Chapter 18 #2
“She attends the seasonal fashion shows. Milan. Paris. I don’t believe I’ve ever been introduced to her, but I recognize her.” He’s thoughtful. “Following Eddie, tracing this back to a broker, that’s not going to help the senator is it? You’re no closer to finding the extortionist.”
“Oh, we are.” You just don’t see the snare yet.
“What’s the plan? To ask Moira Kelly who the buyer is? I can’t imagine she could give that information out without committing career suicide.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” This isn’t a leak; it’s a business model.
He squints, tilting his head, communicating in that debonair way he possesses that he believes he gets it, but he doesn’t.
“This is bigger than that one threat. It’s about weaponizing information. If you kick Eddie out, they’ll send someone else in, and that employee will take steps to avoid getting caught that Eddie didn’t take.”
“Maybe, but…it’s one source. I need to shut it down on my end. I have a responsibility to the membership.”
“Give us time. A week.”
“And what about you? What are you doing chasing this down? Is this Moira Kelly woman… Are her people dangerous? I have this vision of you going through the streets at night with a gun in hand.”
I hold up my shoes, grinning. “And a knife tucked in the heel, or blades on the sole that eject when thrown?”
“Yes, something just like that.” He grins—or smirks. Or both. It’s sin and sunlight. And it loosens something I didn’t know I was clenching.
A laugh erupts and I drop my shoes to the ground.
“You’re funny. Do you want something to drink?”
He shakes his head in the negative.
“But if you clamp down on Eddie, it’s likely every lead shutters. We need time.”
“Hmm. Well, then, I’m going to need something in exchange.”
“And what is that?”
“A tour of your home. This…tells me only that you have good taste and that your home is a design work in progress. I want the full tour.”
A tax I’m happy to pay. “You want to see each and every room, or one room in particular?” I ask, stepping back with a flirtatious flair. “There’s not much to see.” I point to the kitchen opening. “Kitchen. Hall.”
He follows along behind me and I purposefully add a little extra sway to my hips. Before, I felt a little thrown, but with the open conversation about the investigation, the reminder of my purpose, I’m feeling stronger—and not quite as cautious.
He follows around the corner and into my small, windowless bedroom. Turning, I place my hands on his shoulders, pushing his jacket off, but he covers my hands, slowing me. Not refusal. Reverence.
“I want to know the woman who chooses calm in a city that never sleeps,” he murmurs, gaze sweeping over the soft gray folds, taking in my bedroom with the same intensity he brought to studying the Moira Kelly photo.
“I want to understand why you have a Steinway baby grand in your living room but no art on your walls.”
“The piano was my grandmother’s.” She gave it to me long ago, when I’d been in elementary school and the last thing I wanted was to take piano lessons.
That piano moved with us everywhere. “When my parents retired to Guatemala they insisted I take it.” First thing that felt like mine.
That had been the first move my parents made that wasn’t funded by the government, at least in my lifetime.
He’s so close I breathe in his cologne, enticing and familiar.
“Do you play often?”
“Sometimes.” When I can’t sleep. When the questions won’t quiet. When I need to remember myself.
He cups my face, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone. “Will you play for me again?”
The question is gentle, patient—no demand, just genuine interest. It’s so different from the men who’ve wanted pieces of me, who’ve seen my appearance as a trophy or commendation. “Maybe,” I whisper, leaning into his touch. A fragile word that still feels like yes.
“That’s all I ask.” His other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer until we’re breathing the same air. “For now. Maybes. Possibilities. Time to discover who you are when it’s just us.” The gentleness guts me more than any demand would.
“What if you don’t like what you find? What if I bore you?”
“Impossible.” The conviction in his voice tightens around my chest. “I’ve been searching for you for years, remember? Not the spy. Not the American intelligence operative. You.”
This time when he kisses me, there’s no urgency, no desperation.
Just thorough exploration, like he’s memorizing the taste of me.
My hands fist in his shirt, and I let myself sink into the feeling—no assignment parameters, no exit strategy, just this moment with this man who somehow climbs the walls I build and smooths my edges.
When we break apart, I’m breathless, my skin literally craving his touch. “Adrien—”
“I know your job isn’t the office variety,” he says, forehead resting against mine.
“I hope it’s not too dangerous, but I’m sure safety isn’t guaranteed.
