Chapter 4 - Zara
We hang the final painting and step back. The living room is transformed, each piece perfectly in sync. The house is complete.
"We did it!" I turn to Abram, grinning.
His gray eyes soften with a smile. "And a terrific job at that. Come here."
Before I can react, he pulls me into a bear hug. My heart races as I sink into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and spice. For a brief, stolen moment, I imagine what it would be like if this meant something more. If he wasn’t my client.
Reality hits—I realize this is the end. Our two months of work, the stolen glances, the accidental touches that left my heart racing—over.
I pull away—not because I’m flustered, but because I need to take control. "I should go. It’s late."
"Nonsense," Abram’s deep voice sends a shiver through me. "Stay for dinner. We should toast to our success."
I know exactly what he’s doing. There’s something more between us, and we both feel it. And I truly ought to run from that. I meet his gaze steadily. "I don’t know..."
"Please, Zara." His gaze softens. "Let me thank you properly. After all, we're friends."
Friends. The word hangs between us like a challenge. I could say no, but why should I? I’ve worked hard, kept my professional boundaries intact, and I trust myself to navigate this.
“Just dinner?” I ask, though I already know the answer. One last moment. I see no reason to say no if I’ll allow it on my terms.
Abram's lips twitch. "And maybe some wine."
“Wouldn’t be a complete meal without it,” I reply, smiling.
I follow him into his sleek kitchen, watching as he moves with a practiced ease. There’s something about the way he commands the space that’s magnetic, but I won’t let myself be swept away by it—or so I forcibly remind myself.
"I didn’t know you could cook," I murmur, settling on a barstool when he waves off my offer to help.
He glances up, a sly smile on his lips. "There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Zara."
The knife flashes as he chops with expert speed. "Do you cook?"
His question catches me off guard, a shift from our usual art talk to something more intimate. "Enough to survive."
"To survive?" He shakes his head, tossing ingredients into a sizzling pan. The rich scent of garlic and herbs fills the room. "That won’t do. Maybe you need lessons."
I laugh, thinking of my kitchen disasters. "No teacher would last long with me."
He looks up, locking eyes right with me. " I’m known for many things, but quitting isn’t one of them. Perhaps you could try me."
Try him? Oh, there are so many ways I’d love to try him—none of which I should. Time seems to freeze, the insinuation behind his words hanging heavy in the air, and all I can see is that teasing, highly intentional half-smile that makes my knees weak. He moves closer, purposely, a hunter on the prowl, his scent of leather and spice wrapping around me. My breath hitches as he leans in around me.
Then, the sound of glass sliding breaks the spell. He reaches behind me, his arm grazing the side curve of my breast, and I hear something pour. The whole time, he stands oh-so-close that I could kiss him. "Wine?" he asks, handing me a glass.
“Your favorite Bordeaux,” Abram murmurs, turning toward me. I reach for the glass, our fingers brushing for the briefest moment—a touch that feels like sweet torture.
The fact that he remembered my preference isn’t lost on me. To stop myself from doing something reckless—like kissing him—I sip the wine instead.
His gaze flickers to my lips before he steps away, retreating to the counter.
Did I imagine that moment? The way he looked at me—did he want to kiss me, too? My cheeks flush, and I’m grateful his back is turned. I’d hate for him to see me blush, not with the thoughts I’m having.
I drift toward the floor-to-ceiling windows in the room beside the kitchen, trying to clear my head. The city skyline stretches before me, bathed in the warm hues of a setting sun. It’s a stunning view, but my thoughts are elsewhere—on the man in the other room, whose presence seems to envelop my every thought.
Abram’s gestures linger in my mind. He remembered my favorite wine and crafted this dinner with care. It’s a level of attention I’m not used to, and it sends warmth through my chest. I catch myself thinking of him in ways I shouldn’t—again.
"Zara?" His voice pulls me back. "Dinner’s ready."
I turn to find him in the doorway, his eyes dark with something I can’t quite place. My pulse quickens as I walk toward him, each step heavy with the sense that one misstep could change everything.
***
We sit at the kitchen island, diving into the butter garlic prawns, salad, and pasta Abram’s prepared. He leans forward, the sound of wine sloshing as he refills my glass.
“Enjoying your meal?” he asks.
Mid-bite, I cover my mouth with a quick flutter of my hands, nodding with wide eyes.
Abram laughs, his head tipping back in genuine amusement. I smile, sipping my wine to swallow.
“Sorry about that,” he says, his eyes crinkling with joy. I give him a small smile, shake my head to suggest that there is no apology needed, and dig back into my plate.
