The words hit her hard. Because Nerissa represents everything she’s missed and, above all, someone who truly sees her, without filters or pretense.
“I can’t…” Seraphina whispers, though her eyes inevitably drift down to Nerissa’s lips.
“Yes, you can,” Nerissa replies. “But this time I won’t let you run away afterward.”
Nerissa finally touches her. A single finger slowly traces the edge of the collar of the white silk shirt, descending to the first button. Seraphina lets out a trembling sigh. That slightest touch ignites every nerve ending in her body. Nerissa’s hand stops there, waiting, forcing her to make a decision.
And Seraphina does.
She leans forward and seeks out her mouth. Nerissa’s lips claim hers possessively, and her hands slide up the director’s sides, wrinkling the blouse with deliberate slowness as she unbuttons it one by one.
Seraphina moans against her mouth as she feels the cool air on her skin. Nerissa’s warm palms cover her breasts over the delicate lace bra and squeeze them firmly, while her own trembling hands cling to the dark jacket, pulling the fabric to bring her even closer.
“Slowly,” Nerissa murmurs against her lips. “I want you to feel every second.”
She tilts her head and traces a trail of wet kisses down Seraphina’s neck. Seraphina throws her head back and offers herself without words, while Nerissa’s fingers work quickly, leaving her exposed, clad only in her open shirt and underwear, trembling under the bathroom light.
Nerissa lifts her with apparent ease and seats her on the edge of the sink. The cold marble against her bare thighs draws a gasp from her. Nerissa positions herself between her open legs, dominating the small space, and quickly, her hands trace Seraphina’s thighs slowly, ascending little by little until they stop at the edge of her panties. She looks up and meets the CFO’s eyes.
“Tell me you want me,” she demands.
Seraphina, her cheeks flushed and her breath ragged, nods first. Then, overcome by desire, she replies:
“I want you.”
Nerissa’s smile appears slowly and triumphantly. She slides the panties down and leaves them hanging from one ankle. Her fingers explore her with exquisite patience, tracing gentle circles and pressing exactly where Seraphina needs it most. Seraphina arches her back, seeking greater friction.
“Like that,” Nerissa whispers against her ear. “I want you to enjoy it.”
Feeling Nerissa’s fingers disappear between her wet folds draws a deeper moan from her. And little by little, the pleasure rises in slow, relentless waves. Seraphina clings tightly to Nerissa’s shoulders, digging her nails into her clothes. Her hips move instinctively, seeking the rhythm Nerissa sets between her legs.
“Don’t come yet,” Nerissa commands against her mouth after kissing her.
Seraphina lets out a sob as her whole body trembles, on the verge of breaking. Nerissa continues her assault, and when she finally allows Seraphina to climax, it hits her with overwhelming intensity.
Nerissa accompanies the contractions with lingering caresses, prolonging the pleasure until Seraphina collapses against her, exhausted and trembling. And she focuses on breathing, feeling the full weight of what she has just done.
Again.
Because Seraphina Chapman has crossed the point of no return. And as Nerissa strokes her hair with tenderness after so much dominance, Seraphina realizes she doesn’t want to go back. That the only thing she wants is to find her reflection in the depths of Nerissa’s eyes.
Chapter 4
The operating room still carries that pungent antiseptic smell when Nerissa Ashcombe collapses onto the metal bench in the locker room. She runs both hands over her face with a weariness that seeps into her bones. Her back is stiff after four hours bent over a shattered knee, and her fingers still throb from the constant tension the surgery demanded. Through the half-open door come the distant beeps of monitors and the hurried bustle of nurses, marking the clinic’s relentless pulse. Yet all she needs is a few minutes of respite before she feels trapped between white walls again.
She exhales slowly and begins to remove her surgical scrubs. The operation has been particularly complicated, even for someone with her experience. A Manchester City forward had entered the operating room with multiple ligament tears and an associated fracture after a savage tackle in his last match. Four hours reconstructing a joint torn to pieces while the player’s agent waited outside, as if Nerissa could guarantee the future of a multimillion-dollar career.
Normally, that kind of challenge is like a drug to her, because pain always has an identifiable cause and the solutions—though difficult—are there. It’s nothing like the chaos Seraphina Chapman has once again brought into her life.
After a quick shower, she locks her locker, slips into a black turtleneck and dark pants, and pulls her damp hair back into a ponytail. She stares at herself in the mirror for a few seconds, and the image staring back at her is exactly what Maeve will say the moment she sees her: that she looks awful.
The problem isn’t the complicated surgery. The problem is that she’s been surviving on coffee for two days and an anxiety that’s beginning to manifest throughout her body. Ever since the gala. Ever since Seraphina’s office. Ever since a lie neither of them can keep sustaining any longer.
Nerissa forces herself to leave before her thoughts trap her again.
The restaurant in the Northern Quarter is packed at this time of day. Behind windows fogged by the rain, the street hums with its usual activity.
Nerissa arrives five minutes late, and her best friend is already seated by the window. She’s wearing a worn leather jacket, army boots, and her camera slung over her shoulder as though it were an inseparable part of her body while she brushes a strand of auburn hair from her face.
