Chapter 11 Ridge
ELEVEN
Ridge
I walk away because I have to.
Not because the moment passed, but because it didn’t. I turn my back on her before my body overrides what little sense I have left. I know she’s still standing there. I can feel her eyes on me as I put distance between us.
I don’t go far.
The living area is dim, quiet, unchanged. I stop near the console and stare at it without touching anything, my hands flexing at my sides.
This is where I need to be, away from her, away from the line I already crossed last night and have no business crossing again.
This isn’t about want. It’s about control.
I draw a breath and force my shoulders to settle. Give her a minute. Let the heat drain out of the room. I can go back in once the temperature goes down, and end the night without making it worse.
“Ridge.”
That’s all she says. It pulls me harder than it should.
I don’t answer, and I don’t move right away. I stand there and let the word echo through me, steadying myself against what it stirs.
When I turn back, I already know restraint isn’t coming with me.
The kitchen smells like soap and heat. The counter is damp where she wiped it down, and she’s standing there with her hands braced on the edge, watching me like she’s been waiting to see if I would come back.
For a second, neither of us speaks.
Her sleeve brushes my wrist as she shifts. The contact is accidental, but it’s enough.
Whatever held last night gives way just as quickly now, despite my certainty then that it was nothing more than a release.
Coco’s breath stutters when I turn toward her. She notices everything. That’s part of the problem.
I don’t give myself time to think again.
I grab her before I talk myself out of it and spin her into the counter. The sound she makes when her back hits the edge is quiet and startled, like she is angry at herself for being caught off guard.
But she doesn’t resist. And her eyes give me the permission I need to keep going.
My hands lock around her hips. Pain flares through my right hand when I tighten my grip, the skin still too sensitive for pressure I don’t bother easing.
“Ridge,” she says, like a warning, or maybe an invitation.
I pull her body into mine and kiss her. Hard. No patience in it. No pretense.
She kisses me back just as fast, fingers sliding into the back of my head, gripping hard enough to pull my mouth closer. There is no hesitation in it. No testing. Like she made the decision half a second before I did and refuses to apologize for it.
It all happens so fast that there’s no time to consider consequences or weigh whether this is a mistake. My body has already decided.
Pressure builds low in my gut, sharp and insistent, blood rushing where I do not want it.
Her mouth is warm and open against mine, her soft groans sliding straight through me, loosening something I keep locked down on instinct alone.
When my hand slips between us, the slick heat there hits me all at once, undeniable, and the last thin line of restraint snaps.
I push her shirt up, then higher, until there’s nothing left between my hands and her skin. I drag her bra down, and her breasts spill free, heavy and flushed.
My breath catches before I can stop it. She tilts her head back slightly, exposing the long line of her throat, and I trace it with my fingers, feeling her pulse jump under my touch.
I fumble with the waistband of her leggings, my hands suddenly clumsy, impatient. She makes a quiet sound of frustration and takes over, pushing them down her hips and stepping out of them while I strip mine off without looking away from her.
Skin meets skin. Hers is damp with heat, mine hypersensitive.
My heartbeat thuds hard enough that it crowds my ears as I lift her onto the counter and step between her knees. My erection presses against her thigh, the contact sending a jolt straight through me.
She’s already ready. Already warm. The proof coats my fingers when I touch her again, and the weight of that knowledge settles in my chest, heavy and complicated. Not triumph. Not victory. Something messier.
My grip tightens as my body strains against the lie I’m telling myself about what I’m doing here with her. I push into her once, hard enough that she gasps and grips my shoulders. The sound hits something in my chest and stays there.
I don’t pace myself or draw it out. The counter digs into the front of my thighs as I drive into her, fast and unrestrained. It’s almost like if I keep moving, I won’t have to think.
She clings to me, breath breaking apart, my name slipping out of her mouth without calculation.
And that’s when my body betrays me.
Not the lust. The awareness. The way my name on her tongue in this moment makes this so much more.
I pull out abruptly, ignoring her startled sound, and lift her down. She looks at me like she’s about to argue, eyes dark, mouth flushed, but I don’t give her the chance.
“Bedroom,” I say.
I carry her without asking. Not because she can’t walk, but because I need the weight of her in my arms, the solid proof of her body against mine.
She doesn’t resist. Her hands stay on my shoulders, not clinging, not pushing away.
The bedroom slows everything down, whether I want it to or not. The light is lower, and the air is heavier. It’s the kind of quiet that makes every movement register.
I set her on the edge of the bed, and then I lower myself to the floor in front of her.
It isn’t submission, but control turned inward. A pause I choose instead of a moment forced on her.
For a beat, we just look at each other.
Her hair is a mess. Her mouth flushed and swollen from my kiss. There’s no calculation in her eyes right now. No angle. Just unguarded awareness, fixed on me like she’s waiting for what comes next.
I brace my hands on the bed beside her thighs and stop there. My right hand aches under the pressure, but I don’t care. Every muscle in my body is tight from the effort of it.
The kitchen was hunger and instinct. This is different.
My pulse hammers in my chest, my body already aching for her. But I hold myself still, waiting, intent to know she wants this, wants me, before I finish what we started.
She reaches for me first and wraps her fingers around my hand. She tugs gently, but not tentatively. The pull draws me forward, and the message lands clear as anything she could have said.
I grab her again, but this time I slow down. I slide my hands over her shoulders, down her arms, feeling the tremor there, the way her breath changes under my touch. Like I’m learning her instead of taking her.
She watches me do it. She doesn’t rush me or look away.
And that quiet consent hits harder than anything she’s done yet.
