22. Something for Dessert
SOMETHING FOR DESSERT
HARPER
In all my wildest dreams, I’d never imagined I’d be carried through Victor Kade's penthouse like a damsel in distress written by someone with a very specific CEO kink.
It's been exactly thirty minutes since dinner ended—thirty minutes since Victor looked at me with such raw vulnerability that I almost confessed everything right there in his kitchen.
I didn't.
Instead, I give into the decadent sensation that is Victor Kade’s strong hands—warm and firm and territorial—on my thighs, my legs wrapped around his waist, and all I can think about is how this man implicitly trusts me.
And he shouldn’t.
Because I've been lying to him for weeks.
"You're thinking too loud," Victor says against my ear as he pushes open his bedroom door with his shoulder.
"I'm not thinking."
"You're absolutely thinking. I can see it on your face."
"Maybe I'm just admiring the view."
"The view is behind you."
"I meant you."
He pauses mid-stride, and I can feel his smile against my neck. "That was smooth."
"I have my moments."
"You have many moments. All of them distracting."
He sets me down just inside his bedroom, and I finally get my first real look at Victor Kade's private space.
It's exactly what I expected—expensive and perfectly curated. A king bed with charcoal gray bedding. Dark wood furniture. Abstract art on the walls that I'm pretty sure is an original Rothko. Seemingly endless glass walls showing the city spread out below us like a glittering map.
And then I see it.
In the corner of the room, stacked in what can only be described as a shrine of shame, is every single piece of gaming wedding memorabilia from the Game Over Chapel.
Pixelated photo frames. Controllers with our names engraved on them. A "Player 1 & Player 2" throw blanket that's actually kind of cute. What appears to be a custom Xbox with our wedding date etched into the side. And—oh my God—is that a life-size cardboard cutout of us from the wedding?
I burst out laughing, and Victor follows my gaze, his handsome, chiseled face reassembling into an expression that’s part embarrassment, part resignation, part something softer.
"I can explain," he rumbles.
"Please do. Because right now it looks like you're running a shrine to our drunken mistake."
"It's not a shrine. It’s—Fuck. The chapel kept sending things. My assistant Gina kept accepting deliveries. I told her to throw it away, but apparently she thought I was being 'sentimental' and stored it all in here."
"In your bedroom."
"I rarely come in here during the day. It seemed like a safe place to hide it."
"From who?"
"From myself. From having to acknowledge that I got married in a video game chapel and now own commemorative Xbox controllers."
I cross to the pile and pick up one of the controllers. Sure enough, it says "Victor 'Ice Prince' Kade - Player 1" in silver etching.
"Ice Prince?" I look at him. "Did you tell them to put that?"
"Absolutely not. They must have googled me."
"And decided to immortalize your nickname on gaming equipment."
"Apparently."
I pick up the other controller. "Harper 'Sunshine' Beaumont - Player 2."
"They gave you a nickname too."
"I can see that. Though I'm not sure 'Sunshine' fits."
"It fits perfectly." Tall and majestic in his collared shirt and immaculate slacks, Victor crosses to me, taking the controller from my hand and setting it down. "You walked into my life and made everything brighter. That's very sunshine-coded."
"That's very cheesy."
"I'm allowed to be cheesy in my own bedroom."
"Are you? Because the’American Psycho’ aesthetic suggests otherwise."
He pulls me against him, and I can feel every inch of him—the solid warmth of his chest, the strength in his arms, the growing hardness pressed against my hip.
"The Christian Bale aesthetic is a lie," he says. "Clearly I'm a man who hoards wedding memorabilia in corners and pretends it doesn't exist."
"Like your feelings."
"Exactly like my feelings."
I laugh, and he kisses me—soft and slow and tasting like the wine from dinner and the scent of his smoky bergamot cologne.
"So," I say against his mouth. "Are you going to explain the cardboard cutout?"
"I was hoping you wouldn't notice that."
"It's life-size, Victor. It's very noticeable."
"Gina thought it was 'adorable.' I thought it was evidence of a mental breakdown."
"And yet you kept it."
"I keep a lot of things I shouldn't."
The words carry weight, and I pull back slightly to look at him.
His gray eyes are darker now, pupils enlarged into endless black holes, and I can see the war happening behind them—the desire fighting with the doubt, the need fighting with the fear.
"Like what?" I ask.
"Like grudges. Like walls. Like the belief that everyone is performing and nothing is real."