He’s the kind of man who will age gracefully—there’s no doubt. His laughter stirs something in me, a warmth and contentment settling in my chest like a soft embrace.
“You’re quiet,” Abram says, his voice low, almost intimate. “Enjoying the wine?”
“I think I’m just feeling… slow,” I admit. “You know that perfect feeling when, after a long day, you’re eating the best comfort food, had a little too much wine, and all you need is a bed?”
“I know exactly what you mean,” he replies, his gaze holding mine. “So, you approve of the evening?”
“Very much so.” I give him a lazy smile, casting the salad aside and going straight for the prawns. “It’s been lovely. And this meal? What a treat!” I twirl pasta onto my fork, taking a big bite, eyes closed in contentment.
“Phew,” Abram leans back with a chuckle, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow. “I was worried you’d be disappointed.”
“Disappointed?” I take a generous sip of wine. “Never. You cook so well that if we spent more nights together, you’d be on permanent meal duty.”
Without missing a beat, he leans in. “Who said we can’t?”
My eyes snap to his, the intent behind his words clear in the way his gaze simmers. Silence settles awkwardly between us. Shit. I’ve had too much to drink. Why did I have to go on about spending more nights together? What did I think would happen?
It’s obvious now—he’s into me. My loosened tongue is only giving him more openings, and Abram is taking every chance to make his intentions known. I need to stop before this professional facade crumbles completely.
His unanswered question lingers, thick with unspoken possibilities. I swallow hard, pushing down the desire rising in me, imagining what those nights could mean. The images—him naked with that ripped chest, hands running across my curves, how I might throw back my neck and have him in for a taste—make me squeeze my legs close together.
No! I need to stop before my thoughts run too wild. With a sudden motion, I set my glass down with a near-slam, the cool counter grounding me. I wipe my mouth with my napkin and push my plate aside.
“That was the perfect end to a wonderful professional relationship,” I say, my voice carefully controlled. I offer a small smile. “Thank you for everything. But I think I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
Abram’s expression shifts, the playful spark in his eyes fading just a bit. He leans back, studying me as if searching for something in the words I’m not saying.
"Zara," Abram’s voice drops, more serious now. "Are you sure you want this to be the end?"
The question hits harder than I expected. Part of me aches to stay, to give in to the pull I feel toward him. But another part knows the risks—knows what crossing that line could cost.
"I… I think it’s for the best," I whisper, my voice shaky. "I need to maintain professionalism."
His jaw tightens, frustration flashing in his eyes before he composes himself. He stands and moves toward me, my pulse racing as he approaches. When his hands grip the stool and spin me to face him, my heart hammers in my chest.
I lean back as he leans in, his hands resting on the table behind me, pinning me between him and the countertop. My breath comes in shallow bursts, lost in the intensity of his gaze.
“And why,” he asks, voice tight with restraint, “do you believe that anything more would undermine your career? Have colleagues never fallen for each other? Have bosses not married their juniors? Have doctors never had affairs in the hospital? Give me one good reason, and I’ll never ask again.”
My mind races, scrambling for a reason to resist him. But with him so close, the heat of his body pressing in, every rational thought evaporates. All that remains is the truth.
"I guess I’ve always believed in doing things the right way. Following the rules, you know?"
I laugh nervously, feeling bare under his intense gaze. “Well, maybe once or twice. But generally, I prefer to play it safe.”
“And why is that?” Abram leans back, giving me space, but the truth is I already miss the way he edged me into a corner, barring me from anything that wasn’t him.
I sigh and try to focus on not wanting him with every fiber in my being. Perhaps I should let him know where I’m coming from, to remind myself of where I stand. A reason could help me put my feet back on the ground, where they belong.
“What made you decide following the rules was the best path?” he asks again.
The question catches me off guard. I’ve never really dug into why. As I search for an answer, I catch the flicker of candlelight across Abram’s sharp features, shadows dancing on his face. The air between us is thick with unsaid things.
“I guess…” I start, my voice barely a whisper, “structure provides safety. That if I stay on the right path, I can avoid…” I trail off, not knowing how to finish.
“Avoid what, Zara?” His hand inches closer to mine.
I swallow, suddenly hyper-aware of how close we’ve become—in every way. The wine, the intimacy, Abram’s probing—it’s eroded my carefully built walls.
And now, I might as well tear down what’s left.
“To avoid disappointment,” I admit. “My parents… they loved me, but they died young.”
Abram’s expression softens, his gaze full of understanding. “I’m so sorry, Zara.” His hand tightens around mine, and though I should pull away, his touch soothes me.
I slowly move my thumb, brushing his in return. His eyes follow, pleased, and for the first time, this feels right. Why am I resisting again?
