39. Christopher
39
Christopher
W hen she finally releases my hand, it automatically finds the small of her back. A grounding gesture. For her. Maybe for me too.
She leans into the touch almost imperceptibly.
“I saw my father talking to you earlier,” I tell her.
When I say his name, her face darkens.
Fucker.
I knew I should have intervened.
No, she has to start fighting her own battles when it comes to business. She’s not going to appreciate it if I’m always intervening. Besides, her security was ready to step in, if needed.
She nods. “He stopped by to offer his… congratulations.” Her voice is light, but her eyes tell a different story.
“And?” I press, keeping my voice low.
“And to offer some friendly advice about not rattling old family skeletons,” she murmurs, glancing around to make sure no one is close enough to overhear. “Something about ‘complex off-book arrangements’ Richard wouldn’t want disturbed. Charming fellow.”
Fury, cold and immediate, tightens my chest. The SPEs. He actually threatened her with them, right here, at her own goddamn event, after I explicitly told him to back off.
The absolute fucking nerve. The disrespect.
Not just to me, but to her .
Using her father’s past, her company’s vulnerability, as a weapon against her.
Unacceptable.
“Where is he?” I ask, my voice dangerously soft. My eyes scan the room, locating him near the far bar, holding court with Morgan Weiss and another board member I know is loyal to him. Plotting his next move, no doubt.
“Christopher, don’t,” Lucy pleads quietly, her hand touching my arm. “It’s okay. I handled it. Don’t make a scene.”
“He threatened you, Lucy,” I state flatly. “That requires a response. Stay here.”
Before she can argue further, I disengage, moving deliberately through the crowd towards my father.
So much for all my self talk of not intervening.
But I’m too pissed not to.
People sense the shift in atmosphere, the sudden drop in temperature around me. Conversations pause. Eyes follow.
Let them watch.
Mark turns as I approach, a smug, expectant look on his face. He thinks his little intimidation tactic worked. He thinks he can control my board, my company, me , through fear and manipulation.
He’s about to learn otherwise .
“Enjoying the party, Father?” I ask, my voice empty of all warmth.
Weiss shifts nervously beside him.
“Just observing the… resilience of Hammond & Co.,” Mark replies, that same condescending smile playing on his lips. “And offering my support to the new interim CEO, of course.”
“Your support looked remarkably like a threat,” I counter, stepping closer, lowering my voice so only he and his sycophants can hear. The surrounding chatter quiets further. People are definitely watching now. Good. “Let me make myself perfectly clear. You will stay the fuck away from Lucy Hammond. You will not approach her, speak to her, or interfere with her or her company in any way. Your war is with me. Not her. Do you understand?”
His smile falters, replaced by a flash of fury. “Are you threatening me, Christopher? In public?”
“I’m stating a fact,” I reply coldly. “Cross that line again, involve her in your pathetic games, and the consequences will be severe. For you. For anyone associated with you.” My gaze flicks pointedly towards Weiss, who visibly pales. “Consider this your last and only warning.”
The air crackles with tension. For a moment, I think he might actually lash out.
But he’s too calculating for a public brawl. He values the illusion of control too much.
“You’ve made your choice,” he spits out finally, his voice venomous. “Don’t come crawling back when she ruins you. You are officially disowned.”
He turns abruptly and walks away, Weiss scrambling in his wake.
Disowned. The finality of it all hits me.
He disowned me.
For a moment, the cold rage morphs into something resembling fear or sadness. My mother’s abandonment comes to the forefront of my thoughts.
But then anger takes hold again.
Fuck him. I don’t need him anyway.
I take a moment, reining in the rage, smoothing my expression back into impassivity before turning back towards the center of the room.
Lucy is watching me, her expression anxious.
I walk back to her side. “Let’s go,” I murmur bluntly.
“Go? But the party…”
“Is over. For us.” I take her elbow firmly. “We’re leaving.”
She doesn’t argue, sensing my mood.
We make our excuses quickly, nodding politely to acquaintances, ignoring the curious stares.
Outside, the air is cool against my heated skin. Victor has the sedan waiting.
Elijah holds the door while Lucy and I slide in.
As we pull away, I see the black SUV carrying Elijah and Maya fall in behind us.
Further back, another dark vehicle pulls out. Darius and Rebecca, Lucy’s dedicated shadow.
A necessary precaution. Paparazzi have photographed Lucy with me. That makes her a kidnapping target not just for my father, but the lowlifes who prowl these streets.
The ride back to the penthouse is silent. Lucy doesn’t pry. She just rests her head against my shoulder, her presence a quiet counterpoint to the storm still raging inside me.
The confrontation, the finality of the break… it settles heavily.
Upstairs, the penthouse is quiet, dim. The city lights spread out past the floor-to-ceiling windows like scattered jewels.
Without asking I pour us both a stiff drink. Scotch for me, wine for her.
She takes the glass, her fingers brushing mine.
