Chapter 10
Grayson
Fire licks across my skin as the elevator climbs toward the top. Heat roars through me, scorching reason, turning every thought to ash and need.
I slam the emergency stop. The cab jolts, shuddering to a halt, and the silence that follows feels alive.
We're alone. It's just the two of us here, facing each other, eyes locked, in this six-by-six metal box, suspended between floors, as if we've blinked out of the universe itself and are in a temporary reality of our own.
Harsh fluorescent light washes everything in ghostly blue.
The hum of the machinery fades until all I can hear is our breathing—hers quick and shallow, mine heavier, darker.
I take one step forward, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her, and the air thickens.
Her perfume—something faintly floral with a bite of citrus—wraps around me like smoke.
Every muscle in my body locks. For a heartbeat I tell myself to wait, to breathe, to remember the rule: never the same woman twice.
Then she looks up, eyes wide, pupils blown, and the last possible sliver of restraint snaps.
I seize her by the waist and pull her against me.
The contact is fire. Her mouth crashes into mine, urgent and furious.
I can tell she's burning up every bit as much as I am, grabbing at my hair, kissing like she wants to erase every inch of distance that's ever existed between us.
My hands find her hips, grip hard enough to leave marks.
I don't care. We'll both wear proof of this later.
The taste of her—champagne and adrenaline—floods my tongue. Whatever this is, it's messy and wrong and inevitable. My composure shatters like blown glass. I'm shaking when my palms slide up beneath her shirt. She pushes her body into mine, all wild energy and soft heat.
Don't, I warn myself. You don't do repeats.
But she shifts over my erection, and the thought dies.
Just once more—to burn it out of my system. Then never again.
I tear at the fabric of her panties, and the thin, soft cotton gives with a sharp rip. Thank God she's wearing a skirt. Her hands are already on my zipper, clumsy, desperate. I drag my teeth along her throat, biting until she gasps. She likes the pain—her body arches toward it.
"Fuck," I growl, half to her, half to myself.
Her scent fills the small space, heavy and sweet, pushing me past reason. I'm drowning in it, in her. When she slides her hand between her legs and rubs her clit, looking straight at me, it's over.
"Now," she pants. "Fuck me. Now. Please."
That please detonates whatever control I had left.
I drop to my knees, gripping her thigh, and drag my tongue up her slick seam in one slow stroke.
She moans—loud, unrestrained. I want to hear it again.
My tongue circles her clit, teasing until it hardens beneath the pressure.
My hand finds her breast, thumb rolling over her nipple until she shudders.
She's shaking, clutching my hair, riding my face with abandon. I eat her greedily, lapping between her clit and her entrance, alternating speed until she's gasping my name. When I slide two fingers inside and curl them up, she breaks apart, body bowing, voice echoing off metal walls.
Her climax hits hard; I don't let up. I want to feel it, taste it, own it.
She collapses against the wall, trembling. I stand, haul her into my lap as I sit back on the floor, and in one motion, I'm inside her and she's hot, wet, and impossibly tight.
"Jesus," I choke out, gripping her hips. The feel of her around me is heaven and punishment all at once. She moves, slow at first, then faster, taking what she wants. The slap of skin, the rough metal beneath us, her breathless little sounds—it's chaos, perfect chaos.
She rides me hard, hair sticking to her flushed cheeks, eyes glassy with pleasure. God, she's beautiful like this—unrestrained, wild. I meet her thrust for thrust, holding her steady as she trembles on the edge again.
When she tightens around me, I lose it completely. A raw sound rips from my throat as release tears through me, white-hot and absolute.
I should not be doing this. We should not be doing this. But how can something that feels as good as this be wrong? Am I losing my mind?
"Damn," I hiss, my head falling forward into her shoulder. She wraps her arms around my neck, holding on, as I piston my hips into her, the pressure building so powerful it feels like I'm going to dislocate my spine.