And I can see how it would be simpler to not have anyone worrying.
But I also know what I feel when I look at you.
What I felt that weekend, what I haven’t been able to forget. ”
“I didn’t forget you either.” It shouldn’t be a difficult confession, as it’s obvious I remember it all, but saying it out loud requires effort.
“But you need to understand, I’m not normal.
After college, I threw myself into a world where relationships were discouraged, and often impossible to maintain.
Yes, I’m in a different situation, but I’m not sure how to spend time with someone without an agenda or an extraction plan. I’m…adjusting.”
“Then don’t be normal.” His smile is soft, devastating. “Be you. The woman designed an apartment around empty wall space because she’s still deciding who she wants to be.”
He’s perceptive.
“I’m deciding,” I whisper, liking the sound of those words in my own apartment, in this space that’s mine.
“I can help.” His smile is soft, devastating. “I know a thing or two about art.”
He dips his head, brushing his lips along my temple—tentative, seeking permission. When I tilt my head to give him better access, his kisses trail to the sensitive skin below my ear. Each press of his lips sends heat spiraling through me, pooling low.
This is different from last night. Slower. Intentional. Like we’re rewriting what happened on his couch—choosing each other instead of being consumed.
“Will you let me?” His voice is low, hopeful.
Instead of answering with words, I reach for the buttons of his shirt.
We undress slowly this time—no fumbling, no desperation.
My fingers work each button deliberately while his hands find the zipper of my dress.
The rasp of it lowering sounds loud in my quiet apartment.
He peels the fabric from my shoulders, watching it pool at my feet like he’s unveiling something precious.
Cool air kisses my skin and my nipples tighten—from temperature or anticipation, I’m not sure. He’s still watching me, drinking me in like I’m a masterpiece he’s discovered in secret. His touch is reverent when he reaches for my bra clasp, his gaze consuming as he slides the straps down my arms.
I push his shirt off his shoulders, palms gliding over muscle I memorized last night but get to appreciate now. By the time we’re both bare and I’m lying across my sheets—the comforter rolled back, my high-thread-count cotton soft beneath me—I’m dizzy with lust and impatient with anticipation.
His exploration of my body is deceptively tender. Not the frantic urgency of last night, but thorough—like he’s learning me properly this time. His mouth traces paths I didn’t know were sensitive: the inside of my wrist, the hollow of my collarbone, the curve where my hip meets my thigh.
Pleasure unfurls hot and sharp with each pass of his lips, each deliberate touch. He maps my body with his hands and mouth, pulling sounds from me I don’t recognize—soft gasps, needy whimpers. Each moan is a confession neither of us dares speak aloud.
His lips close over my nipple and I arch into him.
He sucks, teeth grazing lightly, then soothes with his tongue before moving to give equal attention to the other breast. My fingers thread through his hair, holding him there, and when he finally begins his descent—kissing down my ribs, my stomach, the sensitive skin of my lower belly—I’m trembling.
He positions himself between my thighs, spreading them wider, and looks up at me with those golden-green eyes. “You denied me this last night.” The reprimand is wicked and worshipful, edged with humor.
My breathing goes fast and shallow, every muscle tight with anticipation.
The first sweep of his tongue sparks fire through my core and my knees rise automatically, thighs spreading wider, opening for him. He groans against my flesh—actually groans—like the taste of me is something he’s been craving.
Within seconds it’s clear he remembers the cartography of me.
Pressure points. Rhythms. The exact angle that makes my hips buck off the bed.
His tongue circles my clit with practiced precision, then flattens, dragging slowly upward.
When he seals his lips over the sensitive bundle of nerves and sucks, my hands fist in the sheets.
“Adrien—” His name breaks on my lips.
He adds his fingers—one, then two—curling inside to find that spot that shatters reason. The dual sensation of his tongue on my clit and his fingers stroking deep has me making sounds I’d be embarrassed by if I could think straight.
But I can’t think. Can only feel. The wet heat of his mouth. The obscene, perfect rhythm. The way he watches me fall apart like it’s his favorite view.
My orgasm builds at the base of my spine, coiling tighter with each pass of his tongue. When it breaks, it’s toe-curling, back-arching, cry-his-name ecstasy. I ride the waves while he works me through it, gentling but not stopping until I’m shaking and oversensitive.