“After they died,” I continue, “I was sent to live with distant relatives. They only cared about my inheritance, not me. So I worked hard, made it through college on my own, and never looked back.”
Abram’s eyes soften with admiration, something deeper flickering within. “And so you became as independent as possible.”
I nod, my throat tightening. “I threw myself into work, my art. I had to prove I was more than my inheritance, more than the sum of what they saw me as.”
“That’s a heavy burden,” he says, his hand now tracing slow circles on my arm. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver through me.
“It is,” I admit, surprising myself with how candid I’ve become. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ve missed out on… living. If I’ve been so focused on my goals, I forgot to actually experience life.”
Abram’s thumb moves in small, deliberate circles on my arm, the gesture both calming and electrifying. “And now? What do you want for yourself, Zara?”
I meet his gaze, my heart pounding. “I want to succeed. To make a name in the art world. But I’m afraid…”
“Of what?” he asks softly.
“Of distractions,” I whisper, realizing how easily Abram could be the very distraction I fear. “Of losing sight of everything I’ve worked for.”
The tension between us thickens. I’ve spent weeks convincing myself this attraction was just temporary, something I could ignore. But as Abram’s hand continues its tender caress, I feel my resolve slipping.
“Zara,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “You don’t have to choose between success and… living.”
I swallow, my eyes drifting to his lips. “Don’t I?”
Even as I ask, I find myself questioning my very own line of reasoning. He’s right. Having goals doesn’t have to mean I can’t explore the very fiber of what it is to feel alive. And Abram makes me feel so, so alive.
What the hell am I trying to convince him of? He’s not pushing me further; he’s simply helping me explore my own mind. Every argument I put forth seems weaker with every moment, and I begin to wonder who it is I’m truly trying to rationalize with.
Him… or myself?
“No,” he says, leaning closer. “Sometimes the most unexpected experiences inspire our greatest work.”
The scent of his cologne envelops me, woodsy and intoxicating. My heart races as I realize how close we've become; how easy it would be to close that final gap between us.
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the warring emotions inside me. If I want to leave, he will let me, no questions asked. So, why am I not leaving?
Because I don’t want to. The answer is loud in my head, and my eyes flutter open with a fiery sense of clarity and when they do, Abram's face is mere inches from mine, his eyes dark with desire.
"Tell me to stop," he breathes, his lips a whisper away from mine.
But I can't.
“I think…I’m done playing safe,” I whisper, with such yearning in my eyes. My lips part for him before he can even blink.
“Zara,” he groans, almost painfully, and his hands reach for my cheeks, inching my head closer to him. Every touch, every movement sends electricity through me. The desire that had been simmering beneath the surface suddenly ignites into a blazing inferno. His hands reach for the back of my neck, and he pulls me even closer.
His tongue plays with mine, his taste all butter and wine. His hands slide down my sides, resting on the curves of my waist, and he pinches into me, tethering himself to me. My entire body is on fire, and all the reasons I had for holding back dissolve like mist in the morning sun.
The next thing I know, my legs are wrapped around his waist, the bulge of his pants jamming between my legs.
“Fuck,” he moans, grinding gently into me, his hands reaching for the curves of my ass. I slide my arms around his neck, pulling myself up, and he grabs me by the ass, lifting me off the chair.
I barely register our stumbling journey to the bedroom, my senses overwhelmed by how ferociously he carries me. We reach a door. He kicks it open, kicks it close. My fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine.
"Are you sure?" Abram murmurs, his voice husky with desire as he lets me slide his shirt off his broad shoulders.
I nod, breathless. "I've never been more sure of anything."
His hands find the buttons of my blazer, ripping them off when it goes too slow. "You're exquisite," he breathes, his eyes roaming over my breasts, my bra, as the blazer slinks off one shoulder.
He rushes to the bed, playfully throws me on it, and immediately sheds off his pants and boxers. He jumps in, arms on either side of my body, his hungry eyes trailing toward my trousers.
The next thing I know, they’re off.
"I've imagined this so many times," Abram confesses, his lips trailing up my thigh. "But reality is so much sweeter."
Every inch of my thigh he kisses makes me tremble. A soft moan escapes me as he finds a particularly sensitive spot just next to my panties. "Show me," I whisper, pulling him closer. "Show me everything you've imagined."
He twists a finger through my panties, finding his way inside me. For a brief second, he teases my folds, and then slams a finger into me. My back pushes into the bed, my shoulders lurching up, and a pure, sensational thrill overcomes me.
And when his mouth finds my clit… oh, I’m in heaven already.