Chapter 7
Morning came the way winter did here—quiet, absolute, and unbothered by what you wanted.
In Charleston, the sun always tried to soften things. Even in December. Even when the air had teeth. There was always that thin, polite warmth, that lie the Lowcountry told itself about gentleness.
Upstate New York didn’t lie.
Light seeped through the tall windows in a pale wash that made the room feel bigger and colder than it should’ve been, even with the thick rug under my feet and the heavy drapes hanging like velvet warnings.
Snow sat piled on the ledges outside, pristine and indifferent.
The pines beyond the glass were dark, still, and watchful—like they were holding their breath.
Like he was.
I’d slept. Not well, but enough for my body to stop vibrating.
And still, the first thing I felt when I opened my eyes wasn’t rest.
It was awareness.
A slow, hungry pulse that lived between my thighs, answering a question my mouth had never dared to ask out loud.
Last night hadn’t been sex. Not really.
It had been something worse—something better.
A man had touched me like he already owned the right to touch me. Like my arousal was a fact he could hold in his palm and measure without effort. Like he could make me obedient with nothing but a sentence.
And then he’d left.
“Tomorrow,” he’d said.
I’d hated him for that.
I’d hated myself more for how hard my body had clenched at the word.
I swung my legs out of bed and stood, the cold floor shockingly real under my feet. I padded to the window and pulled the curtain back a few inches.
Nothing moved outside.
No footprints. No sign of life beyond the estate’s quiet, wintry exhale.
But the house itself felt alive. Heated. Waiting.
And I was in it.
A woman who had built her career on ending violence—on mitigating it, preventing it, scrubbing it from headlines and budgets—now standing in a hunter’s world with her skin still remembering his hand.
My phone lay on the nightstand. I picked it up, as if my fingers would find him in the glass.
No new messages.
Right.
Silence was part of this. A leash you couldn’t see.
I set the phone down and went to the bathroom. The mirror there was crueler than the one in my condo back in Charleston. Something about the light made everything sharper.
My eyes looked the same.
My mouth didn’t.
It was slightly swollen, like I’d been biting my own lip in my sleep.
And my neck—
I leaned closer, turning my head.
No bruises. No marks.
Just the faintest redness at the hollow of my throat, like my skin remembered pressure that hadn’t left proof.
My body had proof, though.
I rinsed my face with cold water and tried to pretend the chill could reset me.
It didn’t.
When I stepped back into the bedroom, there was clothing laid out on the chair by the fireplace.
Not mine.
A black dress—simple, fitted, the kind you could wear onstage and in a room full of money without anyone daring to call you unprofessional. Beside it, a cream cashmere coat and a pair of sleek boots.
And folded on top, like an afterthought meant to make me blush:
Ivory lingerie.
Delicate. Expensive. The kind of thing you didn’t buy for yourself unless you wanted to feel like a secret.
My stomach dropped.
A note sat beside it. Not on stationery. Not signed.
Just a single line, written in a steady hand:
Wear it. Hair down. No jewelry.
My pulse kicked.
A knock sounded at the door.
Not loud. Not cautious.
It was the kind of knock that didn’t ask permission. It announced presence.
I froze, breath held, as if the sound alone could undo me.
Then the door opened.
He didn’t step all the way in. He stood in the threshold, framed by the hallway’s dim light like he belonged to the dark wood and stone. Flannel again. Jeans. Boots. Hair slightly damp, as if he’d been outside or in the shower.
He looked … unhurried.
Like he’d slept well.
Like he hadn’t lain awake with his body burning because a stranger’s hand had made her ache and then left her empty on purpose.
His gaze landed on me and held.
My skin prickled.
His eyes weren’t the eyes of a man who wondered.
They were the eyes of a man who decided.
“Lady,” he said.
One word.
My body reacted like it was trained.
Heat, low and immediate.
The humiliation of it made my cheeks hot.
“What time is it?” I asked, because I needed something neutral to hold onto.
His gaze flicked to the clock over the mantle. “Seven.”
My stomach clenched. “The summit—”
“Starts at ten,” he said. “You’ll leave at nine.”
“You have an itinerary memorized?” I tried to make it sound like a joke.
He didn’t smile. “I have everything memorized.”
The air shifted with that sentence.
Everything.
