28. Lucy
28
Lucy
T he comfy leather seats of Christopher’s ridiculously oversized SUV limo feel like a different world compared to the tension of the gala ballroom. Outside, the city lights streak past. Inside, the silence is thick enough to spread on toast.
Well, it’s not completely quiet. There’s the low hum of the engine, the whisper of tires on wet pavement, and the soft squeak of expensive leather as Dominic Rossi, practically radiating smug amusement, shifts slightly in the seat opposite.
Christopher hasn’t said much since we left the balcony. He just… watches me. His eyes, those intense blue eyes, haven’t left my face.
It’s unnerving.
Flattering.
Terrifying.
Mostly terrifying.
Seriously, blink occasionally. You look like a very handsome, very intense owl about to dissect its prey.
Which, okay, maybe I am?
His security detail, Elijah Reeves and Maya Chen, sit facing us, looking utterly bored, as if chaperoning billionaires and their strategically advantageous plus-ones is just another Saturday night.
How do they do it? Maintain that level of professional indifference while their boss is practically setting fire to his date with his eyeballs? Must be in the training manual. Section 4: Ignoring Extreme Sexual Tension.
Dominic finally breaks the silence, leaning forward slightly. “Impressive speech, Chris. Stirring stuff. Really hit those ‘responsible development’ notes.” He smirks. “And standing up to Daddy Dearest? Quite the fireworks display. Better than the actual gala entertainment.”
Christopher grunts noncommittally, his gaze still fixed on me. It makes my skin prickle. My cheeks feel hot.
Stop blushing, you idiot. He’s just looking. Probably calculating my company’s debt-to-equity ratio in his head.
“It was a very… direct approach,” I offer diplomatically, trying not to squirm under Christopher’s stare. “You certainly made your position clear.”
Understatement of the century. He basically drew a line in the sand, dared his father to cross it, and then stood squarely on my side.
My heart does a stupid little flip-flop just thinking about it.
He chose me.
Publicly.
Over his father.
That’s… huge.
Maybe even bigger than this limo.
“Sometimes direct is the only language certain people understand,” Christopher finally says, his voice low and gravelly. His eyes dip down, tracing the neckline of my dress, and the heat in my cheeks intensifies.
Okay, maybe he’s not thinking about debt-to-equity ratios right now.
Dominic chuckles softly. “Indeed. Well, my stop is coming up.” As the limo slows smoothly, pulling over near a sleek Tribeca high rise, Dominic stands. “Always a pleasure, Ms. Hammond.” He gives me a charming nod. Then he claps Christopher on the shoulder. “Have fun, you two.” He winks, a blatant, shit-stirring wink, before disappearing out the door along with his own security detail.
Thanks, Dominic. Real subtle.
The doors close, sealing us back in the quiet intimacy of the car with Elijah and Maya.
The air immediately feels thicker, charged with unspoken things. The memory of the balcony, and the things unsaid between us. The weight of his public defiance. The heat in his gaze that’s definitely not about business strategy.
“Dom enjoys stirring the pot,” Christopher says, finally breaking the silence again.
“Seems like it,” I agree, fiddling with the strap of my clutch bag. “So… your penthouse?”
He nods. “Unless you’d prefer I drop you off at home?”
Home? To my apartment that suddenly feels tiny and inadequate after spending time in Billionaireland? Where I’ll just pace and overthink everything that happened tonight?
No thanks.
“Your place is fine,” I say, trying to sound casual. As if hopping into a potential business adversary turned lover’s heavily secured penthouse after a dramatically charged public event is just, you know, normal stuff.
The rest of the ride passes in that same loaded silence. When we arrive, the security detail melts away with practiced efficiency as Christopher leads me through the private entrance, up the silent, buttonless elevator, and into the sprawling, minimalist expanse of his home.
The city lights glitter beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a breathtaking backdrop to the quiet tension humming between us.
He heads straight for the bar, pouring two drinks without asking what I want. He hands me a glass of white wine.
Predictable. And probably ridiculously expensive.
I take a tentative sip. Okay, yes.
Ridiculously expensive and delicious.
“That was quite a performance tonight,” I say, swirling the wine in my glass, trying to gather my thoughts. “Your father…”
“Is irrelevant,” Christopher cuts me off sharply. “His games, his vendettas… they don’t dictate my decisions.”
“Maybe not,” I concede, “but they affect things, Christopher. They affect us . Him having me investigated? His threats? Morgan Weiss feeding him information? It’s… a lot. And I worry…” I trail off, suddenly unsure how to phrase the knot of anxiety in my stomach.
“Worry about what, Lucy?” he prompts, his voice softer now, drawing closer. He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell that intoxicating cedar and black pepper scent of his cologne mingling with the primal scent of his skin.
“About… this.” I gesture vaguely between us. “Mixing business and… whatever this is. We started as adversaries. Now we’re partners, allies… lovers. And th ere’s Project Nightingale hanging over everything. What happens if the deal changes? What if one of us has to make a decision that’s good for business but bad for… us?” My voice trembles slightly on the last word.
