Then he stepped closer. His arm wound around my waist, firm and unrelenting, drawing me against the solid wall of him. The contact stole my balance, my breath—everything.
“Thank you for tonight.” His voice shook. “For everything.”
My palm found his chest—alive beneath my touch—the thrum of his heartbeat vibrated against my skin. “No… thank—”
The rest vanished as his mouth captured mine.
The world fell away. My gasp broke against his lips, and he took it, deepening the kiss until thought itself fractured. His hand slid up, fingers threading through my hair, guiding me closer, holding me there.
I melted into him. My body moved before my mind could catch up, heat spilling through me like wildfire, gathering low and insistent. The taste of him—wine, warmth, want—set every nerve alight. I reached for him blindly, fisting my hands in his shirt, desperate for more. Beneath the fabric he was all strength and heat and rough skin, the kind of solid that felt like safety and danger at once.
His grip tightened gently in my hair as his other hand mapped the line of my body, tender and hungry in equal measure. The air between us burned.
Then—suddenly—he broke the kiss, chest heaving. “God,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to look at me. “Sorry.” His chest heaved, his pupils blown wide. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“It’s…” My voice was barely sound. “It’s okay.”
I didn’t move away. Couldn’t. He surrounded me, his pulse still drumming beneath my palm. The faint scent of cedar and smoke clung to his skin, and the nearness of him pulled at something deep inside me—something that felt dangerously like surrender.
He froze when I pressed my ear to his chest, the thunder of his heartbeat pounding beneath my cheek. It raced wild and uneven—proof I wasn’t the only one undone by what had just happened between us. His arms tightened around me instinctively, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other splayed wide across my lower back as though to anchor me there.
We stayed like that for what felt like forever—two people suspended in a world that had shrunk to the rise and fall of his chest, to the steady rhythm of us finding sync. The city murmured somewhere far below, distant and irrelevant, as if the whole skyline were holding its breath with us.
Eventually, I forced myself to pull back just enough to look up at him. His eyes were dark and raw, searching my face like he was trying to memorize every line, every breath, every unspoken thing between us.
“I should be getting home,” I whispered, though every part of me wanted to stay exactly where I was.
His shoulders dropped, and a small, rueful smile flickered across his mouth. “Probably.” He reached into his pocket, checking the time. “Your driver should be here soon.”
“Probably.” My voice was small and tinged with disappointment.
The walk through his penthouse felt like a dream—each step heavier than the last, each one carrying us closer to goodbye. When we reached the elevator, he pressed the call button.
“Text me when you get home, okay?”
I nodded, my throat too thick to answer. “I will.”
He leaned down, pressing a slow, reverent kiss to the top of my head. His lips lingered there, the warmth of him seeping through my skin, something catching in him like it cost him something to let go.
When he finally did, his hands trailed down my arms until only our fingertips touched—the last, trembling connection before the inevitable parting.
The elevator doors opened with a quiet chime that sounded far too final. I stepped inside and turned to face him, memorizing everything—the candlelight haloing his face, the heartbreak in his eyes, the promise neither of us dared to speak aloud.
We didn’t look away. Not until the doors began to close, slicing the space between us, sealing him away with a metallic sigh.
As the elevator began its descent, I pressed my fingers to my lips. His taste still lingered there—chocolate, wine, and something dangerously close to hope.
Chapter 23
***
Damien
Emma and her team would be here any minute.
The thought alone was enough to set every nerve in my body humming. The faint trace of her perfume still clung to the T-shirt beneath my button-down—the same one I’d worn the night we’d breathed new life into the ruins between us. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to wash it.
Now, nine days and a handful of meetings later, the fabric itched against my skin, and I couldn’t decide if I’d tipped from sentimental into pathetic. Possibly both. Definitely not hygienic.
