Page 42 of Mister St. James

Aiden’s penthouse is the same as always and completely unrecognizable. The place still smells like ozone and concrete and the residue of old money, but there’s a charge in the air, like static before a storm. The front console holds my mask, a bruise-blue velvet half-face, carelessly discarded. The custom rope cabinet stands open, one coil half-unwound and draped over a chair like a crime scene. I step out of my shoes and leave them wherever they fall.

He hangs his keys on the hook by the door, runs a hand through his hair, then just stands there, looking at me as if he wants to say something and can’t decide which language to use. The urge to touch him, just to confirm we’re both still here, still solid, spikes in my chest.

Instead, I walk straight to the kitchen and pour us each a glass of water. My hand shakes only a little, but I keep my back to him until I’m sure I can control the smile in my voice.

“Should we talk about it?” I say, not turning around.

He’s right behind me now, moving silent as a rumor. “Which part?”

I snort. “Pick one.” My hand is still clutching the glass like a flotation device.

He says, “You look incredible tonight,” and I feel his breath in my hair.

I tip my head back until I see him upside-down, the lines of his face even starker in the halo of kitchen light. “You’re not supposed to say that to your assistant.”

He takes the glass from my hand and sets it aside. “No,” he says. “I’m not.”

I pivot, and suddenly we’re inches apart, the entire city thirty-four floors down and getting further away by the second.

I don’t wait for him to close the distance. I just press forward, let my forehead rest against his chest. He’s so damn steady, even now. His arms come around me, a slow compression like someone checking to see if a box will hold its contents.

I don’t know how long we stand like that. Maybe it’s a minute, maybe it’s until the planet resets its axis.

When he finally releases me, he does it all at once, like he’s afraid he’ll never let go if he lingers. I don’t move, not for a while.

It’s him who breaks the quiet, voice stripped of affect: “You should sleep.”

Something in the flatness of it catches me. “That’s not what you were going to say.”

A beat. Two.

“No.”

I wait. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his thumb grazing my cheekbone on the way back down. He leaves his hand there, just barely.

“Stay.” The word comes out rough at the edges, like it cost him something to say it.

The back of my throat tightens. “Okay.”

He locks the doors, kills the kitchen light. I walk ahead, letting the ambient city spill blue over the corridor. I don’t bother to check if he’s following, I know he is.

In the bedroom, everything is low-lit and still. There’s a gold lamplight on the dresser and nothing else. My club dress is sticky with sweat and bad memories. I peel it off with a theatrical groan, letting it puddle at my feet.

I wait, facing the window, for him to join me. He does, but he doesn’t touch, just stands a pace behind, the back of my neck prickling with anticipation.

“Do you want—” he starts.

“Yes.” I cut him off, because the thing I want more than anything is for him to stop parsing every word, every gesture. “I want you to stop asking and start acting.”

I hear the soft exhale of a smile. “You’re sure.”

I spin and walk to him, braless in nothing but my underwear and a thin film of club sweat. “I’m sure.”

He lets me come to him, lets me set the distance, lets me press up on tiptoe and kiss the spot just below his jaw. It’s salt and aftershave and something underneath, fear, maybe, or hope.

He cups the back of my head. There’s no gentleness, just a deliberate pressure, like he’s holding me in place so the world won’t tip. Our lips meet, and it’s different than before, not urgent, not hungry, but slow and almost mournful. He kisses like he’s memorizing the taste, the shape, the sharpness of my teeth.

I thread my fingers under his shirt, find the warmth of his skin, feel his pulse racing despite all appearances. I want to tell him it’s okay to lose control, that I’ll catch whatever shatters, but I know he wouldn’t believe it.