Despite everythingthat’s happened today, I keep my promise.
I text Nathaniel when the interview ended, like I said I would.
It’s over. I’m heading to you now.
NATHANIEL
See you soon, baby.
I know him well enough to imagine the way he clutched his phone the second it lit up, the way his shoulders dropped in relief the moment he saw my name. Of course he’d be waiting. He always is.
I barely lift my hand to knock when the door opens.
He’s impeccably dressed in a black cashmere sweater and slate-gray slacks, but the tension in his posture gives him away. His eyes drag over me with an urgency that feels like he’s counting pieces, checking if I came back whole.
He doesn’t speak right away. He simply reaches out, guiding me inside with a possessive touch. The door closes behind me with a muted click, and just like that, I’m inside his world again—dim with evening light and pulsing with the reverberations of our unfinished conversation.
His hands frame my face and he looks at me like he’s not entirely sure I’m real, or that I won’t vanish if he blinks. His thumbs brush beneath my eyes, and the heat of his palms soaks through my skin, unwinding me by slow degrees.
“You’re back,” he says at last, his voice rough. “God, I missed you.”
The look in his eyes tells me he didn’t believe I’d really come until I stepped through the door. I don’t pull away. I should. The weight of everything I’m not saying presses hard against my ribs, but I can’t bring myself to step out of his hold. Not when he’s looking at me like this.
“It’s only been a few hours,” I say.
His lips curve, but there’s no humor in it. Just an unspoken yearning. “Too long.”
He presses a kiss to my temple, then one to my forehead, lingering each time like he’s trying to hold me exactly where he wants me with his lips. My breath hitches. His presence is overwhelming, but it’s the kind of weight I’ve come to crave—a pressure that saysI’ve got you. You’re mine.
His hand slides to the small of my back, guiding me gently through the entryway.
“Sit,” he says softly.
I hesitate, but he’s already nudging me toward the sofa. I ease down onto the cushion, my skirt brushing against the velvet upholstery.
Nathaniel doesn’t take the seat beside me.
He kneels at my feet.
And there’s something about that—abouthimon his knees, unbothered by the marble beneath them—that tightens something in my throat.
His hands trail down the length of my legs, a slow caress. When he reaches my ankles, his fingers skim the straps of my heels, tracing the indent they’ve pressed into my skin. His brow furrows as if the shoes have personally offended him.
“These,” he grumbles, shaking his head, “are far too high.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he’s already unclasping the first buckle, his long fingers deft and precise.
As the heel slips off, his thumb finds the arch of my foot and presses gently. A warm, steady pressure that melts the tension so fast it feels like my body has been waiting for his touch. He doesn’t rush. He never does when he’s trying to make a point. He just strokes, slow and patient, like he’s reminding my muscles who they belong to.
“You didn’t have to walk so far in these,” he murmurs. “Not when I could’ve driven you.”
His tone isn’t sharp. It’s laced with something protective and pleading.
I swallow against the knot forming in my throat.
He reaches for my other foot, removing that shoe and repeating his ministrations, strong fingers working at the ball of my foot. The pressure is perfect—just enough to ease the ache without breaking the moment.
A moan slips out of me before I can stop it. He glances up at me, eyes gleaming, and smiles like I’ve just handed him the world.
