His phone goes off, throwing us back into reality.
I let out a groan of frustration. “Now, who is the big tease?”
He helps me off the table, steadying me when my legs threaten to give out. My thighs are trembling. My panties are ruined. And the ache between my legs is almost painful with unfulfilled need.
We straighten our clothes in silence. I smooth my skirt back down over my hips. He adjusts his vest and runs a hand through his silver hair, trying to tame what my fingers have disheveled. When I look up, I catch him watching me with an expression that makes my heart stutter in my chest.
Then he laughs.
The sound startles me. It's low and warm and genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way I've never seen before. The severity that usually marks his features softens into something almost boyish, almost young, almost free.
"What?" I ask, adjusting my blouse where his hands have pulled it loose from my waistband.
"Nothing." He shakes his head, still smiling. "You just... you surprise me. That's all."
"I like that sound." The words slip out before I can stop them. I step closer to him, reaching up to straighten his collar even though it doesn't need it. "Your laugh. You should do it more often."
He lifts a heavy shoulder. "Don't get used to it."
But the warmth in his eyes says I should. That maybe, with me, he can be someone other than the cold mafia boss everyone else sees. That maybe, in the quiet spaces between us, he can let himself be human.
We exit the boardroom separately, and I spend the rest of the afternoon trying to focus on work while my body throbs with unfulfilled need. Every shift in my chair reminds me of the slick wetness between my thighs. Every breath carries his scent from where it clings to my skin. Every time I look up, I catch Drake watching me through the glass walls of his office, his gray eyes dark with promises.
Every time our eyes meet, heat floods my cheeks and I have to look away.
By evening, I'm exhausted. The emotional whiplash of the day has drained me completely, the high of the boardroom followedby hours of simmering tension leaving me wrung out and aching. I retreat to the library after everyone else has left, curling into one of the leather chairs with a book I can't actually read.
The fire crackles softly in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the spines of first editions I still can't believe are mine to touch whenever I want. The smell of old books and leather wraps around me like a blanket, familiar and comforting in a way that loosens the knots in my shoulders.
I don't remember falling asleep.
But I remember waking up in his arms.
"What are you doing?" My voice comes out rough with sleep as I blink up at Drake's face. He's carrying me through the penthouse, my head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a drum beneath my ear. The fabric of his shirt is soft against my cheek, still carrying the warmth of his body.
"Taking care of you."
He doesn't take me to my room, though. He carries me down the hallway, past my door, past the door between our rooms, and into his.
The master bathroom is already filling with steam when we enter, clouds of it curling through the air like ghosts. The massive tub is half-full of water that smells like eucalyptus and something warm and masculine that makes my toes curl. Candles flicker on every surface, dozens of them, casting the marble in soft golden light that makes the room look like something from a dream.
He did this. For me. While I slept, he prepared this.
"Get in."
I should argue. Should remind him that I'm still frustrated with him for leaving me aching and unfulfilled in that boardroom. Should maintain some shred of the walls I've been trying to keep between us, the walls that protect me from wanting too much, from hoping too hard, from falling so far I'll never find my way back.
Instead, I strip.
His sharp intake of breath sends satisfaction curling through me, warm and heady. I take my time with each piece of clothing, letting it fall to the marble floor while his gray eyes track every inch of skin I reveal. The blouse first, buttons slipping free one by one. Then the skirt, sliding down my hips to pool at my feet. The bra, the straps falling from my shoulders before I unclasp it and let it drop.
When I hook my thumbs into my panties and ease them down my legs, his jaw works with the effort of restraint. I can see his hands flexing at his sides, fingers curling into fists and releasing. The evidence of his arousal strains against his trousers, and the knowledge that I've done that to him, that my body affects him this deeply, makes me feel powerful in a way I've never experienced before.
I set my glasses to the side and step into the tub. I sink into the hot water, groaning as it envelops me. The heat seeps into muscles I didn't know were tense, loosening knots that have lived in my shoulders for years. I let my head fall back against the curved edge of the tub with a sigh that seems to come from somewhere deep in my soul.
Movement draws my attention. Drake is undressing with efficient movements, revealing planes of muscle and silver chest hair and a body that makes my mouth go dry despite the steamswirling around me. Defined muscles from what I assume is hours in the gym are marked here and there with scars that speak of a life lived on the edge of violence.
Black and gray ink traces along his forearms and across one shoulder. Celtic knots intertwined with union symbols. Coordinates etched into his inner arm. A pattern of thorns and roses wrapping his right forearm. And coiling up his left arm, the only splash of color among his ink, a red viper with its head settling on the back of his hand. His tattoos are sparse compared to Rafael's full sleeves, but each one looks deliberate, meaningful, earned.