"Victor, I’m not sure—“
"But I'm trying not to keep those things anymore." His hands slide to my waist, fingers slipping just under the hem of my hoodie to find bare skin. "I'm trying to keep different things now."
"Like what?"
"Like you."
The simplicity of it undoes me, and I kiss him again. This time it's not soft or slow. This time it's heat and need and everything I never had with Thomas—something pure and unfiltered and animalistic.
His hands find the hem of my hoodie—his hoodie—and pull it over my head in one smooth motion.
I'm left in the thin tank top I wore underneath, and Victor's eyes darken as they travel down my body.
"You're beautiful," he says, his voice rough.
"I'm in a tank top and jeans."
"You're beautiful in a tank top and jeans." His fingers trace the strap of my tank, following it down to where it meets the fabric covering my breasts. "You're beautiful in everything. You're beautiful in nothing, though I'm hoping to confirm that shortly."
"Very smooth, Mr. Kade."
"I'm motivated."
He backs me toward the bed, and I let him, my heart racing as the back of my knees hit the mattress.
"Wait," I say suddenly.
He stops immediately, his hands freezing on my waist. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I just—" I glance at the cardboard cutout. "Can we move that? It's staring at us."
Victor follows my gaze and sighs. "You're right. That's creepy."
He crosses to the cutout and picks it up, carrying it to his massive walk-in closet and shoving it inside, his muscles bunching beneath his shirt as he turns.
"Better?" he asks, returning to me.
"Much better. Though now I'm wondering what else you're hiding in that closet."
"Hope you never find out. It's mostly expensive suits and evidence of OCD.”
He returns to me, and this time when he backs me onto the bed, there are no interruptions.
I land on sheets that are somehow both crisp and soft—probably Egyptian cotton with some absurd thread count—and Victor follows me down, bracing himself above me with corded arms that softly entrap me.
"Hi," I say, because apparently I've lost the ability to form complete sentences.
"Hi." He kisses my jaw, my neck, the hollow of my throat. "You taste like wine."
"You fed me a lot of wine tonight.”
"You seemed to enjoy it."
"I enjoyed the company more."
His mouth curves against my skin. "Smooth."
He pulls back to look at me, and there's something in his steel-gray eyes that makes my breath catch—something raw and unguarded that he usually keeps locked away.
"Harper," he says quietly. "If you want to stop—"
"I don't."
"You're sure?"
"Victor Kade, if you don't take off your shirt in the next ten seconds, I'm going to do it for you."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise."
He sits back on his heels, straddling my thighs, and starts unbuttoning his shirt so slowly that I’m sure he’s trying to torture me.
"You're going very slow," I observe.
"I'm savoring the moment."
"You're being a tease."
"I'm being thorough.” He finishes unbuttoning with slightly more speed, and when he shrugs out of the shirt, I forget how to breathe.
Because Victor Kade is—
God.
He's all lean muscle and broad shoulders and unfettered masculinity. His chest is lightly dusted with dark hair that trails down his abs in a line that disappears beneath his belt, and I want to follow that line with my tongue.
"You're staring," he says.
"You're stare-worthy."
I reach up and run my hands over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the slight roughness of hair, the way his unyielding muscles flex under my touch. When I trace one finger down the center of his abs, following that promising trail, his breath hitches.
“Fuck, you're wearing too many clothes,” he hisses under his breath.
"So do something about it."
He does.
My tank top disappears in seconds—pulled over my head and tossed somewhere behind him. My jeans take slightly longer because Victor insists on unbuttoning them slowly, his knuckles dragging against my stomach as he works.
He hooks his fingers in my waistband—both jeans and underwear—and pulls them down my legs in one fluid motion.
And suddenly I'm completely naked on Victor Kade's bed while he's still wearing his slacks and looking at me like the very sight of me could unravel him.
“God, sweetheart, you’re beautiful,” he says again, and this time his voice is reverent.
"You mentioned that."
"It bears repeating."
His hands skim up my legs, over my knees, along my thighs. When he reaches my hips, he grips them gently, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there.
"Victor—"
"Tell me what you want."
"You. I want you."
Something shifts in his expression—goes darker, more focused—and suddenly he's not hesitating anymore.
He leans down and kisses me, his mouth demanding and possessive and everything I didn't know I needed. His tongue sweeps against mine, and I moan into his mouth, my hands going to his hair and tugging.
He groans at the pull, and the sound goes straight between my legs.
His hands are everywhere—sliding into my hair, skimming down my back, gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks. One hand slides up to cup my breast, his thumb brushing over my nipple, and I arch into the touch.