Chapter 12
SAVANNAH
The salad in front of me might as well be plastic for how much I’m actually tasting it.
I push a piece of lettuce around with my fork, watching it slide through the dressing without actually eating it. The cafeteria is busy with the lunch rush, people laughing and talking around us, but I feel like I’m underwater. Everything is muffled and distant.
“Okay, that’s it.” Jenna sets down her sandwich and leans across the table. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’ve said you’re fine like six times this week, and you’re clearly not.” She gestures at my untouched salad. “You’re not eating. You look exhausted. And you keep zoning out like you’re somewhere else.”
I am somewhere else. I’m on a balcony in Chicago with cold air and warm lips and hands that felt like they knew exactly where to touch me.
“It’s just a guy,” I say finally.
“A guy?” Her eyes light up. “Tell me everything.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I met someone recently, and it’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
“Just complicated. We kissed, and now I can’t stop thinking about it, but I don’t know if it was a mistake or if it meant something or—” I stop myself before I say too much. “It’s a mess.”
Jenna nods like she understands completely. “I get it. I’ve been seeing this guy I met at a bar a few weeks ago, and it’s the same thing. Like, the chemistry is insane, but I don’t know if he’s serious or just messing around.”
“Exactly.”
“So what are you going to do about your guy?”
“I don’t know. Avoid him, probably.”
She laughs. “That’s a terrible plan.”
“It’s the only plan I have.”
“Well, whatever. It’s the weekend. Live a little, okay?”
I nod.
We finish lunch, and I go back to my desk, but my mind isn’t on work. It’s on him. On the way he looked at me in Chicago.
I miss his lips.
The thought hits me out of nowhere, and I have to physically stop myself from touching my own mouth. I miss the way he tasted. The way he kissed like he was claiming me. The way his hands felt on my waist, pulling me closer like he couldn’t get enough.
I’ve been trying not to think about it for days. Trying to focus on work and pretend that kiss didn’t change everything. But it did change everything. Because now I know what it feels like to be touched by him, and I want more.
I want more, and that terrifies me.
Because he’s my boss. My husband. A man I barely know but can’t stop dreaming about.
Every night, I dream about him. About white dresses and chapel bells and strong arms wrapping around me. About a voice calling me princess and lips on my neck and hands sliding up my thighs. I wake up aching for something I can’t fully remember, but my body knows intimately.
And during the day, I avoid him. Take different routes through the building. Work late so I don’t have to see him in the elevators or hallways. Keep my head down and pretend my heart doesn’t race every time I hear his voice.
It’s exhausting.
By 10:00 PM, I’m alone on the floor again, staring at my laptop and not actually seeing anything on the screen. I’m too tired to focus. Too distracted to work.
But going home means lying in bed thinking about him, so I stay.
The intercom on my desk buzzes, loud in the silence like it’s impatient.
“Ms. Castellanos.” His voice fills my space, and my heart immediately starts pounding. “My office. Bring the Henderson files.”
I close my eyes. “It’s ten o’clock.”
“I’m aware. My office. Now.” The intercom clicks off.
I gather the Henderson files and head to the elevator. The ride up to the forty-second floor feels like forever, and I use the time to try to calm my racing pulse.
It’s just work. Just files. Nothing to panic about.
But when the elevator doors open, the executive level is dark except for the lights in his office at the end of the hall, and I know this isn’t just about files.
His office is exactly what you’d expect from a billionaire.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the entire city.
Dark wood furniture that looks hand-carved.
A leather couch that can pass as a bed. Abstract art on the walls that I recognize from auction catalogues I’ve seen online.
A bar cart in the corner with crystal decanters filled with liquor.
This is his kingdom. And I’m standing in the middle of it, holding files I know he doesn’t actually need.
Ledger is at the windows, hands in his pockets, looking out at the city below. He’s taken off his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves, and even from behind, he radiates power.
“Close the door,” he says without turning.
