Chapter 7 #2
I lowered her slowly, letting her body slide down the length of mine. Every inch of contact was a spark. My chest to her chest. My hips to her hips. The friction of the silk against my tuxedo wool.
We stood there, breathless, oblivious to the people cheering around us and the croupier pushing a mountain of chips toward us.
"Kiss her!" someone shouted from the back of the crowd.
Usually, I would have snapped the person’s neck with a look. But tonight... tonight I wanted to.
I framed her face with my hands.
"Can I?" I asked quietly. It wasn't a demand. It was a request.
She nodded, her eyes fluttering shut.
I kissed her.
It started soft. A tasting. A confirmation. But then she sighed, opening her mouth to me, and the heat flared. I deepened the kiss, my tongue sweeping against hers. She tasted like champagne and victory. Her hands fumbled, gripping the lapels of my jacket, pulling me closer.
For ten seconds, we weren't pretending. We were drowning.
When we broke apart, the table cheered again. I kept my arm around her waist, pulling her into my side, shielding her from the noise.
"Let’s go," I whispered into her hair. "We’re done here."
"But the chips..." she said dizzily.
"Leave them," I said. "Donate them to the scholarship fund."
I walked her out of the ballroom, leaving five thousand dollars on the table without a backward glance. I felt like I was walking away with the only prize that mattered.
The drive back up to the Summit was quiet, but the air in the car was thick enough to chew.
The sexual tension that had been simmering all night was now boiling over. Every time I shifted gears, I felt Angela’s eyes on my hand. Every time she crossed her legs, the silk of her dress rustled, sending a jolt straight to my groin.
I pulled the Aston Martin into the garage. The heavy steel gate rattled shut, plunging us into semi-darkness.
I killed the engine.
I didn't unlock the doors.
We sat there in the silence, the engine ticking as it cooled.
"Elijah," she whispered. It was a plea.
I unbuckled my seatbelt. I turned to her.
"Come here."
She unbuckled hers and scrambled over the center console. It was awkward, messy, and desperate. Her dress rode up. My knee hit the gear shift. But then she was in my lap, straddling me in the driver’s seat.
The steering wheel dug into my ribs, but I didn't care.
I buried my hands in her hair, ruining the elegant twist, sending bobby pins flying.
"You were perfect tonight," I groaned, kissing her throat. "God, Angela. You were perfect."
"I hated it," she gasped, her hands tearing at my bow tie. "I hated everyone looking at us. I just wanted to leave. I just wanted this."
She kissed me. Hard. Teeth and tongue and need. She ground her hips down against me, finding the friction she needed.
I groaned, a guttural sound torn from my chest.
My hands roamed over the silk dress. I found the slit and slid my hand inside, touching warm, bare skin. I traced the line of her thigh, moving higher.
"No panties?" I growled against her mouth.
"You told me to dress like I belonged to you," she whispered, biting my lower lip. "I figured... easy access was part of the uniform."
That broke me.
I gripped her hips, lifting her slightly so I could press my face into her cleavage.
"We have to go upstairs," I panted. "We can't... not in the car. Not like teenagers."
"I don't care," she sobbed, rocking against me. "Elijah, please. I can't wait for the elevator."
"We have rules," I reminded her, though my resolve was crumbling like wet sand. "Phase Two..."
"Fuck Phase Two!" she cried. "I want you. I don't want the contract. I just want you."
The words hung in the air.
I just want you.
Not the money. Not the safety. Me. The man who broke wrists and threw phones and had a block of ice where his heart should be.
It terrified me.
Because if she wanted me—the real me—then I had the power to hurt her. And more terrifyingly, she had the power to destroy me.
I grabbed her wrists, stopping her frantic movements.
"Stop," I ordered. My voice was ragged.
She froze, chest heaving, looking at me with wide, confused eyes. "Why?"
"Because," I said, resting my forehead against hers, closing my eyes. "Because if we do this now... here... in a rage of adrenaline... it’s just scratching an itch. It’s just chaos."
I took a deep breath, trying to slow my heart rate.
"When I take you, Angela—really take you—it’s going to be in a bed. It’s going to be slow. And it’s going to be because we both decided to cross that line with our eyes open."
She stared at me, trembling. "My eyes are open."
"No," I said softly. "You’re high on the win. You’re high on the champagne. And you’re grateful because I defended you against a rich bitch."
I kissed her forehead gently.
"I won't be another mistake you make when you’re desperate."
I opened the car door, lifting her off my lap. She slid back into her seat, looking bereft.
"Let’s go upstairs," I said. "We’ll drink water. We’ll take off these clothes. And we’ll sleep."
"Together?" she asked, her voice small.
I looked at her. At the messed-up hair, the swollen lips, the dress that was ruined for anyone else.
"Yeah," I rasped. "Together. Just sleep."
I got out of the car and walked around to open her door. I offered her my hand.
She took it. Her fingers interlaced with mine.
As we walked to the elevator, I realized the terrifying truth.
I wasn't holding back because of the rules. I was holding back because I wanted to keep her. And sex... sex complicates everything. Sex is easy. Intimacy? Sleeping next to someone and listening to their heartbeat without needing to own them?
That was the hardest thing I had ever done.
And as the elevator rose, carrying us back to our glass tower, I knew I was failing the contract. I wasn't her master anymore.
I was falling in love with her. And that was a breach of terms I had no idea how to fix.