My throat tightened. I gestured vaguely toward the chair. “You … left clothes.”
“I provided what you’ll wear.”
My eyes dropped to the lingerie. Then back to him.
“You’re not—” My voice caught. “You’re not giving me a choice.”
That finally pulled something from him—not softness.
Amusement.
A slow, controlled tilt at the corner of his mouth, like he enjoyed watching me pretend I still owned the illusion of control.
“You made a request,” he said. “Don’t act surprised when it’s fulfilled.”
My breath came shallow. “I requested a man. Not a wardrobe.”
He stepped into the room then, the door closing behind him with a quiet click that made something in my nervous system snap to attention.
He didn’t rush.
He crossed the rug like a predator conserving energy, and stopped a few feet from me.
Close enough that I could smell him—pine and smoke and something clean. Close enough that my body started to anticipate touch before he lifted a hand.
“I’m going to touch you,” he said calmly.
It wasn’t a threat.
It wasn’t a question.
It was a statement that required my response.
My pulse hammered. I forced air into my lungs. Forced my voice not to tremble.
“Okay.”
His eyes held mine, unblinking.
“If you want me to stop,” he said, voice low, “you’ll say so. Clearly.”
A pause.
“Do you understand?”
The words landed with weight. With structure.
With the reminder that whatever darkness he carried, he wasn’t going to take from me without making me participate.
“Yes,” I managed.
“Good.”
Then his hand came up and settled at the side of my neck.
Not squeezing.
Not gentle, either.
Firm. Possessive. Like he was checking for a pulse he already knew was racing.
His thumb brushed the hollow of my throat, right where I’d been red last night, and my breath stuttered.
He watched my reaction like it was data.
“You’re still wet,” he said.
My face flashed hot. “I—”
“You are,” he repeated, as if correcting a fact. “Your body hasn’t stopped since the plane.”
My thighs pressed together on instinct.
He noticed.
His gaze dropped—briefly—then lifted again.
“I didn’t touch you in bed,” he said. “You didn’t get relief.”
My breath caught.
“Do you want relief?” he asked.
The question was so direct it felt obscene.
I swallowed. “Yes.”
His eyes darkened, just a shade. “Say it properly.”
My nails dug into my palms.
“I want it,” I said, voice low. “I want you to touch me.”
That pleased him.
Not in a playful way.
In the way a man is pleased when a thing becomes honest.
He stepped closer until his body heat wrapped around mine. His hand at my throat slid down to the collar of my sleep shirt.
“Take it off,” he said.
I obeyed.
The fabric lifted over my head, leaving me in nothing but thin sleep shorts and bare skin. The room felt colder instantly.
His gaze tracked down my body slowly, clinically, like he was cataloging.
Then his hand slid to my waist and gripped.
Hard.
He pulled me against him.
I felt him—solid, unyielding, the line of his erection already there through denim.
My breath left in a sound I didn’t mean to make.
“Responsive,” he murmured near my ear. “Good girl.”
The words hit like a strike.
My whole body lit.
He didn’t kiss me.
He didn’t give me softness.
He held me there, pinned against him by one hand, while the other slid down and cupped me through the shorts.
I jolted.
Not because it was too rough.
Because it was exactly where I’d been aching.
His palm pressed firmly, finding the slick heat through fabric, and my knees threatened to buckle.
“Already,” he said, voice rougher now. “Christ.”
His fingers hooked under the waistband and tugged.
A silent question disguised as an order.
I lifted my hips enough for him to pull them down.
The cold air hit my bare skin—and then his hand replaced it, warm and heavy, covering me completely.
No barrier.
No mercy.
My body surged toward his touch.
He didn’t move at first. He just held me, palm pressed to my soaked heat, letting me pulse against him while he stayed perfectly still.
“Still,” he said.
I froze.
My breath came in quick, shallow pulls.
He lowered his mouth to my ear, voice like gravel. “You don’t grind. You don’t take. You wait.”
My whole body trembled.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“That’s better,” he said, and then—finally—his fingers moved.
Not inside yet.
Across.
A slow, deliberate stroke that found my clit and circled once, like he was testing sensitivity.
I gasped, head tipping back.
He caught my chin with his other hand and held me in place. “Look at me.”
I forced my eyes open.
His gaze was locked on my face like he wanted to watch every crack.