I do. The sound echoes in the quiet.
“The Henderson files,” I say, holding them up.
“Put them on the desk.”
I set them down and turn to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to my desk.”
“No.” He finally turns to face me. “You’re going home.”
“I have work to finish.”
“You’re exhausted.” He moves closer, and I force myself not to step back. “You’re not getting enough sleep.”
“I am.”
“Liar.” His eyes hold mine. “You barely eat. You work until everyone else is gone. You look like you’re about to collapse. Why are you doing this to yourself, Savannah?”
The way he says my name makes my stomach flip.
“I’m just busy,” I say.
“You’re running.”
“I’m not—”
“I dream about you, Ledger,” I say. The words tumble out before I can stop them.
“Every night. I dream about chapels and dancing and you calling me princess. I dream about your hands on me and your mouth on mine. It’s driving me crazy because I know it happened.
I know we got married and spent the night together, and all of it was real.
But I only remember pieces, and it’s not enough. It’s never enough.”
He takes another step closer. “What would be enough?”
“I don’t know. Maybe if I could actually remember instead of just dreaming about it.”
“Then let me help you remember.” His hand comes up to cup my face. “Let me show you.”
“How?”
“Like this.”
He kisses me, and I’m lost.
The kiss is claiming, sure, and exactly what I’ve been craving since Chicago. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and his arms wrap around me, holding me against him. He tastes like whiskey and something darker. Something that makes me dizzy.
His hands slide down to my waist, then my hips, pulling me flush against him. I can feel how much he wants this.
“Ledger,” I gasp against his mouth.
“Say it again.”
“Ledger.”
He groans and walks me backward until I hit his desk.
He lifts me onto the desk, stepping between my legs, and I’m already reaching for his shirt. My hands shake as I work the buttons open, revealing the tattoos I saw that first day in the conference room. Dark ink swirling across his chest, disappearing beneath the fabric.
He pulls my blouse over my head, and his mouth finds my collarbone, my shoulder, the swell of my breasts above my bra.
His hands slide up my thighs, pushing my skirt higher, and suddenly I’m remembering.
Flashes. Fragments becoming whole.
His hands doing this exact thing in a hotel room in Vegas. The way he touched me. The way he kissed down my body, taking his time.
More memories surface. The chapel with Elvis and terrible decor and laughter that wouldn’t stop.
He unhooks my bra, and I remember him doing this before.
“Ledger, it’s all coming back.”
The second the words leave my lips, the air between us detonates. Ledger’s shirt is half-open already, and I can’t wait another second. I stretch, crashing my mouth to his, and my fingers find the remaining buttons.
One by one, I slip them free while our tongues tangle, the soft pop of each button a quiet promise against the storm of our breathing. His belt is next; I tug the leather loose with a low hiss, the buckle cool against my knuckles as I press closer, swallowing his groan.
My skirt remains bunched up, high and useless. My panties, soaked through, snag on his thumb; the lace tears with a soft, wet rip that shoots straight to my core.
Cool air kisses me, then his hand, hot and sure. He spins me so fast my palms slap the desk.
Behind me, Ledger drops to his knees. His hands grip my hips, thumbs digging into the crease where thigh meets ass, and then his fingers are on me, there, no warning, no mercy.
Two thick fingers glide through my wetness, parting me, pressing inside with a slow, deliberate stretch that steals my breath. I’m so ready it hurts, and he knows it. He curls his fingers, finds that spot that makes my spine arch, and strokes, steady, relentless.
“Oh, God, yes,” I moan.
He adds a third finger, stretching me wider, and I moan louder. His thumb circles my clit, slick pressure that winds the coil tighter, tighter.
I’m suddenly close, so close, but he keeps me teetering on the edge, slowing when I clench, speeding up when I whimper. The city blurs beyond the windows, and all I feel is him, his fingers inside me, his breath hot on the back of my thigh, the scrape of his stubble against my skin.