“Thank you,” she says softly. “For… stepping in. But you shouldn’t have…”
“He threatened you,” I cut her off. “That’s unacceptable.” I take a long swallow of scotch. The burn is grounding. “He made his position clear after the board meeting. If I didn’t back down from this partnership... from you... he would sever ties completely. Tonight, he’s done it.”
Her eyes fill with guilt. “I don’t want to be the reason—”
“You’re not the reason,” I interrupt firmly, setting my glass down and turning to face her fully. “You’re the catalyst, maybe. The reason I finally stopped playing his goddamn games. But the break was inevitable. He can’t stand me building something he doesn’t control.” I look out at the city, then back at her. “I don’t think he’ll ever accept this, Lucy. Us. The partnership. He’ll keep coming. He’ll keep looking for ways to undermine it. To undermine us .”
The admission feels raw. Acknowledging the limits of my power, the persistence of his threat.
“So what do we do?” she asks quietly.
“We build something stronger,” I say, the idea forming even as I speak it. Something permanent. Something beyond just business deals and tentative alliances. “Something he can’t touch.” I step closer, taking her wine glass and setting it aside. I cup her face, forcing her to meet my eyes. “This isn’t just about the companies anymore, Lucy. You know that, right?”
She nods mutely, her blue eyes searching mine.
“You’ve changed things,” I continue, the words feeling clumsy, inadequate. “My perspective. My priorities. What I thought I wanted.” I pause, the next thought surprising even myself as it surfaces. “I find myself thinking about… the long term. About a future I never considered possible before.”
Her breath catches. “Christopher…”
“Move in with me, Lucy,” I say, the words abrupt, bypassing all the usual cautious steps.
She looks stunned. Then hesitant. “Move in? Christopher, that’s… fast. We only just… things are still so complicated. My dad, the company, your father…”
“Complicated?” I scoff softly, though disappointment flickers within me.
Too soon.
Of course it’s too soon for her.
“Our entire relationship was built on complications, Lucy,” I insist. “On conflict. Adversity. That’s a stronger foundation than most relationships built on convenience or shared tax brackets.” I trace her jawline with my thumb. “But you’re right. It’s soon.” My eyes hold hers. “Maybe I can change your mind.”
I don’t wait for her answer.
I lean down, capturing her mouth in a deep, possessive kiss. She melts against me, her arms winding around my neck. The kiss deepens, fueled by the tension of the evening, and the raw need that always hums beneath the surface between us.
I break the kiss, my hand sliding down to the small of her back, guiding her firmly towards the bedroom. Purpose courses through me. Tonight isn’t about raw, desperate claiming. It’s about possession, yes, but also… discovery. Strategy. Learning the te rrain of her pleasure, mapping her responses, ensuring I know exactly how to command her surrender, now and in the future.
In the bedroom, I undress her slowly, deliberately. I unfasten her dress, letting the blue silk pool around her feet. Her scarf follows. Then her bra, and panties.
My eyes catalogue every detail. The curve of her collarbone. The swell of her breasts, nipples already hardening under my gaze. The faint pink marks still visible on her backside from my hand. The hickeys marking my claim on her throat.
She stands before me, beautifully vulnerable, yet meeting my gaze with that spark of defiance I find so fucking irresistible.
I kiss her again, deeply, my tongue exploring the recesses of her mouth, tasting her surrender.
“Lucy,” I whisper against her lips, my voice rough with intent. “Lucy. You are mine. Every sound you make. Every place that makes you tremble. All mine.”
I position her in the center of the bed, propped against the pillows. Her eyes watch me, wide and questioning, as I retrieve the silk scarf from where it lies discarded with her dress. The scarf she wore to hide my marks.
“What are you—” she starts.
“Trust me,” I murmur, looping the soft fabric around her eyes, knotting it securely at the back of her head.
“Christopher…” Her voice holds a tremor of uncertainty, maybe excitement.
“Shh.” I run my hands slowly down her arms, over her stomach, tracing the curve of her hips. “Just feel. Blindfolding heightens the senses.”
It also makes her vulnerable.
Completely reliant on me.
I start exploring. Mapping her responses. My fingertips trace light patterns across her skin, noting the goosebumps that rise in their wake. I brush a feather, stolen from some ridiculously expensive decorative pillow, over her nipples, watching them pebble instantly, listening to her sharp intake of breath.
I trail a piece of ice, procured silently from the bedside mini-fridge, down her sternum, and over the curve of her belly, eliciting a gasp and a shiver.
“Do you like this?” I whisper, my lips close to her ear as my fingers find the damp heat between her legs. “This pressure?” I demonstrate, circling her clit slowly, firmly.
“Y-yes,” she breathes out.
“More than the ice?” I slide the ice cube down her inner thigh, making her jump.
“Yes! Definitely more than the ice!”
I chuckle softly, filing the data point away.
I continue my exploration, using my fingers, my mouth. Tasting her. Learning the specific rhythm that makes her hips buck. The exact spot on her neck that makes her moan.
I bring her to the edge, again and again, listening intently to her ragged breaths, the desperate little whimpers she makes when I pull back.
