“Well, I’m not in the business of judging clients, that’s for a jury or judge to do. And I’m merely looking into their assets, so their character has no bearing on me.” I keep my voice low and controlled, but irritation crawls up my spine. “And unless you have a conviction or a legal document to drop in front of me, I can’t exactly go to my boss and tell him I won’t touch a new account because someone I’m dating thinks they’re shady.”
“It’s not jealousy,” he says, calm steel in his voice. “It’s knowing they’re dangerous.”
I stare at him. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Am I?” His fingers curl slightly against his thigh. “You have no idea what kind of people they are.”
“And you conveniently won’t tell me,” I snap back. “Do you see the problem there? You want me to drop clients based on vibes and jealousy.”
His eyes flash. “This isn’t jealousy.”
“Oh, it absolutely is,” I hiss. “The moment Alex kissed my cheek, you looked like you wanted to flip a table.”
“He shouldn’t have touched you.”
“And you don’t get to decide that,” I fire back. “You don’t get to control my job, my clients, or who greets me politely at a charity gala.” Even though my skin crawled when Alex kissed me, leaving me feeling suddenly dirty and in need of a shower. I shudder at the thought and reach for my wine again.
He leans close, his breath brushing my neck, and now I shiver for another reason altogether. “They weren’t being polite.”
I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the fact this man fires up my soul like no one else. “Until something’s legally problematic, until my managing partner says otherwise, I’m not dropping them. End of conversation.”
He stares at me, fury simmering beneath the surface. But there’s something else too—fear? No, not fear. Concern. Something heavier. I don’t let myself soften. Not tonight. If I do, I’ll be controlled by him for the foreseeable future, or however long this—whatever we have—lasts, and I can’t allow that.
The final auction paddle drops. Applause ripples through the room. My mother stands to clap, and my father laughs at something the gentleman beside him says. Stephen turns toward me, and for a moment, everything in the world quiets.
“I want you to come home with me tonight,” he murmurs.
My breath hitches. “Stephen?—”
“I’m not asking for forever. Just…don’t leave tonight like this. We need to talk, and I want you in my bed. I’m not hiding that fact.”
God help me, I should say no. I should walk out and put every wall back up. But the ache between us tightens my chest, the unresolved heat makes my skin flush, and the still-burning argument creates a restless energy inside me. All of it pulls me toward him, against every rational thought.
And I say the word I shouldn’t.
“Fine.”
His shoulders ease minutely, but his eyes remain dark, unreadable. He reaches for my hand beneath the table, and even though I should pull away, I don’t.
We leave separately after he texts me his address. Optics, of course. My parents would probably have a stroke if they saw us leave together. He waits for me outside his apartment, and I see him kicking his heels as my taxi pulls up. We don’t speak as he takes my hand and we enter the building and ride the elevator up. The energy between us is too volatile, too loaded.
My stomach is in knots, anticipation tightening every muscle. My blood pounds in my ears, and I can still feel the echo of his touch from earlier. Desire thrums through me, sharper for having him here, finally alone in the quiet of his home—free from interruption, free to give in to whatever we want.
Damn, I have it bad…
By the time we reach his apartment, my pulse has become a frantic, nervous flutter. The space is warm, dimly lit, and expensive without being sterile. He pours wine without asking, hands me a glass, watches me take off my heels and curl my toes against one of his rugs.
Maybe it’s the wine, maybe I’m exhausted, or maybe I’m just done fighting for tonight. Frustration and weariness settle overme as I tuck myself into the corner of his couch, letting my head fall back against the cushion, wishing for a moment of peace.
He sits at the opposite end, angled toward me, glass in hand, eyes still burning with everything left unsaid.
For a few minutes, neither of us speaks. Then he breaks the peaceful silence, and I inwardly groan at the loss of calm.
“You shouldn’t work with them, Dallen.”
And just like that, my spine stiffens. “We’re not doing this again. I can’t do what you want, Stephen. End of conversation.”
“We are discussing this further.” His voice is softer than before, but more dangerous too. His quiet calm is more terrifying than his loud, abrupt manner. “I’m not going to pretend this is fine.”
