Chapter 29
Jenna
My drive home from the symposium gives me plenty of time to think about everything that just happened.
The fact that Grayson punched one of his own guests — and apparently a very important client at that — because of me is… well, insane. He broke the man's nose just because the guy implied I'd slept my way into my job.
It's crazy to even think about.
Hadn't Grayson already anticipated that kind of reaction?
I know I did. He had to have known this sort of thing might happen once we made our relationship public.
Although, to be fair, that Haigel guy was way out of line with what he said.
I remember pointing out early on that people would talk about me like that, and Grayson seemed fine with it then.
Why the hell is he acting crazy about it now?
I pull up at a red light, grateful that traffic's light enough today to let me get lost in thought without having to play dodgeball with Manhattan drivers.
Even though the man's words hurt, I'd been ready for them.
I knew I'd get crap like that — that I'd have to work twice as hard to prove my worth, even when my work should speak for itself.
I also knew it wouldn't always matter. Some people will always see what they want to see, and some men are just plain misogynists.
They don't believe a woman can run her own company on her own merit.
So yes, what he said stung, but it didn't cut deep.
Grayson's reaction, though — that's what got to me.
It shifted something between us, unearthed the emotional landmine we've both been trying to avoid stepping on. Up until now, everything between us has been easy. We have sex, we banter, we argue, we make up — rinse and repeat.
We're just having fun while we wait for the contract to end.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
But the look of pure rage in Grayson's eyes called me a liar.
Now I'm questioning everything I thought I knew about him… and about us. I thought this would stay simple — a business arrangement with benefits. I never imagined he'd go that far for me, especially not breaking a client's nose in front of an entire room of investors.
Why?
The question echoes in my head like a metronome. Why, why, why?
I don't want to read too much into it. I'd sound delusional even thinking that Grayson might have deeper feelings for me — maybe deeper than he's ready to admit, even to himself.
No. Surely not.
That's ridiculous. Don't even go there.
That kind of thinking is exactly what could get me in trouble, and I've already been trying so hard not to get in trouble. I can't fall in love with Grayson Wolfe, and I definitely can't start thinking he's falling for me.
But then there's that small, treacherous voice on my shoulder whispering, Why not? Would it really be so bad?
And honestly, what other explanation is there for what he did?
We're friends, but friendship alone doesn't trigger that kind of fury. It wasn't for show either; he wasn't acting. He's not that good an actor.
For a split second, it looked like he didn't even realize what he'd done. Like it was pure instinct.
Which means…
It could only mean—
A blaring honk behind me jolts me out of my thoughts. The light's green. I wave an apology in the rearview mirror and hit the gas, lurching forward a little too fast. Smooth, Jenna. Real smooth.
Grayson had left the event early—probably because his presence was making people uneasy after the outburst. After he went, I overheard some of the shareholders talking about him.
The opinions were mixed. Some said he'd gone overboard; others thought the guy he punched had it coming.
Apparently, that man has a reputation for being a drunk who starts fights.
The event carried on without any more drama and, all things considered, it was a success.
I got a lot of compliments about the venue and the artwork, and that should've made me happy.
But I couldn't fully enjoy it. My mind kept drifting back to Grayson, wondering if he was okay, if he regretted what he'd done, if he even cared.
When I finally pull into the underground garage, I spot his Ferrari and his Mercedes—the two cars he drives himself—parked in their usual reserved spots, next to the Bentley. Which means he's home.
The elevator ride up to the penthouse feels endless, though I know it's just the same two minutes as always. My pulse quickens the higher it climbs. I don't know what kind of mood he'll be in when I see him.
Angry? Remorseful? Distant?
Or something worse. Something too raw to define.
Using my keycard to let myself in, I wander through to the living room. The whole place feels quieter than it has in days. Usually, when one of us gets home first, the other waits here just to give them some good-natured shit when they come back.
But there's no teasing now.
Instead, I find Grayson standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out over Central Park, a glass of brandy in his hand. He looks like he's been there a long time, frozen, brooding, lost in thought.
I drop my handbag onto the couch and walk toward him. "Grayson? Can we talk?"
He turns to look at me, his eyes dull and distant, like he's still half in whatever storm is raging in his head.
I spread my hands. "What happened back there? Why did you go off on that guy?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Are you seriously asking me that? Did you not hear what he said?"
"Yeah, but I thought you'd just brush it off. Like I did."
"Brush it off?" He sounds almost offended that I'd suggest it. "You thought I should brush off some drunk bastard calling my fiancée a whore?"
"Grayson, I hear stuff like that from idiots all the time. It's really not a big deal."
He sets the glass down on the sideboard and steps toward me, bringing with him the warm scent of cologne and brandy.
"You hear that from who?" he demands, eyes sharp and searching. "Tell me their names."
"Why — so you can go beat them up too?" I joke, trying to defuse the tension.
But he doesn't even crack a smile.
"Yeah," he says, dead serious.
My heart stumbles, skipping a beat. His intensity feels like a physical thing, pressing against me, closing the air between us.
I don't know what to do or say. I don't want to assume, but there's no other explanation for this kind of emotion burning in his eyes.
He has feelings for me.
And God, what's worse… I think I might have feelings for him, too.
Shit.
I want to deny it, but I can't. Not when he's looking at me like this. Like he sees straight through my every defense. I can't ignore the heat in my chest or the strange protectiveness that flares whenever I think of him.
I wanted to rip someone's hair out when I heard what his family had done to him. Right now, all I want is to taste him again—to feel him.
His eyes tell me he's feeling the same.
