The elevator chimes, the doors sliding open to the dark foyer of the penthouse.
I walk out first, my stilettos clicking sharply against the concrete floor. The apartment is completely silent, the city lights outside casting long, geometric shadows across the living room.
I stop near the edge of the kitchen island, turning around to face him.
Malcolm walks into the room, tossing his keys onto the marble counter. He doesn't go to his office. He doesn't walk toward thebar cart to pour a drink. He stops right in front of me, leaving just enough space so we aren't touching.
"You're shaking," he says, his voice low in the quiet room.
"I'm coming down from a massive adrenaline spike," I reply, wrapping my arms around my waist. The charcoal suit starts to feel too tight, the fabric constricting my chest. "I just told your father to go to hell in his own dining room. I think I'm allowed to shake."
"You are." He reaches out, his fingers brushing the lapel of my jacket. "Take the armor off, Audrey."
I swallow hard. The command isn't sexual. It’s a quiet, absolute demand for me to drop the defensive wall I’ve been holding up since four o'clock this afternoon.
I reach up, my fingers clumsy, and unbutton the jacket. I shrug it off my shoulders, letting it drape over the back of one of the leather barstools. Underneath, I am wearing a simple, dark silk camisole. The cold air of the apartment hits my bare arms, but the shiver that runs down my spine has nothing to do with the temperature.
Malcolm’s eyes drop to my collarbone, tracing the line of my neck before returning to my face.
"Better?" he asks.
"A little." I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms again. "So. We survived."
"We established a perimeter," he corrects me, stepping closer. "Preston will spend the next three weeks trying to figure out how to breach it before the engagement party. He will look for weaknesses in my division. He will try to pressure the board."
"Will it work?"
"No." Malcolm rests his hands on the edge of the marble counter, trapping me loosely between his arms. "I control the infrastructure. He controls the optics. Tonight, we proved that his optics don't matter."
"Simon looked like he was going to cry into his soup."
A dark, genuine amusement flashes in Malcolm’s eyes. "He did."
I look down at the space between us. The victory at the dinner table feels massive, but standing here in the dark kitchen, it also feels incredibly distant. The war with his family is the reason I am in this apartment, but it isn't the reason my heart is currently hammering against my ribs.
"In the car," I start, my voice dropping to a nervous whisper. I force myself to look up at him. "When I kissed you."
"I remember," Malcolm says, his tone instantly losing the amusement. The air between us thickens, the gravity of the room shifting.
"I wasn't performing," I tell him, needing the words to be absolutely clear. "I know we have a contract. I know we have rules. But I didn't do that to prove a point to your father, or to convince Simon that I moved on."
Malcolm’s jaw tightens. He doesn't move, but the stillness radiating from him is terrifyingly focused. "I know."
"You do?"
"If I thought you were performing, Audrey, I would not have let you touch me." He leans in, his face inches from mine. "I do not play games with what is mine."
The possessiveness in the wordminemakes my breath catch. It isn't a romantic platitude. It’s a statement of fact.
I reach up, my hands resting flat against the solid wall of his chest. I can feel the steady, heavy beat of his heart beneath the white cotton of his shirt.
"Then don't play games," I whisper.
Malcolm closes the remaining distance.
He kisses me. It is slower than the kiss in the car, deeper, completely stripping away the last remaining barrier between us. I open my mouth for him, my fingers sliding up his chest to grip the collar of his shirt. He tastes like expensive scotch and the cold city air.
He wraps one arm around my waist, pulling me flush against him. The other hand slides into my hair, his fingers tangling in the loose waves, holding the back of my head with a firm, anchoring grip.