Teasing.
Testing.
Controlling her ascent.
“Please, Christopher…” she begs, blindly reaching for me.
“Please what, Lucy?” I murmur against her wet folds. “Tell me exactly what you need.”
“You… inside me… please… I want you... so bad... please...”
Not yet .
I retrieve the sleek, powerful vibrator I keep charged in the nightstand drawer. High-tech, silent, ruthlessly efficient. I switch it on, the low thrum vibrating against my hand. I touch the head lightly to her clit.
She cries out, her whole body convulsing, arching off the bed. Her response is immediate, overwhelming.
“Oh my god!” she screams. “That feels so good!”
I vary the speed, the pressure, watching her writhe, listening to her fragmented pleas.
I move the vibrator to her nipples, and I’m rewarded by another sharp gasp, her back arching even further. Data point logged.
I bring her to a crashing orgasm with the toy, holding her steady as the waves rack her body. Only when her shudders begin to subside do I remove the vibrator. Her breath is coming in ragged gasps. Her skin is flushed. Utterly wrecked.
Utterly mine.
I remove the blindfold. Her eyes flutter open, dazed, pupils blown wide. She looks beautiful. Completely undone.
“Holy fucking shit,” she says.
“We’re just getting started,” I say softly.
I strip quickly, kicking my clothes aside.
Condom on. A barrier I loathe, but necessary.
I position myself between her thighs, lifting her legs to rest on my shoulders.
Maximum depth.
Maximum control.
I enter her slowly, letting her feel every inch of my cock sliding into her tight, wet heat.
She gasps, her eyes locking with mine.
Then I begin to move. Deep, rhythmic thrusts. Building friction. Building heat.
My pace is deliberate, controlled, but powerful. I watch her face, her reactions, adjusting my angle, my speed, applying everything I just learned. Tailoring the experience precisely to her.
She arches beneath me, sweat-slick and feral, that goddamned look in her eyes, the one that makes my signature on million-dollar contracts feel like scribbling in crayon.
The vibrator buzzes against my palm, still warm from where I’d pressed it against the inside of her thigh moments before.
“You want this?” I growl, dragging the humming silicone up her stomach. Not a question. A challenge.
Her hips jerk, but I hold it just shy of where she burns for it.
“Use your words,” I tease.
“Please... I want it—”
I flip the setting to high and crush the vibrator to her clit.
Her scream cracks through the penthouse. She cums instantly, her back bowing, her thighs trembling as I fuck her through the aftershocks. The condom stretches tight with each thrust and her nails rake down my back, reminding me she’s mine.
“Again,” I demand, angling deeper. “You’ll cum twice more before I finish.”
She moans, wild and throaty, her heels digging into my ass. “Please... you’re so fucking... hot...”
The vibrator’s still buzzing between us. I grind it harder against her as I slam home, finding that brutal rhythm that makes her choke on my name.
“Christopher Chrssstpher Cihrtopst...” Her words are coming out gibberish now .
Her next climax hits like a stock market crash. Devastating, inevitable, her cunt fluttering around me in spasms that threaten to end me.
I watch her unravel, that perfect composure fracturing, and Christ, it’s better than hostile takeovers, better than flipping companies.
“Again,” she says. It’s her turn to demand.
I smile wryly. “Atta girl.”
I press the vibrator hard against her clit and pound at her pussy.
She meets my thrusts, her hips rising off the bed, her moans growing louder, less pleading, more demanding.
This connection, this friction, this shared intensity… it’s more potent than any boardroom victory.
I feel her climax building again, her inner muscles clenching around my cock. I drive into her harder, faster, pushing her over the edge.
And finally I can’t take it anymore. My own release surges, hot and heavy.
I bite her shoulder to muffle the roar, then bury my face in her hair, spent but victorious.
We lie tangled together for a long moment, the only sounds the harsh rasp of our breathing slowly returning to normal, and the vibrator, still pulsing beside me. I fumble for it with one hand and shut it off.
I hold Lucy close, my grip tight, almost possessive.
Later, much later, as she lies curled against my side, tracing patterns on my chest, the question surfaces again, unbidden.
“So,” I murmur against her hair. “About moving in…”
She stiffens slightly, hesitates. “Christopher… it still feels too soon. So much is ha ppening…”
Disappointment, sharp and unwelcome, pricks at me. But I keep my voice even. Controlled.
“Take your time, Lucy,” I say, stroking her hair. “We have all the time in the world.”
A fucking lie. I feel it in my gut. The precariousness of it all. My father’s rage. The secrets buried in Hammond’s books. My own ingrained fear of connection, the ghost of my mother’s departure whispering that everyone eventually leaves.
That I’ll inevitably fuck this up.
But looking down at Lucy, trusting and warm in my arms, I force the fear down.
No. She won’t leave. Nothing is going to ruin this.
I repeat it silently, a mantra against the encroaching shadows.
But deep down, a cold knot of uncertainty remains.
What if she does?