Every surrender.
He stroked again—harder.
My knees bent.
“Don’t fall,” he said calmly, as if I were a thing he expected to break. “Stand.”
I clung to his shoulders, nails biting into flannel, and he let me.
He didn’t tell me not to touch him.
He wanted me desperate.
His fingers slid lower and then pushed inside me in one smooth motion.
I cried out—quiet, involuntary—and my body clenched around him like it had been starving.
He didn’t give me time to adjust.
He pumped his fingers slowly, deep, each thrust deliberate, stretching me until my thighs shook.
“You’re tight,” he muttered. “So damn tight.”
My face burned. “Please—”
“Please what?”
“More,” I breathed. “Please, more.”
He rewarded me.
His thumb returned to my clit while his fingers worked inside me, rhythm steady and brutal in its patience.
Every stroke built pressure. Every circle dragged me closer.
My body started to chase it despite his command not to grind.
He felt it immediately.
His hand at my waist tightened, holding me still. “Don’t.”
I whined, helpless.
He leaned closer, mouth brushing my ear without kissing. “Beg properly.”
My throat tightened with humiliation.
With need.
“Please,” I whispered, voice breaking. “Please let me come.”
A pause.
His fingers slowed just enough to torture.
“Why?” he asked.
Because you want it, I thought wildly. Because you started this. Because you arranged a summit and a car service and a house in the snow and you told me to go without panties and my body obeyed like it was born to—
“Because I need it,” I said instead. “Because you have me like this and I can’t—”
“Good,” he murmured, and his rhythm sharpened.
Harder. Faster.
My whole body went taut, breath stalling as the edge hit.
He watched my face like he wanted to memorize the exact moment I broke.
“I’m—” I gasped.
“Come,” he said. One word. Permission.
My orgasm slammed through me so violently I shook, clenching around his fingers, mouth open in a sound I couldn’t control.
He didn’t stop.
He rode it with me, working me through every tremor until my legs felt like water.
When he finally withdrew his fingers, I swayed, breathless, wrecked.
He lifted his hand.
Looked at the slick on his fingers like it was proof of something.
Then he brought them to his mouth.
And licked them clean.
My stomach flipped, heat reigniting instantly—embarrassing, relentless.
His gaze returned to mine, dark and steady.
“You taste like obedience,” he said quietly. “Like hunger.”
My throat worked.
“Now,” he added, voice returning to calm, “you’ll get dressed.”
I blinked. “What?”
“The summit,” he said, as if I hadn’t just come apart in his hands. “You’ll do your job. You’ll speak. You’ll smile.”
He stepped back, leaving space—and the sudden absence of him made my skin ache.
Then he looked at the lingerie on the chair.
“You’ll wear what I left.”
I stared at him, still shaking. “Why?”
His gaze held mine, unflinching.
“Because I want you walking into that room knowing you’re mine under your professional armor,” he said. “Because I want you sitting onstage with your voice steady while your body remembers my hand.”
My pulse kicked again.
“And because,” he added, stepping closer just enough to make me inhale sharply, “I’m not finished with you.”
The promise landed heavy in my gut.
He turned and walked to the door without another word, as if what we’d just done was simply a morning routine like coffee.
He paused with his hand on the knob.
Without looking back, he said, “Text your friend.”
My stomach tightened. “Harper?”
“Yes.”
“How do you—”
“Text her,” he repeated, tone flat. “Tell her you arrived. Tell her you’re busy. Keep it light.”
I swallowed hard.
Because that wasn’t just control.
That was containment.
He was managing the perimeter of my life while he dismantled me in the center.
“Yes,” I whispered.
He left.
The door shut.
And I stood there in the cold light of upstate winter, naked, still slick on my thighs, trying to breathe like a normal woman with a normal schedule.
My phone sat on the nightstand.
I picked it up with trembling fingers and typed Harper a message I could live with:
Made it. It’s freezing. Don’t worry. I’ll call after my keynote.
I hit send.
Then I looked at the lingerie on the chair.
Ivory.
Delicate.
A secret.
My hands shook as I lifted it.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that Harper’s life—the safe life, the Luca life—was starting to feel like a story I used to believe in.
And mine?
Mine had become something else.
A hunt.
And I had just learned how good it felt to be caught.