had he asked—had he not been able to rid the world of that disease—I certainly would have. No questions asked. No hesitation.
I hoped that now my father’s ruthlessness only came out in me through business deals. I rarely relented if I wantedsomething and always got what I wanted in the end. That aggression was the same when it came to women. I always got what I wanted.
Dallen would be no different. I convince myself I want her because I always get what I want, but with her there's a nagging worry—maybe it's more than just wanting. Maybe it's about needing someone to see past what I am.
I see her. Finally. She’s wearing black trousers and a white silk shirt. She has a bouquet of flowers in her arms. What ass bought her those? I look around, knowing I didn’t bring anything for her. I should have. Rookie mistake. She stops walking and looks down at her phone, and smiles at whatever notification she received. Maybe she was seeing someone? She didn’t mention anyone when I was fucking her in my car. When she was coming down hard on my cock and driving me insane.
I check my mirrors, step out, and block her path. She doesn’t see me—walks straight into me. A soft “oomph” escapes her lips. She looks up, recognizes me, and the pleasure on her face gives me hope. I glance at the flowers before meeting her eyes.
“Hello, Dallen.” I soak in her presence. She’s even prettier up close in daylight. I want to pull her to me, breathe her in—fruit and summer, tropical. I don’t know why I crave her, it’s not normal for me.
“Stephen.” Her words are breathless, as if the sight of me leaves her stunned, excited. I hope it does.
“I didn’t think to see you again.” A blush steals over her cheeks, and I know she’s remembering our time in the car and what we did. What I want to do to her again.
“Are you free? I want to take you out for dinner if you’re available?”
She looks around, hesitating. Maybe she doesn't want to go out. I could eat her instead if she prefers. “Only if you want to.No pressure. We did meet—and get to know each other—fast, but it was…satisfying and strange.”
Her laugh and genuine smile give me hope. “I don’t have any plans tonight, so of course I’d love to. But I have to go upstairs first and drop off my flowers.” She hesitates. “Would you like to come up?”
“Sure.” I look up at the building, one of the oldest in New York, renovated into apartments and sold off to individuals. Only those with money lived in them, and although it was several stories high, it was one of the most- sought-after apartment blocks in NY since it allowed each apartment holder private access to the park across the road. I’d been trying to purchase into the building for years without success. “Have you lived here long? This building is one I’ve often admired.”
The building rises from the street like a relic, carved stone and quiet grandeur, as if Manhattan grew up around it. Its façade shows old money—arched sandstone-framed windows, aged wrought-iron balconies, and a broad entrance crowned by an elegant portico. Time has refined it, not diminished it.
She enters her pin and the door unlocks before we enter the foyer, and she presses the elevator button. “A while. This was my mother’s flat before she married my father, but it’s mine now.” She shrugs. “Lucky, I guess.”
I follow Dallen into the elevators, surprised to find the doors open into a private foyer when we reach her floor. Heavy doors greet us that look like they’ve been opened and closed a thousand times before. The building has the same bones as mine—solid, old, unapologetic. None of that glass-and-steel nonsense that makes every apartment feel like a hotel suite you’re only meant to stay in temporarily.
Her place opens into a feeling of warmth. Dark wood floors stretch out beneath my feet, worn just enough to tell a story. A plush lounge sits opposite a low table layered with booksand throw rugs in muted colors, the kind that invite you to sit, sink, stay awhile. Framed paintings line the walls—landscapes, abstracts, something that looks like it might’ve been done by a family member rather than a gallery. It feels lived in. Loved.
“This is me,” Dallen says, slipping off her shoes.
Before I can respond, a blur of fur launches itself from the back of the sofa.
“Well, hello,” I mutter as a black cat trots over like it owns the place.