He cups my face gently with one hand, his thumb tracing my jawline. Emotion pulses from his gaze as he lowers his head, brushing his lips against mine. His voice is a low, rough whisper. "No one gets to talk about you like that. Ever. You're mine, Jenna, and I'll protect you with my life."
"Just for now," I murmur. "Just for the term of the contract, right?"
He doesn't answer.
Instead, he kisses me.
The heat in my body flares instantly, though the kiss stays slow, exploratory, almost reverent. Even when I try to deepen it, he keeps control, holding the back of my neck, his tongue teasing mine into a delicate dance.
Desire floods through me. I want more.
I reach out to his shirt, my palm pressed over the wild rhythm of his heartbeat. When I try to pull him closer, he groans and pulls back, only to drop soft kisses down my neck and across my collarbone before finding my lips again — like he can't stand the distance.
His hand slides down my waist and around to cup my ass, kneading softly—a gentle possession that says without words: You're mine.
He lifts me easily, carrying me to the couch. When he lays me down, he hesitates, staring at me with that unreadable look that's half lust, half regret.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly.
"For what?" I ask, confused.
"For everything," he replies. "For not thinking about how this deal would affect you or your business."
"It's fine."
"No, it's not. I was a selfish asshole."
God, don't do that.
Hearing him apologize—really apologize—melts something inside me. It makes me want to pull him into my arms, to tell him it's all right, to never let him go.
But he's not really my fiancé. This is just make-believe. A contract. A game.
What I didn't realize when we started was how dangerous this game would become.
It's hard enough resisting him when he's being an arrogant jerk. I have no defense when he's like this—soft, sincere, vulnerable.
I reach up and stroke his cheek, my thumb brushing the stubble along his jaw.
"It's okay," I whisper. "I regret nothing."
His expression twists, pained, as he bends to kiss me again.
This time, it isn't gentle.
I don't want it to be.
I grab his hair and pull him down to me, kissing him back with everything I've got. I devour his mouth; he devours mine. The kiss is raw, greedy, full of everything we've both been trying not to say.
Even as he tries to hold back, I can feel his control unraveling. He groans against my lips, his hand sliding down my body, setting every nerve on fire.
My legs part on instinct. I press my hips against his hard stomach, gasping at the friction. The sweet ache builds until I'm moving against him, desperate for more.
He tears his mouth from mine, panting, and begins to unbutton my blouse one slow button at a time, his gaze never leaving mine, his touch trembling somewhere between worship and hunger.
"This is my favorite part, you know," he growls, his gaze locked with mine as his lips hover over my breast. "Unwrapping you like a present… knowing I'm the one who gets to taste you, to make you come for me. Only me."
"Only you," I whisper.
His smile is slow and sinful as he peels my shirt from my shoulders and takes his time unclasping my bra.
He swirls his tongue around my nipple, deliberately avoiding the center where I ache for him most. I beg, strain toward him, but he holds back for what feels like forever until, without warning, he closes his mouth over me.
I gasp as he flicks the hardened peak with his tongue, then suckles hard.
He takes his time, drawing out every sound, every shiver. Every kiss and touch winds me tighter until I'm trembling, desperate, needing him inside me.
"Grayson," I sob, clutching at his hair, trying to pull him up, but he doesn't relent. He releases me with a soft pop, looks up through hooded eyes, and says, "You keep fighting me, and I'll tie you up."
A sudden rush of heat floods between my thighs. I squeeze my legs together instinctively, and his wicked smile says he notices.
"Do you want me to tie you up, baby?"
"No," I say quickly, perhaps too quickly.
"I think you do," he murmurs. "I think you'd like that very much."
Before I can protest again, he sweeps me into his arms and carries me to the bedroom. My breath comes in short, uneven bursts as anticipation coils inside me.
He sets me down on the bed, then strides to the closet. When he returns, he's holding a pair of soft, furry handcuffs.
The glint in his eyes makes me swallow hard.
What follows, after he fastens the cuffs around my wrists and secures me to the bedpost, is one of the most exquisite, torturous experiences of my life.
He explores every inch of me with his mouth, his tongue, his hands—mapping my body like he's discovering sacred ground. He finds places I didn't know could feel good. He makes me scream, beg, whisper things I never meant to say.
He makes me feel worshipped.
He makes me feel safe.
He makes me feel whole.
Tears prick my eyes as he takes me to the edge again and again, his mouth relentless, his gaze never leaving mine.
I love you, I realize, biting my lip to keep the words trapped in my throat.
I fucking love you.
And I have no idea what I'm going to do about it.
When I wake the next morning, I'm alone.
Grayson's gone. The space beside me is cold, and the ache in my chest feels like someone's scooped something out and forgotten to put it back.
The loneliness hits hard, so sharp I feel sick.
Moments later, I'm on my knees in the bathroom, throwing up the coffee and toast I managed to force down.
Once it's over, I rinse my mouth and sit there for a moment, dizzy but relieved. I must've caught a bug or something. Still, on the way to work, I stop at a pharmacy to grab something for my stomach.
That's when I see it.
The pregnancy test kits.
I freeze in the aisle, staring at them. A thought slams into me so fast it steals my breath.
No. No, no, no.
Surely I can't be pregnant.
I've been careful with my pills—except that one time, the first time with Grayson. But I took Plan B after that.
I can't be pregnant… I can't.
Just to be sure, I grab a test and tuck it into my Prada handbag. Well… "handbag" is generous. It's more of a structured shoulder bag — big enough to hold half my life: phone, files, water bottle… and, apparently, a pregnancy kit.
The second I get to the office, I head straight for the bathroom.
Minutes later, I'm staring down at the test in my hand, hardly believing what I am seeing—two clearly unmistakable pink lines, where there should only be one.