Then he removes his fingers and spins me back around. He tastes himself on my tongue when he kisses me again, deep and filthy, and then he lifts me. My legs lock around his waist like they were made to fit there, skirt still bunched at my hips.
The couch is cool against my back when he lays me down, but his body is furnace-hot above me. I reach for him, fingers sliding over the hard plane of his stomach, tracing the ink that disappears beneath the waistband of his slacks.
He’s still half-dressed, slacks shoved low enough to free himself, and the sight of him straining against the fabric makes my mouth water.
“You ready?” he asks.
I nod frantically in response.
He spreads my thighs wider, eyes locked on mine, and drags the blunt head of his cock through my slick folds. I arch up, trying to take him, but he holds my hips still with one hand, the other braced beside my head.
“Look at me,” he growls, and I do. I watch his face as he pushes in, stretching me open inch by inch. The burn is perfect, the fullness overwhelming, and when he’s seated to the hilt, we both groan.
He starts shallow, rolling his hips, letting me adjust, letting me feel every thick inch of him. My nails dig into his shoulders, dragging down the cotton of his shirt.
His thumb finds my clit again, circling in time with his strokes, and the pressure builds fast, coiling low in my belly. I clench around him, and he hisses, pace stuttering.
“Fuck, Savannah.” He drives deeper, harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the quiet office. My breasts bounce with every thrust. I’m close again, the edge sharp and bright, but he doesn’t let me fall.
He pulls out suddenly, and I whimper at the loss, but then he’s flipping me and moving over to the desk. He bends me over there, papers avalanche to the floor, a pen clatters, and I don’t care.
He grips my hips, angles me just right, and thrusts back in with one smooth stroke that punches the air from my lungs.
From behind, he’s deeper, harder, the angle perfect. His hand fists in my hair, gentle but firm, arching my back as he sets a punishing rhythm. The desk rocks beneath us, wood groaning, and I push back to meet every thrust, chasing the friction, the stretch, the way he fills me completely.
His other hand slides around to my front, fingers finding my clit again, rubbing fast, slick circles that make my vision spark. I’m moaning his name, over and over, the sound muffled against the desk, and he’s grunting mine, low and rough.
I’m right there, teetering, muscles clenching, but he slows again, dragging it out, making me beg with my body.
The city lights blur through the tears in my eyes, and all I feel is him—his cock dragging along my walls, his fingers on my clit, his breath hot against my neck where his shirt brushes my skin.
I’m trembling, desperate, and he knows it.
He lifts me off the desk without breaking rhythm and backs me to the nearest wall.
My legs wrap high around his waist; he pins me there with his hips. He drives up into me hard and fast. The wall is cool against my back. I’m clenching, spiraling, the coil snapping tight.
“Come for me, princess,” he rasps against my neck, and I shatter, crying out as pleasure crashes over me in waves. He follows seconds later, thrusting deep, pulsing inside me, groaning my name like it’s the only word he knows.
“Ledger,” I manage, my voice hoarse and wrecked.
“Yeah, princess?”
I lift my head to look at him, taking in his face. The silver hair is messy from my hands. The blue eyes look at me with something that makes my chest ache.
“I remember,” I whisper. “Everything. The whole night.”
His arms tighten around me. “Tell me.”
“I remember you being a very handsome groom.” A smile tugs at my lips despite how exhausted I am. “The most handsome groom I’ve ever seen, actually. Even with Elvis officiating.”
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest into mine. “You weren’t so bad yourself. Most beautiful bride in Vegas that night.”
“I remember the way you looked at me when you saw me in that white dress. Like I was—” My voice catches. “Like I was everything.”
“You were. You are.” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “I’ve been going insane trying to make you remember.”
“I’m sorry I ran. I’m sorry I left you that morning.”
“You’re here now. That’s all that matters, and I promise you’re never going to forget another moment with me ever again.”