She bites my shoulder, groans, and comes once more.
"Fuck! Jenna!" I arch into her and have the presence of mind to lift her up and away before I splash my cum on the side of her thigh.
God. My hands shake as I breathe into her shoulder. She still holds onto me, spent, her body shaking with it, and I have the craziest urge to kiss her right now.
That's when I snap back to myself.
Fuck. What have I done?
I set her down, carefully, so she is lying on the floor, her back leaning against the elevator wall, spent, drenched in sweat and sexual juices, breathing heavily.
For a few seconds, the only sound is the tick of cooling metal and our breathing.
The air feels too thick to swallow. Heat and the sharp scent of sweat and skin hang in the box like a confession.
I drag one hand down my face, forcing my heartbeat to slow, but every pulse still seems to echo off the walls.
Jenna doesn't speak. She's still slumped against the wall, head tilted back, eyes half-closed.
I can't tell if she's dazed or furious—or both.
I want to reach for her again, not out of hunger this time, but to make sure she's real, to anchor myself.
Instead, I grip the rail behind me and stare at the polished metal doors until my reflection steadies.
What the hell was that? All the rules I built for myself—erased in one flash of light. I tell myself it was stress, proximity, whatever excuse will stop the guilt gnawing at my ribs. But the truth is simpler: I wanted her, and I took her.
When she finally moves, the small rustle of fabric is deafening. She straightens her clothes without meeting my eyes. The distance between us is maybe three feet, but it might as well be a mile. I can still feel her heat on my hands. I can still taste her breath in mine.
There's an emotion coursing through me, and it's not one I'm used to feeling. The best word I can give to describe it would be shame. Grayson Wolfe is always in full control. Grayson Wolfe never gives way to raw, animal instincts. What the fuck is happening to me?
I disengage the emergency-stop button, just to hear something mechanical, something that isn't us, and the car jolts back into motion. The hum fills the silence, but it doesn't erase it. It never does.
I clear my throat and try to avoid looking at her, as I clean myself off and tuck my cock back into my pants. I'm too much of a coward to meet her eyes right now.
I hear her adjusting herself, too, and even though we're in my elevator, this scene is so reminiscent of the office sex that I almost laugh.
Deja Vu. Pathetic of me.
The lift continues its ascent, just as if nothing had happened. I could almost believe it hadn't. That we'd never stopped mid-journey to rut like two animals. Almost… but not quite.
I sigh. "I think it goes without saying—"
"Yeah, I remember the speech," she shoots back. "I'll take care of it if anything happens. I know the drill."
God, that makes me feel worse—like such an asshole. Twice now, I've neglected to use a condom and made it her problem.
"We'll take care of it," I correct. "I'm sorry. I'm usually not so careless."
She shoots me a look, like she wasn't expecting it, then shrugs. "It's okay. I didn't stop you, and if I can't control myself, I should probably get back on the pill."
"You don't have to," I tell her. "This won't happen again."
"Isn't that what we said last time?"
"This time I mean it."
She raises an eyebrow but doesn't defy me.
"What makes you think I'd be doing it for you?" she asks.
My entire body hardens, and red tinges the corners of my vision.
"You won't." The growl bursts out from the depths of my soul. It surprises her.
"Why not?" she asks.
Yeah, my guy—why not?
"Because," I say, "my mother will almost certainly be hiring a PA to follow you around, and the last thing we need is for him to catch you hooking up with some blond gigolo in a bar."
Her eyes glitter with mischief. "I can be discreet."
Is she trying to drive me crazy? "The answer is no—absolutely not."
"Well, if I'm not allowed to have any fun, neither are you," she challenges.
"Fine."
She gapes. "Are you deadass?"
"Of course." It's not like I want any other woman right now anyway, and it should be no problem staying celibate for a few months.
Or at least I would have no problem staying celibate if not for the fact that the world's most tempting woman is moving into my very home with me. The issue is how on earth I'm going to keep my hands off her.
