Chapter 4 Sloane #2
"I'm a giver." The teasing glint in his eyes makes my pulse quicken.
Before I can respond, Jenna appears at the conference room door. "Sorry to interrupt, but the council representatives just arrived. They're early."
Atticus straightens, corporate mask sliding back into place. "We're ready. Show them in."
As Jenna leaves, I move to gather my notes, but Atticus catches my wrist. "Sloane."
I look up, caught in the intensity of his gaze. "Yes?"
"After the presentation...” He pauses, seeming to search for words. "My office. We need to talk."
The simple request sends heat spiraling through me. "About?"
His thumb brushes over my pulse point, a small gesture that feels shockingly intimate. "You know what about."
Then he releases me, stepping back as the conference room door opens to admit Levi Voss and the other council representatives. The moment breaks, and we seamlessly shift into professional mode, greeting the council with practiced smiles.
The presentation goes flawlessly. Atticus is at his charismatic best, outlining Blackwood's commitment to sustainable development, local partnerships, and community preservation.
I handle the questions about specific integration initiatives, emphasizing our intention to enhance rather than transform Hope Peak's character.
By the time the council leaves, visibly impressed with our plans, it's nearly eleven. The marketing team is waiting for their review session, and I know our promised conversation will have to wait.
"Mr. Morgan," Marcus appears at the door. "Your twelve o'clock conference call with the board has been moved up. They're waiting on line one."
Atticus's jaw tightens briefly before he nods. "Thank you, Marcus." He turns to me, regret clear in his eyes. "Rain check on that talk?"
"Of course." I keep my tone professional, aware of Marcus hovering nearby. "The board takes priority."
"No," he says, surprising me with his definitiveness. "But some conversations deserve privacy and time we don't have right now." His voice drops lower. "Check your messages later."
With that cryptic instruction, he strides from the conference room, leaving me with a strange mixture of disappointment and anticipation.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of meetings, marketing reviews, and storm preparation logistics. By late afternoon, I've almost convinced myself that whatever moment Atticus and I shared has been subsumed by work demands.
Then a text arrives as I'm reviewing slope safety protocols with Spencer's team: Fire-pit lounge. After hours. Urgent.
Three hours later, I've changed outfits twice, cursed myself for acting like a teenager before a first date, and finally settled on a simple but flattering burgundy sweater dress with black leggings.
My hair falls in loose waves around my shoulders, and I've applied just enough makeup to enhance without looking like I'm trying too hard.
Because I'm not trying at all. This is just a talk between friends. Friends who kissed. Friends who can't stop thinking about kissing again.
The HQ building is quiet when I arrive, most of the staff having departed hours ago. The lobby lights are dimmed, the huge fireplace casting a warm glow across the timber and glass interior. I make my way to the fire-pit lounge, pulse quickening with each step.
I find Atticus there, standing with his back to me, gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the snow-covered landscape.
He's changed from his work clothes into dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders.
His posture is relaxed in a way it rarely is in the office, one hand in his pocket, the other holding what appears to be a glass of amber liquid.
"Drinking on the job, Mr. CEO?" I say, announcing my presence.
He turns, and the intensity of his gaze as it travels over me sends heat coursing through my veins. "Just a nightcap. Care to join me?"
"Depends. Is this a business meeting or a social call?" I move closer, noticing now the fire crackling in the sunken pit, the two tumblers of what looks like expensive whiskey on the low table, the cashmere throw draped invitingly over the plush sofa.
"Definitely not business." He hands me one of the glasses. "I think we've both had enough of that today."
I accept the drink, our fingers brushing. "So, what was so urgent?"
Instead of answering, he gestures to the sofa. "Sit with me?"
We settle onto the soft cushions, closer than strictly necessary, the firelight dancing across his features, softening the sharp angles of his face. The whiskey burns pleasantly as I take a sip, liquid courage warming my veins.
"Are you sure you’re okay," he begins, setting his glass on the table. “With the kiss and everything."
"What about it?" I hold his gaze, refusing to make this easier for him.
"I don't regret it." His directness surprises me. "Not for a second."
"Neither do I." The admission feels like jumping off a cliff without knowing what waits below.
His eyes darken, and he shifts closer, one hand coming to rest on the cushion beside my thigh. "What I regret is waiting three years to do it."
My breath catches. "Atticus...”
"Let me finish." His voice is low, intimate in the firelit space. "I've been thinking about this, about us, all day. Trying to analyze it like a business problem, looking for the strategic approach."
I can't help but smile. "Of course you have."
"But there is no strategic approach to this, is there?" His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. "Not when I can barely focus on board calls because I'm remembering how you taste. Not when the only community integration I care about involves finding ways to be alone with you."
The raw honesty in his voice melts something inside me. This is Atticus Morgan, the man who calculates risk-reward ratios for breakfast, laying his cards on the table without reservation.
"So what are you saying?" I need to hear it spelled out, need clarity amid the whirlwind of emotions between us.
"I'm saying I want more than friendship." His thumb traces circles on my palm, sending shivers up my arm. "I want to explore whatever this is between us. No overthinking, no five-year projections. Just us, seeing where it leads."
I exhale slowly, studying his face in the firelight. "And what about after Christmas? When you go back to New York and I stay here?"
"I don't know," he admits. "But I know I'm tired of denying what I feel for you. What I think we both feel."
The vulnerability in his admission touches something deep inside me.
