And I’m so tired of fighting that I don’t know if I have it in me to say no to him again.
I let my fingers brush over the tarot card in my palm. The serpent glints in the moonlight, twisting, watching. I don’t need a reading to understand the warning.
“Drinking alone?”
I turn, and there he is. Like an answer to my prayers. Like I summoned him with a thought, a need, a weakness.
Alder stands confidently in that quiet, composed way that always makes my stomach twist.
My hand tightens around the tarot card, its edges biting into my palm, the only thing keeping me steady against the pull of everything he has to offer. The only thing reminding me that this isn’t fate—this is a choice.
Alder tilts his head, eyes shining like ice in the moonlight. “You came back.”
“I’m not here for you,” I say.
His lips curve. “We both know you don’t believe that.”
He lifts a hand, brushing my hair back with deliberate softness. Then he twists a strand around his fingers, his touch light but so, so unbreakable.
His lips dip to my ear, his breath warm, coaxing,indulgent.
“You’re struggling,” he murmurs, his fingers skimming down my arm. It’s not a question. It’s a fact. A truth he knows too well. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you let me help you?”
“I don’t want your help,” I lie, but even I hear the vulnerability in it.
His lips graze the corner of my mouth in the softest tease.
I sway forward, body betraying me before I can stop it.
He plucks the champagne flute from my hand and, without looking, tosses it onto the bank. The crystal thuds softly against the grass.
Alder’s hands find my waist, and he pulls me closer, closer, closer, until I feel him everywhere.
“You saw what’s out there, Gemma,” he breathes, his lips skimming my jaw. “You left. You tried it your way. And you taught yourself a lesson.”
His teeth graze my pulse, and I can’t help the shudder that rolls through me.
“Now…” He drags his mouth up to my ear. “It’s time to come back to me.”
“Why me?” The words fall from my lips before I can stop them. “Why not find someone else? Someone more on your level.”
He smiles against my skin, his fingers trailing lower, his touch so hot it burns through the fabric. “I blame it on growing up in a small town.” His hands wander, sliding down, gripping my hips, guiding me exactly where he wants me. “You got your hooks into me early.”
“So it’s my fault?”
He hums, low and indulgent, like I should beflattered. Like I should be grateful that a man like him wants me. “And you soften my image, the company’s.”
His hand slides down my back, slow, possessive. He pulls me flush against him, and I feel him. All of him. The thick, undeniable swell of him through his slacks, pressing hard against my stomach.
Heat floods my veins, my pulse jumping, thighs clenching around the want, the need, how familiar and how right it feels.
“See?” he murmurs, his mouth so close to mine it’s torment. “You still fit against me perfectly.”
I bite back a whimper, nails digging into his chest.
I hate him.
I want him.
