24. Lucy
24
Lucy
M y phone buzzes just as I’m contemplating whether ‘stressed but trying to look effortlessly chic’ involves stilettos or flats.
It’s Christopher. Or rather, his usual cryptic initial.
Running late. Make it 7:30. -C.
I sigh.
Billionaire Standard Time strikes again. Probably closing a deal worth more than my entire company between brushing his teeth and choosing a tie.
Or maybe he’s battling a case of cold feet? I have zero idea what to expect tonight. Ice King? Vulnerable Confessor? Dominant Lover?
Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen.
Still, thirty extra minutes gives me time to overthink my outfit approximately seventeen more times.
I finally settle on a simple black wrap dress, classic, professional, but maybe just a little bit alluring?
Who am I kidding, I’m dressing for battle. Emotional battle. With really good shoes.
And black lace underwear.
At 7:25, I’m standing in the intimidatingly sleek lobby of Christopher’s apartment building. The security guard checks my ID against a list. Apparently, I’m officially on the ‘Allowed Inside the Billionaire’s Fortress’ list now.
The guard gestures me towards the private elevator. Just like his work one, this elevator has no buttons. Just a smooth, blank panel. You get in, the doors close, and you’re whisked upwards silently.
The elevator doors glide open directly into his penthouse foyer.
And immediately, I know something’s wrong. The air feels… tense.
Christopher is standing by the massive windows overlooking the glittering city, but he’s not admiring the view. He’s rigid, his back to me, one hand shoved deep in his pocket, the other gripping a rocks glass filled with amber liquid. He hasn’t touched it.
“Christopher?” I say softly, stepping out of the elevator. The doors whisper shut behind me, sealing me in.
He turns slowly. His face is a mask, but tighter than usual. The cool control is there, but underneath, something else simmers. Anger? Frustration? He looks like he just went ten rounds with someone meaner than a spreadsheet.
“Lucy. You’re here.” His voice is flat. Devoid of the warmth I heard in the Hamptons.
Oh great. Ice King is back with a vengeance.
“You said 7:30,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light, refusing to let his mood intimidate me. Though my stomach is doing nervous little flip flops. “Traffic wasn’t bad. Am I early? Or just interrupting… brooding time?”
He doesn’t smile. He just gestures towards the living area. “We need to talk. Before dinner.”
Uh oh. ‘We need to talk’ is never good. Especially not when delivered by a man who looks like he could punch holes in concrete.
I follow him into the vast living room, and perch warily on the edge of one of the pristine white sofas. He remains standing, pacing restlessly in front of the windows like a caged panther.
“My father paid me a visit this afternoon,” he says abruptly, his back still to me.
“Oh,” I say slowly. “I gathered things were… tense between you two after the board meeting.”
He turns, his eyes locking onto mine. They’re glacial. “He didn’t just come to rehash the board meeting. He came because his private investigators informed him I spent the weekend with you in the Hamptons.”
The air WHOOSHES out of my lungs. Private investigators? Following him? Following me ? Fury, hot and immediate, floods my veins. “He had me investigated ?” My voice rises, sharp with disbelief and outrage. “Because you spent time with me? What the actual hell, Christopher? That’s… that’s insane! It’s a massive invasion of privacy!”
“Welcome to my world, Lucy,” he says, his voice tight with a bitterness that sounds old and deep. “My father believes control extends to every facet of my life. Personal associations most definitely included. Especially when they involve the daughter of a man he despises.”
“So he threatened you?” I ask, the pieces clicking into place. His tension. The resurrected Ice King routine. “Threatened you about… me? About us?”
He nods curtly. “He made his position clear. Mixing business with pleasure, particularly with a Hammond, is unacceptable. He sees you as a weakness. A liability. He warned me to choose. The deal, or you.”
How dare he?
How dare Mark Blackwell treat people like pawns in his twisted games?
His own son!
“And what did you tell him?” I ask, holding my breath.
“I told him,” Christopher says, his voice becoming dangerously quiet, “that my personal life is none of his goddamn business. And that Project Nightingale will proceed as approved.”
Relief washes over me, quickly followed by confusion.
He chose… us?
Or at least, he didn’t choose against us. But why the Ice King routine now?
“Then why…?” I start, gesturing vaguely between us. “Why the sudden deep freeze? If you stood up to him…”
He finally stops pacing, running a hand through his hair. It’s a gesture of frustration I’m starting to recognize. “Because it’s not that simple, Lucy. He didn’t just threaten me. He reminded me of the game. The real game. The one he plays.” He looks at me, his expression grim. “He practically admitted Morgan Weiss is feeding him information. And he knows Weiss has leverage over your father.” He pauses. “Leverage he fully intends to use if I don’t fall in line, or if you and I push too hard against Weiss before he’s ready.”
My stomach churns. So Mark Blackwell isn’t just trying to sabotage the deal. He’s actively coordinating with Morgan, holding Dad’s past mistakes over our heads like a guillotine.
“But why?” I whisper, shaking my head. “Why does he hate my father so much? What happened between them?”
Christopher walks over to the bar, finally takes a gulp of his drink. He stares into the glass for a long moment before answering. “It goes back decades. Maybe before I was born. My guess is, they were partners on a major development project. According to my father,” his voice drips with cynicism, “your dad crossed him, cost him a fortune, and humiliated him. And now he wants to see your dad’s legacy crumble. My father calls it justice. Long overdue.”
My mind reels. Dad? Crossing and humiliating someone? It doesn’t sound like the man I know. The man who agonizes over laying off a single employee. But… he’s also the man who confessed to ‘creative accounting’ under pressure.
So... maybe?
