The choice hangs between us like a blade. I think about my bank account, barely scraping by each month.
“I can’t afford to lose my job yet,” I say quietly, the admission tasting like defeat. “I’m sorry, Pierce. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but I can’t. Not until I know for sure what’s happening with the publishing opportunity.”
Pierce’s expression crumbles for just a moment before he schools it back to neutrality. “I understand. I do. I’m so sorry, Thatcher. I wish things were different. I wish we had more time, that we weren’t always on borrowed moments.”
“James forced your hand.”
“He did. Or he would if he knew. Unfortunately, it’s too risky.” Pierce’s hands drop from my face, and the loss of contact feels like losing a lifeline. “I’m sorry. For all of it. For letting this happen, for making you choose, for giving in and putting us in this position…”
The pain in his voice hits like a fist to the ribs. “How do you feel about me?” I ask, needing to know before we end this. “Really feel about me.”
Pierce cradles my face again, his touch gentle and reverent. “I’m in love with you, Thatcher,” he says, his voice raw with honesty. “Completely, stupidly, helplessly in love with you.”
The words hit me like a storm, beautiful and devastating. “I love you too,” I whisper, watching his eyes close briefly like the words hurt. “I’m so in love with you it terrifies me.”
“Thatcher…”
“If I ask you again in six months, will you still love me then?”
Pierce’s smile is heartbreaking. “I’ll love you for the rest of my life, whether we’re together or not. That’s not going to change.”
The certainty in his voice makes my decision at once easy and impossible. If I think this is only temporary, then I can say the words I need to say.
A publishing contract. That’s all I need, and then I can quit VSE, and we can be together.
This is just temporary.
“We need to break up,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “We end this before James can use it against us, before it hurts you, Lior, or VSE.”
“Thatcher—”
“But,” I interrupt, standing and moving toward a hallway where I hope is his bedroom, “before we break up, we need to christen your bed. If this is our last night, I want to remember it properly.”
Pierce follows me, his eyes dark with want and sadness in equal measure. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” I start unbuttoning my shirt, my hands steadier than I expected. “I want you to make love to me in your monochrome bedroom. I want to bring some color to those white sheets.”
Pierce’s control snaps. He crosses the space between us in two strides, his mouth finding mine with desperate hunger. We fall onto his perfectly made bed, hands fumbling with clothes and desperate touches, both of us trying to memorize every sensation.
“I love you,” Pierce breathes against my neck as he works my shirt open. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” I gasp, arching into his touch. “Show me. Show me how much.”
He does. For the next two hours, Pierce worships my body like he’s trying to imprint every touch, every kiss, every moment into permanent memory. He’s tender and desperate and heartbreaking, and when we finally collapse together, both thoroughly spent, I have to fight back tears.
“Stay the night,” Pierce whispers against my hair. “Please. Just tonight.”
“Okay,” I agree, even though I know it will make tomorrow harder. “Just tonight.”
We lie in silence, my head on his chest as I listen to his heartbeat return to normal. The room is dark except for the city lights filtering through his windows, casting everything in silver and shadows.
“Tomorrow, I’m just your boss,” Pierce says quietly.
“Tomorrow, you’re just my boss.”
“And you’re just my assistant.”
The words feel like a death sentence, but I nod anyway. “We can do this. We can be professional.”
