“Sorry,” I whisper, breathless. “I just—I’m not used to this.”
He reads the fluster as innocence. He likes it. His thumb traces my knuckles, possessive.
“It’s all right,” he soothes, voice low, proud. “We’ll go slow.”
I keep my hands tight around the mug, focus on the feeling of ceramic against my palms, the city lights beyond the glass, the warmth of him at my side.
I let my thoughts scatter, refusing to pin down anything solid. I am every version of the girl he thinks I am: shy, flustered, a little overwhelmed. I glance up through my lashes, catch the pleased, greedy look on his face, and I know I’ve given him exactly what he wanted.
He thinks he’s won something. He thinks I’m here, teetering, ready to fall. And for now, that’s true enough.
Nikola’s shift is subtle—first the smile, then the narrowing of his eyes, that faint upturn of his mouth that says he’s settling into his preferred role. The drinks are untouched, but the air hums with a charge that wasn’t there before.
He steps in, claiming the little space I’ve held around myself, arm sliding around my waist as if it belongs there. His fingertips skim the fabric of my blouse, heat leaching through, and he’s so certain—so sure that my soft laugh, my half-averted gaze, mean yes.
He guides me without effort. Not rough—just steady, sure, a practiced dancer who always leads. The city is spread beneath us, but the only view that matters is the way thepenthouse pulls in, closing the world to just us and the slow, controlled pressure of his body.
He draws me toward the wide sofa, low and sunken, and I let him. My pulse is even, measured, as I allow myself to fold onto the cushions, knees angled toward him, posture loose.
Not a single quiver, no telltale panic. My breathing is calm. I trace my thumb along the inside of my wrist, anchoring myself.
Nikola notices. He likes my composure, mistakes it for submission.
He leans in, pressing his advantage—knuckles at my jaw, mouth at my ear. “You always this quiet?” he murmurs, voice somewhere between tease and claim.
I tip my head, hair falling to shield my face, eyes tracking his hands. “I’m still… figuring you out.” I let the confession hang, coy and soft, as he skims his thumb over my cheek. “It’s just different. All of this.”
He’s pleased. I see it in the way his body loosens, the way his guard lowers. He wants to believe I’m overwhelmed. He wants to play the generous host, the man who makes complicated things simple. He slides even closer, thigh pressed to mine, lips brushing my jaw.
“It’s just us,” he says, and there’s a question tucked inside it. I answer with a shy, sidelong glance.
“Do you live alone?” My voice is small, curious. “It must get lonely up here.”
He chuckles, smug. “I have staff during the day. Cleaning, groceries, whatever I need. They’re gone by six. No one here now but us.” His hand finds my hip, thumb stroking lazily. “You’re safe.”
I let myself relax into his touch, as if soothed. “What about security? With all these windows, don’t you ever feel… watched?” My tone is breathless, like the idea makes me shiver.
He likes this question. “No cameras inside. I like my privacy.” He sounds proud. “There’s a guard in the lobby, and cameras in the hall, but not up here. This is mine.” The pride borders on possessive, as if he’s inviting me to thank him for the privilege.
I let my eyes roam the space, mapping the room: the thick glass, the single elevator, the way his body blocks my view of the front door. “No one else coming?” My voice dips, soft and vulnerable. “I mean—does anyone know I’m here?”
He shakes his head, drawing me in for a kiss. “Not unless you want them to.”
I tilt my chin, let his mouth find mine. His kiss is confident, his hand anchoring my waist, the other cupping the back of my neck. I melt against him—perfectly, carefully.
He thinks he’s leading; I let him. I can feel the weight of his body shifting, bracketing me with his legs, and the entire room narrows to the scent of his cologne and the city lights ghosting through glass.
He deepens the kiss, testing boundaries. My hands tangle in his lapel. He thinks I’m clutching for balance; I’m checking the seams, the pressure, how easily the fabric could be used to choke.
His fingers drift lower, thumb brushing the hem of my skirt, and I let my breath quicken by half a beat—just enough to keep him invested. “You’re shaking,” he whispers.
“A little,” I breathe, and I make it sound like nerves. “It’s just… intense.”
He takes it as invitation, teeth grazing my jaw, voice dropping lower. “I want you here. Stay.”
My work brain wakes up, sharp as a knife. I clock the camera angle in the ceiling—pointed harmlessly at the elevator, not the living area. The door behind us is weighted, the latch soft but distinct; I’d heard it click when we entered.
My feet rest flat on the thick rug, ready to push up if needed. I trace the weight of him, cataloging every ounce he’s giving me—where he’s off-balance, where I could break his grip. I remember my father’s men correcting my stance, drilling me until my knees didn’t buckle, until I could hold a smile and a secret both.