God, I sound pathetic. Needy. Everything I swore I wouldn’t be.
But still, the question needs answering.
He sets his drink down on a low table, his gaze intent. “You think my commitment to Project Nightingale is contingent on… this?” He gestures between us again, mirroring my earlier awkward wave.
“I don’t know what to think!” I burst out, frustrated. The wine, the stress, the lingering adrenaline from the gala, it’s just all bubbling up. “You’re Christopher Blackwell. The Executioner. You don’t do partnerships, you do takeovers. You don’t get emotionally involved, you make calculated decisions. But then you stand up to your father for me. You send me flowers. You share things about your past. And then…” I blush furiously, remembering our encounters. “…you’re incredibly dominant and controlling and possessive in ways that completely short-circuit my brain. It’s confusing!”
He takes another step closer, his presence filling my personal space. “Is it?” he asks softly. “Or is it that you’re finally seeing the man behind the reputation?”
“And who is that man?” I challenge, lifting my chin, refusing to back down even though my heart is hammering against my ribs. “Is he the one who helps me fight off sabotage? Or the one who could still crush my company if it suits his bottom line?”
Instead of answering directly, he turns and walks over to a sleek console table near the entryway. He picks up a slim leather portfolio I hadn’t noticed before. He walks back and holds it out to me.
“What’s this?” I ask warily.
“Read it,” he says simply.
Hesitantly, I take the portfolio. It feels heavy, important. I open it. Inside are documents. Legal documents. A revised proposal for Project Nightingale. I scan the first few pages, my eyes widening as I take in the changes.
The equity split… it’s shifted. More favorable to Hammond & Co. Significantly more favorable. The clauses about operational control… they give my father’s CEO role more defined, albeit still limited, authority, but crucially, they strengthen my position as operational lead, granting me greater autonomy in day-to-day decisions and restructuring. There’s more emphasis on preserving the Hammond brand identity, more commitment to employee retention during the transition.
This isn’t just a minor tweak. This is a major concession. A relinquishing of significant control he didn’t have to give up. Especially not after Hammond Tower. This proposal… it’s built on trust. Trust in me. Trust in the partnership.
It prioritizes the long-term health of Hammond & Co., not just the quickest path to profit for Blackwell Innovations.
It’s… everything I originally argued for. Everything I didn’t dare hope he’d actually agree to. The previous agreement we had, that was a compromise on my part. And I accepted it, grudgingly, because I had no other choice.
But this new agreement, it’s a compromise on his side .
He’s basically giving me everything I originally wanted.
I look up at him, stunned. “Christopher… why?”
He meets my gaze, his expression unreadable but intense. “Because I told you. My commitment isn’t contingent. I believe in the potential of this partnership. I believe in Hammond’s legacy, modernized. And,” he pauses, his eyes searching mine, “I believe in you, Lucy.”
Oh.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
He believes in me.
Not just my business plan. Not just my potential utility.
Me .
The woman hiding behind the Hammond name, struggling with inadequacy, fighting to save her family’s legacy.
He sees me.
And he’s backing that belief with millions of dollars and a significant chunk of his infamous control.
This isn’t strategy. This isn’t a calculated move. This is… feeling.
His feeling.
For me.
And in that moment, looking into his eyes, seeing the vulnerability flickering beneath the surface of his usual iron control, the admission I made to Ava, the certainty that settled in my heart before the gala, solidifies into undeniable truth.
Oh my god.
I love him.
Really, truly, love him.
The thought doesn’t feel stupid or reckless anymore. It feels… inevitable. Terrifyingly, wonderfully inevitable. I don’t say it out loud. I can’t. The words are too big, too fragile, too new. But I know he sees it. He sees the shift in my eyes, the sudden stillness, the dawning realization that crashes over me like a wave.
A slow, possessive smile touches his lips. It’s not the cold smirk of the Executioner. It’s something else.
Darker.
Hotter.
A promise.
He steps forward, closing the final space between us. His hands come up, not to touch the portfolio, but to gently cup my face. His thumbs trace my cheekbones, sending trembles down my body despite the warmth of his touch.
“Good,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. “Now we understand each other.”
His mouth descends on mine. It’s not the fierce claiming of our last encounter, nor the hesitant exploration of the Hamptons.
This is different.
Slow.
Deep.
A kiss that speaks of possession, yes, but also of intention.
Of savoring.
He doesn’t rush. His lips move against mine with deliberate pressure, tasting, exploring, demanding surrender. My hands automatically come up to grip the lapels of his jacket, holding on as the world tilts on its axis. The portfolio slips from my other hand, scattering revised clauses and proofs of trust across the expensive rug .
Neither of us notices.
Or cares.
His hands slide down my back, molding me against the hard planes of his body. I can feel the strength coiled beneath the fine fabric of his suit, the steady beat of his heart against mine. He deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips before gently coaxing them open, exploring the inside of my mouth with a confidence that melts my bones.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.