When I push into her again, it’s slower, deeper. I hold myself there for a second longer than necessary, forearms braced on either side of her head, breath uneven.
Her legs wrap around my waist. It’s not urgent or clingy. It’s anchoring in a way that locks me in place.
I keep my eyes open this time. That’s the mistake.
She meets my gaze and doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t smile or try to soften what’s happening between us. Instead, she holds my attention and lets me see her, unguarded and steady.
Something tightens hard in my chest. My breath stutters. My hold on her shifts without me meaning it to.
I slow down.
The change isn’t dramatic, but it’s deliberate. I move more carefully now, aware of the way her body responds to every inch of me, aware that if I push too hard, I won’t just take control. I’ll lose it entirely.
The sounds she makes are quieter, closer to my ear. Her hands slide up my back and settle there, firm and grounding, holding me in place instead of urging me on.
When I finally come, it hits me hard, my body shuddering despite my effort to contain it. I pull back at the last second and finish against her skin, breath tearing out of me as I bury my face in her shoulder until my pulse slows.
I don’t say anything I can’t take back. Neither does she.
The silence holds, heavy but intact, like we’re both aware of the line we crossed and choosing not to name it yet.
We lie tangled together, her head resting against my chest. My heartbeat is still loud, uneven, a reminder that this hasn’t settled the way it should have.
I stare at the ceiling and catalog exits that do not exist.
This was not leverage.
The weight of that knowledge settles in my chest, heavier than any chain. My body is still buzzing with adrenaline, muscles tight, breath uneven.
I wake with Coco beside me, her steady breaths cutting through the quiet of the room.
It’s still dark. The artificial daylight hasn’t come on yet. No clock. No markers. Just the low hum of the bunker and the slow, even rhythm of her breathing against my chest.
I let myself look at her.
Her hair is tangled from sleep. Her lashes rest against her cheeks, casting faint shadows. One arm is tucked beneath her head, the other draped against me, relaxed in a way that suggests she never once thought about leaving.
That detail sits heavier than it should.
There’s no performance in her even now. No guarded tension. Just her, warm and solid beside me, like this is where she expects to be.
That expectation is the problem.
My father warned me early to trust no one. Especially not the children of men who make enemies the way Laurent Boudreaux does. And yet here I am, lying next to his daughter, letting proximity blur lines I’ve spent years drawing in steel.
Every part of this arrangement lives on the edge of something dangerous. Wanting her. Keeping her close. Knowing exactly who she is and what her last name means. It’s a gamble where the odds are fixed, and I stepped in anyway.
Sleep doesn’t come back. I shift carefully and slide out of bed without waking her, the sudden absence of her warmth registering more than I want it to. I stand there for a moment, looking down at her, a tight knot forming low in my gut that I have no business indulging.
Work. Control. Focus.
I leave the room quietly and head for the home theater. The security feeds blink to life, every angle of the bunker and the land above scrolling past in familiar sequence. Routine steadies me. It always has.
Then I see her.
The timestamp reads just before I got back to the bunker. She’s in the study, her movements are careful, deliberate as she goes through the drawers.
My jaw tightens as I fast-forward, watching her find something, examine it, then leave the room.
She slips whatever it is beneath the mattress in the guest room.
I freeze the feed. For a long second, I just stare at the screen.
So this is what she’s been doing with the freedom I gave her.
Heat sears through me, followed by something colder underneath it. It isn’t shock, but calculation. Betrayal. But who was I to think I deserved anything else from her?
I replay it again, slower this time, committing every movement to memory.
I cross the hall and pull back the corner of the mattress.
Photographs slide into view. Old. Black and white. Bent at the edges like they’ve been handled more than once.
I flip through them without expression until I see Vin.
He’s seated across from someone in a dim corner of what looks like a bar or back room. The image is grainy, but his posture is unmistakable. Alert. Controlled. Working.
That part makes sense.
The next photo does not. The birthmark is unmistakable. It’s the fucking man who slit my father’s throat.
My grip tightens until the paper creases. The memory slams into me fully formed. The blade, the blood, the sound my father made when he tried to breathe through it.
Anger surges violently through me, hot enough to blur my vision.
This man should have suffered longer.
I force the thought back down. He was a hired hand, a weapon. Laurent Boudreaux is the one who ordered it. Now, Laurent is the one who matters.
I scan the rest of the photos, trying to understand why my father kept them. Why Coco was interested in them and, more importantly, why she hid them.
Seeing Vin there raises no doubt. His loyalty is not a question. He was raised alongside us, trained by my father, shaped by the same rules. If he was near this man, it was because my father put him there for a reason.
That certainty holds.
What doesn’t is Coco, and why these photographs are important to me or her.
Every quiet moment from last night replays differently now. Every look. Every touch. I trusted proximity when I should have trusted instinct.
The phone vibrates on the floor, the sound cutting sharply through the room. I grab it without taking my eyes off the photos to see it’s a text from Vin.
Got word from Laurent. His man got back to me late last night. He agreed to the meeting. I still think it’s a risk, but if you want it, it’s set for tomorrow evening. Call when you see this, and we’ll go over details.
I exhale slowly, forcing the anger into something usable.
This is it.
The meeting I’ve been pushing toward. The first real turn of the screw.
I type a single message to Clara before I can overthink it.
I will be offline all day tomorrow. Don’t put anything else on my calendar unless it’s critical.
Her reply comes back almost immediately.
Will do.
Whatever game Coco thinks she’s playing just made the stakes clearer, not messier. I got my priorities out of whack. I let my dick convince me this was something more than what it is.
She’s part of the equation. Nothing more.
Laurent Boudreaux is finally within reach.
And today, I start closing my fist.