Nathan's hand finds mine on the seat between us, his fingers threading through mine with surprising gentleness. I don't pull away. I'm too tired to fight anymore.
When we arrive at the penthouse, the silence follows us inside. Nathan loosens his tie as we enter, the gesture drawing my eyes to the strong column of his throat.
"I have some financial reports to review," he says, moving toward his study. But as he passes me, he stops.
For a moment, we just stand there, the air between us crackling with tension. Then his hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
"Eve," he says, my name a rough whisper.
Then he kisses me.
It's not gentle. Not asking permission. His mouth claims mine with a fierce hunger that steals my breath, one hand fisting in my hair to tilt my head back, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise.
My hands find his shirt, gripping the expensive fabric, and I don't know if I'm trying to push him away or pull him closer. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, demanding, possessive, and a sound escapes me that's half protest, half surrender.
He makes a low growl in response, backing me against the wall, his body flush against mine. I can feel every hard plane of him, feel the evidence of how much he wants me pressingagainst my hip, and heat pools low in my stomach despite everything.
His hand slides from my hip to my thigh, hitching my leg up slightly, and the new angle makes me gasp against his mouth. He takes advantage, deepening the kiss, consuming me with an intensity that feels like drowning and flying all at once.
I bite his lower lip—whether in retaliation or invitation, I'm not sure—and he groans, his grip on my hair tightening just enough to send sparks down my spine. The line between pleasure and pain blurs, and I'm lost in it, in him, in this terrible, intoxicating thing between us.
His lips leave mine to trail down my jaw, my neck, finding the sensitive spot below my ear that makes me arch against him.
"God, Eve," he breathes against my skin, his voice rough with desire. "You're killing me."
His hands are everywhere—sliding down my back, gripping my waist, one hand cupping my breast through the fabric of my dress. Every touch sets me on fire, awakens something primal and desperate inside me.
I pull him back to my mouth, kissing him with a hunger I didn't know I possessed. My fingers find his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan. The sound goes straight through me, pooling heat low in my belly.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His eyes are nearly black with desire, his lips swollen from our kisses. He looks wild. Undone.
I probably look the same.
"Eve—" He stops, closing his eyes briefly. "Enough."
He releases me abruptly and steps back, and the sudden absence of his body is almost painful. Cold air rushes in where his warmth had been, and I feel the loss of it like a physical ache.
Without another word, he turns and walks toward his study, his movements rigid with barely contained desire.
I'm left standing against the wall, my body aching, my lips swollen, my skin flushed with unfulfilled desire. The kiss awakened something in me—something that refuses to be ignored.
My body is screaming for more. For completion. For him.
I watch his study door close behind him, and the ache between my thighs intensifies. My skin feels too sensitive, every nerve ending alive and demanding. I can still taste him on my lips, still feel the phantom touch of his hands on my body.
I move to the living room on unsteady legs, trying to read, trying to distract myself. But every word on the page blurs together. All I can think about is his mouth on mine, his hands on my body, the way he looked at me like I was everything.
An hour passes. Then another. I hear the rustle of papers from his study, the clink of ice in a glass. But the sound of his presence only makes the ache worse.
My entire body is humming with need. Want. The kind of desperate desire I've never felt before, that makes rational thought impossible.
I don't want to think anymore. Don't want to analyze or weigh my options. I just want to feel. Want him. Want the oblivion his touch promises.
I set down my book and stand, my decision made before I'm fully conscious of making it.
I walk through the penthouse, past the office where Nathan sits reading business reports, past the guest rooms and the library, and all the beautiful, empty spaces.
I walk to his bedroom.