Then they open, dark and intense, filled with a possessive heat that makes my knees weak.
“Let’s get you out of this dress,” he whispers.
His fingers are already finding the zipper at the back of my emerald gown.
He undresses me slowly. Methodically. Each movement deliberate, controlled.
The zip slides down with agonizing slowness, the silk whispering as it falls away from my shoulders. His eyes follow the fabric’s descent, lingering on my exposed skin. He unhooks my bra, letting it drop, his gaze fixed on my breasts.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “So fucking exquisite.” He reaches out, his knuckles brushing against the underside of one breast before his fingers gently cup the weight, his thumb teasing the nipple into a hard peak. “Gorgeous.”
He kisses my collarbone, his lips tracing a path downwards, over the swell of my breast, circling the nipple before taking it into his mouth. He suckles gently at first, then harder, sending jolts straight to my core.
My breath hitches.
My fingers clench in his hair.
He moves to the other breast, giving it the same devoted attention, while his free hand slides down my stomach, over my hip, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of my lace panties.
He finds my center, and the wetness already gathering there.
Oh god.
He worshipfully slides my panties down, and I step out of them as they pool on the floor.
He gathers me up in his arms and carries me straight to his minimalist bedroom.
He lays me down on his enormous bed, the cool sheets a stark contrast to my heated skin.
Then he stands over me for a moment, his eyes drinking me in under the dim light, a look of intense concentration on his face, like an artist studying his masterpiece.
He comes down beside me, propped on one elbow, his gaze never leaving mine. He traces the line of my jaw with one finger.
“Tonight,” he says softly, his voice a low command, “is about you, Lucy. Only you.”
He starts with my neck, kissing a slow, deliberate path down to my shoulder, his tongue occasionally flicking out to taste my skin. He moves lower, kissing my stomach, lingering near my navel, his breath hot against my skin.
My whole body trembles with anticipation.
He parts my legs gently, his gaze locking with mine, holding me captive with just his eyes. He lowers his head, his mouth replacing his hand between my thighs. He starts slowly, teasingly, his tongue tracing lazy circles, flicking against my clit with agonizing lightness .
I gasp, my hips instinctively arching off the bed.
He applies more pressure, his tongue becoming more insistent, his fingers joining the assault, spreading me open, exploring my folds, dipping inside me.
He finds a rhythm, relentless, hypnotic.
Oh god oh god oh god... right there... just like that.
He brings me to the edge, that familiar tension coiling tight in my belly, then he pauses, pulling back just enough to make me whimper in frustration.
“Tell me what you want, Lucy,” he whispers against my wet skin. His breath curls over my clit, sending sparks through my entire system. “Tell me how you like it. Tell me how to make you cum.”
“Christopher… please…” I gasp out, barely coherent. My body is screaming for release.
A dark smile touches his lips.
“Please what?” he murmurs, his tongue flicking out again, a direct hit that makes me cry out. “Use words.”
“Please… make me cum,” I manage.
He obeys instantly. His mouth becomes demanding, his tongue relentless, his fingers working inside me with expert precision.
The pressure builds, faster this time, hotter.
He pushes me higher, further, until...
The tension shatters.
A wave of pure pleasure crashes over me. My body convulses, tears pricking my eyes as the orgasm rips through me.
“Christopher!”
But he doesn’t stop. He holds me there, riding the waves with me, his mouth never leaving, ensuring every last tremor fades before he finally eases back slightly.
I lie there, trembling, breathless, utterly spent.
My hands reach for him instinctively, wanting to touch him, to return the favor, to feel the hard length of his cock beneath his trousers. But as my fingers brush his pants, his hand closes gently but firmly around my wrist and he brings my hand up, pinning it lightly above my head against the cool fabric of the headboard.
“Not yet,” he whispers, his eyes dark pools of controlled desire. He captures my other wrist, pinning it beside the first. “I told you. This is about you. About your pleasure. We’re not finished yet.”
He releases me and lowers his head again.
And proceeds to prove just how thoroughly he meant it.
He brings me to orgasm again.
And again.
Each time is different.
Sometimes, it’s slow and teasing, others, fast and demanding.
He uses his mouth, his fingers, exploring every inch of me, learning my responses, anticipating my needs before I even know them myself. He positions my legs, tilts my hips, controlling my body with an expertise that is both thrilling and terrifying. He is completely in command, the master of my pleasure, orchestrating my responses with unerring precision.
And through it all, he watches me. Like in backseat of the limo, his intense gaze never wavers, tracking every flicker of emotion, every gasp, every shudder. He seems to draw satisfaction not just from my pleasure, but from his absolute control over it.
He’s compromised in the boardroom, given ground where I never thought he would.
But here? In this bed ?
He reigns supreme.
But god help me, as I shatter yet again under his masterful touch, my body held captive, completely his to command…
I wouldn’t have it any other way.