Doubt snakes into my thoughts. Could Dad have done something like that, years ago, when he was younger?
Hungrier?
“Acquiring and dismantling Hammond & Co. isn’t just business for him,” Christopher continues, his voice flat. “It’s settling an old score.”
Silence fills the room. My image of my father, already complicated by his recent confessions, fractures further. This… changes things. Paints Mark’s aggression in a different, ug lier light.
“So,” I say slowly, trying to process it all. “We’re caught in the middle of some ancient Hatfield and McCoy feud, corporate edition?”
“Essentially,” Christopher confirms grimly. “And my father plays dirty. The investigators weren’t just tracking me. They were digging for dirt on you . Anything he could use to discredit you, drive a wedge between us, or pressure you into backing away.”
Fury mixes with a strange sense of violation. Being watched. Analyzed. Assessed for weaknesses by Mark Fucking Blackwell. It’s disgusting.
But looking at Christopher, seeing the weary frustration in his eyes, the rigid control he’s exerting over his own anger… something shifts. We are caught in the middle. Both of us.
Pressured by fathers with impossible expectations, tangled in legacies we didn’t create. The anger I felt towards Christopher for his withdrawal fades, replaced by a grudging understanding.
Maybe even… empathy.
“Okay,” I say quietly, standing up. I walk towards him, stopping a few feet away. “So your father is a manipulative asshole who uses private investigators and ancient history to control people. And my father… might have some explaining to do about his past business practices.” I take a breath. “Sounds like we both have complicated family baggage.”
He looks at me, surprised perhaps by my lack of any outrage directed at him .
“This doesn’t change our plan regarding Morgan,” I continue, finding my resolve. “We still need proof. We still need to neutralize his leverage over Dad. This just… raises the stakes. Makes it more important to handle it carefully. Our way. Not theirs. ”
The ice in his eyes seems to have thawed. “Our way,” he repeats.
The tension in the room shifts again. The anger and confusion dissipate, replaced by the familiar, potent hum of attraction.
He steps towards me, closing the small distance between us. His presence is overwhelming, filling my senses. That scent of cedar and pepper, the heat radiating from his body, the intensity in his gaze.
“He wants me to choose,” Christopher murmurs, his eyes locked on mine. “He thinks you’re a weakness.” His hand comes up, cupping my cheek, his thumb tracing my jawline. “He’s wrong.”
Then his mouth crashes down on mine. It’s not gentle. Not like the Hamptons. It’s fierce. A raw claiming likely fueled by the confrontation with his father, by the tangled history, by the undeniable chemistry crackling between us.
He kisses me like he’s staking a claim, branding me as his, defying anyone who would try to tear us apart.
My mind goes blessedly blank. All the complexities, the family drama, the corporate espionage… it fades into white noise. There’s only him. His mouth devouring mine. His body pressing close. His hand sliding down my back, gripping my hip, pulling me tight against the hard ridge straining his trousers.
Oh god.
He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, his eyes blazing.
He backs me up against the nearest wall, his body trapping mine, leaving no room for escape, no room for doubt.
The cool plaster is a stark contrast to the heat of his body pressing against me.
“You’re mine, Lucy,” he whispers, his voice a rough growl against my ear, his lips tracing a fiery path down my neck. “No matter what bullshit games they play. No matter what happened years ago. Mine.”
His words, possessive, dominant, should maybe scare me. But they don’t. They thrill me. Anchor me. In this crazy, complicated mess, his certainty feels like the only solid ground.
He lifts me effortlessly, and my legs instinctively wrap around his waist. I cling to him, my dress riding up my thighs, my nails digging into the strong muscles of his back.
He carries me towards the bedroom, his mouth never leaving mine, kissing me with a desperate urgency that mirrors the frantic beating of my own heart.
He doesn’t pause when we reach the bedroom. He strides towards the massive bed, lowering me onto the soft duvet, his weight instantly pinning me down. There’s no slow seduction tonight. No gentle exploration. Just raw need. A physical assertion of connection against the forces trying to pull us apart.
He tears at my dress, the sound of ripping fabric barely registering over the blood pounding in my ears. Buttons scatter. My bra follows, discarded impatiently. His clothes join mine on the floor in a heap. His eyes devour me, hot and possessive, as his hands roam my body, staking their claim. I tremble in anticipation, biting my lower lip as my gaze drops to his throbbing member. I swallow reflexively, so eager to feel him inside of me.
He rips open a condom packet and roughly slides the thin sheath over his hungry cock .
Then he enters me with a single, powerful thrust, burying himself deep inside me.
I cry out, arching against him, taking all of him.
So fucking good.
He groans, a guttural sound torn from deep in his chest. He starts moving immediately, a raw, primal rhythm. Fast. Hard. Desperate.
There’s no careful control tonight, just pure, unadulterated need. He grips my hips, angling me, driving into me with a force that steals my breath.
He doesn’t whisper explicit directions this time, or anything else, but his dominance is absolute. In his grip. In the relentless pace he sets. In the way his eyes lock on mine, conveying everything words cannot.
Mine.
He brings me to orgasm quickly, fiercely, my body shattering around his cock, my cries swallowed by his devouring kisses. He holds me tight through the aftershocks, his own release coming moments later, a harsh groan ripped from his throat as he shudders, collapsing against me.
We lie tangled together, chests heaving, sweat-slicked skin clinging. The storm has passed, leaving behind a fragile, breathless calm.
He holds me close, his grip possessive, protective. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t retreat behind the walls.
He just holds me, his breath warm against my hair.
His father calls this complicated, messed up connection we have a weakness.
But maybe... maybe it’s the strongest thing either of us has.