"So, we both don't sleep with other people. Deal?"
She turns away. "I guess that works for me, too. It's probably for the best. I'm going to be busy for the next few weeks anyway."
I nod as the elevator bell pings to tell us we've made it to the top and reached my private penthouse level. Thank goodness I have the entire floor. No neighbor standing waiting for the elevator back down could possibly have misunderstood what's just been happening.
I fish in my pocket for my keycard as the doors part with a hiss, spilling us into the private corridor that leads to my apartment.
The contrast is brutal—bright light, the coolness of the AC, marble floors that throw our reflections back at us.
Strategically placed pot plants line the simple, white walls and hidden lighting.
The world resumes its proper speed, yet everything still feels off-balance.
Jenna walks a few paces ahead, clutching her bag like armor. I keep my distance, not trusting my own composure. Her heels click a steady rhythm that sounds too loud in the hush. The scent of the elevator still clings to us, raw and human, and I half-expect the walls themselves to blush.
At the door, my hands fumble with the keycard. Ridiculous. I've opened this lock a thousand times without thinking, but now it feels like breaching a fortress. Maybe it is one. No one has ever crossed this threshold who mattered enough to remember.
When the lock finally beeps open, cool air sweeps out—filtered, perfect, impersonal.
The penthouse smells of cedar and money.
Jenna hesitates before stepping inside, scanning the vast space as if it might bite.
I almost tell her it's just steel and glass, nothing more, but the words stick.
Because to me it's more than that; it's control, order, proof that I can build something no one can destroy.
Her shoulder brushes mine as she passes, and the contact jolts through me like static. She doesn't notice. Or pretends not to. Either way, it's enough to remind me that bringing her here might be the most dangerous decision I've made in years.
My driver will bring up the shopping bags and Jenna's suitcases in the separate service elevator at the back of the building, accessible from the basement-level car lot.
"So," she says, her voice almost normal even though she looks anything but. "You said six months, right?"
I don't think she forgot, but she likely needs conversation to shake off the memory of what's just happened and start functioning as a normal human again.
"What, did you forget already?" I ask, entering into the conversation and picking an argument just to ensure I fully feel that normality again. "And here I thought you were always so meticulous."
"I am," she shoots back. "I'm just clarifying."
"Yes. In fact, I anticipate everything being over before then, but the contract's for six months."
She nods.
"Oh yes—there's one important detail we can't forget. Might as well start right now."
"What? What do you mean?"
I pull out the polished walnut-and-ebony box I had carefully stored in my pocket earlier.
I flip open the gold clasp, pluck out the ring resting on its white silk cushion, and, taking her right hand, I quickly slide the jewel onto her ring finger.
. The single solitaire diamond glints and flashes in the light.
It looks exactly perfect on her delicate finger.
Our eyes meet, and something indescribable passes between us. She tears her gaze away before it can sink in.
We step into my main living space, and her eyes glaze over.
"Wow." She takes in the floor-to-ceiling windows and the minimalist white walls that suit the building so well, drawing the eye past the natural wood and clean Swedish-style furniture across the polished herringbone floor to the magnificent view of Central Park below.
"Like what you see?" I ask smugly. Now this is style.
She shakes her head, and the look in her eyes isn't awe—it's horror. "This is terrible."
"What?"
She shakes her head again. "Where's your bathroom?"
I give her directions to the guest bath, and she makes a beeline for it.
Meanwhile, I stand staring at her retreat in confusion.
What was with that reaction? I didn't expect her to be so disappointed in my home.
If anything, I thought she'd be impressed, maybe even overwhelmed. She reacted in the opposite way.
Intriguing.
I didn't even get to show her the spread of food I had delivered for us. My phone rings. Distractedly, I take it out of my pocket, expecting work. Instead, it's a woman I haven't heard from in ages—someone I never thought would call me again.
Marina.