“I get it. It’s hard to be somebody’s safe place when you never had one.”
I pushed my chair back, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact. The scrape of the legs against marble echoed through the quiet penthouse, but all I could hear was my heartbeat thundering in my ears.
“Two weeks was a long time to not see my husband. Hear his voice. Smell his cologne.” I stood, moving closer. “Fake or not, I missed you. I was worried about you.”
My fingers went to the back of his neck first—light, testing. I wanted to see if he flinched, if this whole vulnerable act was just that, an act. But he didn’t move. He just sat there, letting me touch him, his breath catching. He wasn’t as in control as he wanted me to think.
I dragged my hands over his shoulders, broad and solid, then down his chest. He was all muscle, hard under my palms, and I felt the way he tensed, jaw locking. It was taking everything in him not to grab me right back.
“You good?” I asked, dropping my voice into that tone I only used when I wanted something.
We’d been dancing around this for months—sharing a bed, moving through the same space, stuck in that weird middle ground between strangers and lovers. But we’d never crossed this line, not like this.
I moved around his chair slowly, fingertips dragging across his shoulders, down his arms. I felt the heat rolling off him, felthis head turn just enough to keep me in sight, even as he forced his body to stay locked in place.
“You still mad at me?” he asked, his voice lower, rough around the edges.
“No,” I said, letting my hand rest near his belt, not tugging, just reminding him I could. “But I should be.”
My own honesty caught me off guard. I was looking at him differently now. I’d stopped pretending not to notice. The way his throat worked when he swallowed. The way his fingers flexed against the arms of the chair, like he was fighting not to reach for me. The way his eyes burned into me, no disguise, no filter, just want written plain across his face.
He grabbed my wrist—not rough, but firm—and pulled me toward him. I moved willingly, with no resistance or hesitation. When he lifted the hem of my dress and guided my legs on either side of his chair, I let him. When he positioned me so I was straddling him, I settled into place.
His large hands found my waist, and I could feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric of my dress. We were so close now I could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes and could count the lines around them that revealed years of responsibility weighing on his shoulders.
My body settled against him. A shaky inhale slipped out before I could stop it. There was no space between us now, my thighs pressed against his hips, my hands braced on his shoulders, my face inches from his.
My mouth parted slightly, words on the tip of my tongue, but nothing came out. was trying to read him and making it obvious.
He didn’t kiss me right away. Instead, he let us exist in that space between wanting and having, between the arrangement we’d made and whatever this was becoming. When my hips shifted slightly against his lap, I heard his sharp intake of breath.
“Coco,” he said, my nickname coming out strained.
I knew I looked good sitting there in his lap, my dress riding up my thighs, my hair falling around my shoulders. But more than that, I was here. I chose to be here, to let this happen.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, his hands tightening possessively on my waist. “Because once we cross this line, we’re done pretending this is just business.”
I searched his dark eyes, feeling the careful walls I'd built around my heart finally crumble into dust.
“I don't want to pretend anymore,” I whispered, leaning down until my lips were almost touching his.
Raw need replaced the careful control he’d been wearing all night. He reached behind me and swept everything off the table in one rough motion. Crystal glasses, plates, and silverware crashed to the floor in an explosion of sound that echoed through the penthouse.
Surprise hit me first, but it didn’t last. Hunger took over before I could catch my breath. When he gripped my waist and lifted me onto the edge of the table like I weighed nothing, the coolness was a stark contrast to the heat radiating between us.
“You sure about this?” he asked, his voice rough with want, hands framing my face like I was something precious he was afraid to break.
I answered by pulling his mouth down to mine, kissing him like I’d been starving for the taste of him. Like my body had been waiting for this moment since the night we first met.
“Lesley—” I started, but he swallowed whatever I was going to say with his mouth on mine.
I moaned into his mouth, the sound slipping out before I could hold it back, vibrating between us and shaking my nerves loose. My nails scraped down his back through his shirt, and I didn’t care if I marked him up. I wanted to. Ineededto. I wanted him to feel me long after this moment ended.
I kissed him like he’d been gone too long. Like my body remembered the silence and hated it. I could feel everything I’d held in bleeding through my mouth, how worried I was, how mad I had been, how much I missed him and hated missing him. And how much I was still willing to forgive.
Shit.
His lips were rough, his mouth greedy, but I gave it back to him just as hard. I kissed him like I was trying to start something and end something at the same time. I didn’t want to need him. I didn’t want to feel this deep. But I did. And the way I kissed him said it all.