This isn't the calculated CEO speaking, but the man I've come to know better than anyone, the one who remembers how I take my coffee, who stayed on the phone with me all night when my dad was in the hospital, who sees me as an equal in ways no one else ever has.
"What if we ruin everything?" I voice the fear that's been holding me back. "Our friendship...”
"Is the foundation, not the ceiling," he interrupts gently. "I'm not suggesting we throw away three years of connection. I'm suggesting we build on it."
His words resonate through me, breaking down the last of my resistance. I set my glass beside his on the table, turning to face him fully.
"No overthinking?" I confirm, my heart pounding.
"None." His eyes drop to my lips.
"No five-year projections?"
"Not a single spreadsheet in sight." His hand comes up to cup my cheek.
"And if it gets messy?"
"Then we handle it together." He leans closer, his breath warm against my lips. "Like we do everything else."
That's all I need to hear. I close the distance between us, my lips finding his in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly blazes into something far more urgent.
His arms wrap around me, pulling me flush against his chest as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that draws a soft moan from my throat.
I weave my fingers into his hair, sighing as he kisses lower, mouth dragging heat across my skin.
Each press of his lips sets off sparks that dance along my nerves.
When he reaches the spot just below my ear, I can't help it.
My head tilts back, a helpless gasp slipping out, spine bowing toward him like my body can't bear the space between us.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he murmurs, his voice rough with hunger, vibrating against my neck. “Since you walked into that damn conference room I’ve been hard as a rock.”
My breath catches. I start to say something but the words tangle up when he takes hold of my hips and pulls me closer, his strength unmistakable, unquestioned.
One hand finds the hem of my sweater dress and starts to drag it up, knuckles brushing the skin of my thighs, and I don’t stop him.
I just raise my arms and let him strip it away.
His eyes rake over me, black with heat, lips parting when he sees the black lace I chose that morning. He doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. The look in his eyes says enough. It says mine.
“You wore this for me,” he says. Not a question.
I nod. It’s all I can manage.
He grabs the back of my neck and pulls me in again, kissing me like he wants to own my soul. Then he leans back, pulling his sweater off in a swift motion, exposing the body I’ve only glimpsed before. Not like this. Not when it's just us and I can touch him.
My hands find his chest, tracing muscle, feeling the heat rolling off him like a furnace. His heart thuds under my palm, hard and fast. His eyes never leave mine, locked on like he’s watching for the moment I break.
When my fingers dip lower, following the trail of dark hair vanishing beneath his jeans, he catches my wrist.
“Not yet,” he says. His tone leaves no room for argument.
He peels the rest of my clothes away slowly, reverently, like unwrapping something sacred. When he finally unclasps my bra and lets it slide off my shoulders, his mouth parts on a breath. I expect him to pounce but instead he just stares, drinking me in like he’s memorizing every curve.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he says low, hands tracing my ribs, stopping just under my breasts. His thumbs circle close but don’t touch.
I can’t take it. “Please.” I whisper, already aching.
That’s all it takes.
He cups my breasts, rough palms brushing nipples already taut from anticipation. My body bows into his touch as his head dips and his mouth replaces his fingers, warm and wet and devastating. I cry out, hands tangling in his hair again, hips shifting in search of more.
He lays me back onto the rug by the fire, guiding me gently but firmly. The heat from the flames flicker across his skin as he undresses me with maddening care, until there’s nothing left between us. When he slides his jeans off and I see him fully, my breath stutters.
He moves between my thighs, not touching yet. Just looking.
“Tell me you want this,” he says, voice like gravel soaked in honey.
“I want it,” I breathe. “I want you.”
That’s all he needs.
He settles against me, one hand parting my thighs wider, the other stroking over my slick skin with confident, knowing fingers.
I moan under him, caught between embarrassment and bliss, but he doesn’t slow.
He watches me unravel, every reaction noted, catalogued.
His name escapes me over and over, until he finally pulls his hand away and positions himself at my entrance.
“Eyes on me” he says.
I obey, staring up into the heat and hunger in his face as he pushes into me slowly, thick and perfect and overwhelming. My breath catches. My nails dig into his arms. The stretch burns in the best way. It feels like being claimed.
He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried deep, letting the moment settle like the weight of a promise.
Then I shift my hips, and something breaks inside him.
His pace turns fierce, relentless, dragging gasps and cries from my lips with every thrust. I cling to him, lost in the rhythm, in the pressure building and building.
“I can't,” I pant, teetering right on the edge.
“Yes you can,” he growls into my ear. “You’re going to come for me. Right. Now.”
His thumb finds the exact spot, and I shatter, clenching around him as I come with a sob, pleasure crashing through me in waves. He follows with a groan that sounds more like a growl, grinding into me as he spills inside, every muscle tense before he finally collapses onto his elbows above me.
We lie there, tangled, ruined, the fire crackling beside us.
“What happens now?” I ask softly.
He presses a kiss to my forehead. "Tomorrow, we go back to launching a Winter Division and convincing Hope Peak that Blackwood Industries isn't the enemy." His arms tighten around me. "And we continue figuring this out, together."
"No regrets?" I need to be sure.
His fingers tilt my chin up until our eyes meet. "As I said before, the only thing I regret is not doing this sooner."
As he leans down to seal his words with a kiss, I believe him. Whatever comes next, whatever complications await us tomorrow, this moment, right here, is exactly where we're meant to be.
And for now, that's enough.