Chapter Ten
LEONI
Warmth. Real warmth.
It’s the first thing I register. Not the scratch of a cheap blanket, not the stale hospital-clean air of Mum’s house, but soft duvet, thick mattress, quiet. Expensive. Luxury.
I blink slowly.
The room is dim, curtains half-drawn, city light bleeding in. I know this room. I know this ceiling. I know the faint scent of bergamot and smoke clinging to the sheets.
Warren’s penthouse.
I push myself upright, blinking as the memories of last night hit in fragments.
The argument. Jordan’s words. The panic. Dialling the wrong number. Warren’s voice on the phone. His hands. His chest. Warm. Solid. Safe.
My heart squeezes painfully.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand slowly, like I might break if I move too fast.
Voices don’t greet me. No staff. No footsteps. Just the smell of something good cooking. Bacon?
I frown. That can’t be right.
Warren Baxter does not cook. Warren Baxter orders. Warren Baxter commands entire rooms with a lift of his eyebrow. Warren Baxter does not fry anything unless it’s someone’s career.
I grab a pair of joggers by the bed and roll them over at the top to fit. Then I pull on one of his t-shirts and make my way down the short hallway, pausing at the kitchen entrance.
He’s there. Barefoot. Shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. Tie gone. Hair slightly mussed. Standing in front of the stove. Cooking. Actual cooking.
And I just stare.
Bacon. Eggs. Toast. Something green that looks suspiciously like spinach. He flips the eggs with confidence.
He looks up when he senses me. Of course, he senses me. The man probably has predator-level awareness built into his DNA.
“You’re awake,” he says, his voice low, unreadable. His eyes scan my body, and a smile tugs at his lips. “You look good in my clothes.”
“I—” I clear my throat, because it sounds like gravel. “You cook?”
His mouth twitches, just the edge, as if he’s fighting a smirk. “I’m capable of basic human function, yes.”
“I just assumed you’d have people for that.”
“I do.” He slides the pan off the heat. “But I didn’t want people here this morning.”
He plates the food with neat, precise movements. No hesitation. No chaos. Of course, even his domesticity is efficient.
He nods toward the stool at the kitchen island. I sit. Mostly because my legs feel unreliable.
He sets the plate in front of me and pours coffee into a mug. It’s black, but he slides a small jug of milk toward me without my asking, then adds a sugar dish too.
He remembers. I blink hard. For months, I’ve grabbed his coffee; only once has he made me one.
But he remembers I take milk and sugar. I give my head a shake, almost laughing to myself.
Ninety percent of the population takes milk and sugar.
It was a lucky guess, and here I am romanticising the bad guy.
He sits opposite with his own plate.
We eat in silence for a few bites. It is the most normal moment I’ve had in days. Which somehow makes it worse.
He breaks it first. “You had a panic attack.”
My fork pauses. “Yeah.”
“You’ve had them before.”
It’s not a question. “Yeah.” I push a piece of egg around the plate. “Not for a while.”
He nods once. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure.”
We fall silent again, but this time it feels softer. I take the time to really look at him. He appears tired. Not physically, but deep down, bone tired.
“You didn’t have to come last night,” I say quietly.
He meets my eyes. “Yes, I did.” He looks down for a second. “Your friend, Courtney,” he says, picking up a piece of toast, “threatened to stab me in the eye with her car keys when she realised I’d picked you up. She was blowing up your phone, so I wanted to put her mind at rest.”
A strangled noise leaves me. “That sounds about right.”
“She also told me you ‘deserve a man with emotional intelligence, not a walking red flag.’”
I choke on coffee. “She didn’t.”
“Oh, she did.”
I wipe my mouth, a small laugh slipping out, the first in what feels like forever. It feels strange. Foreign. But good.
“She said I’m ‘highly punchable,’” he adds.
“Well…” I shrug. “She’s not wrong.”
His eyebrow lifts. “Careful.” He exhales. “She was pretty vocal, actually. Listed about twelve ways I should die. She really doesn’t like me.”
I set my fork down. “Yeah, well I haven’t exactly given her many glowing stories.”
His gaze meets mine. Something flickers there. “But you’ve talked about me.”
“She’s my best friend,” I say simply.
He gives a stiff nod. “Good. I’m glad you have someone to talk to.”
“Warren,” I murmur.
“Let’s not,” he almost whispers and I see a hint of vulnerability. “It’s too heavy to dissect over breakfast when you’re hanging on by a thread.” His eyes find mine again. “So, for today, let’s just leave it where it is.”
I nod, then push my plate away and stand. “I need clothes for work. Do you think I can get back into my apartment yet?”
“Work?” he repeats with a small laugh. “You’re not going into the office today.”
“I’d rather keep busy,” I insist, moving past him. “We don’t have to walk in together. It’s fine.”
But he’s in front of me before I take a full step—fast, controlled, blocking my path without touching me. I freeze.
“You’re staying here today,” he says quietly. “Resting. Breathing. Surviving. Call it whatever you want. But you’re not going to work.”
My heart pounds. “Why?” I whisper.
His hand lifts, brushing my jaw, slow and unexpectedly gentle. His thumb traces my cheek as his eyes hold mine. “Because I said so.”
I should step back, but I don’t, and he doesn’t move either, just stands there, close enough for warmth to pull between us.
So I make the first move.
I rise onto my toes and press my lips to his. It’s soft, careful, like we’re testing the waters.
He inhales sharply. Then his hand slides to the back of my head, fingers weaving into my hair, and he pulls me in. The kiss deepens, unhurried at first, like we’re both memorising the moment, and when I tilt my head, his tongue brushes mine, and the world drops away.
His mouth is warm and unforgiving, and something in me breaks. I fist my hands in his shirt, pulling him closer, scared he’ll vanish if I let go.
He kisses me like he argues—hard, consuming, stubborn. His grip tightens in my hair, and I gasp, the sound swallowed instantly by his mouth against mine. He walks me backwards without breaking the kiss, each step deliberate until my hips hit the edge of the kitchen counter.
His tongue slides against mine again, and my knees nearly give. He feels it, and one hand slides down, gripping the back of my thigh to lift me onto the counter. The marble is cold beneath me, and a hiss of surprise escapes me.
“Warren—” I breathe.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his chest rising and falling like he ran here. “You don’t want me to stop,” he murmurs. It’s not a question.
I shake my head once, barely. He watches the movement, jaw clenching like he’s seconds away from breaking apart.
Then his hands are on my waist, dragging me forward so I’m pressed right up against him.
His lips find the line of my throat, slow and hungry.
I feel every inch of him, every intention he’s failing to hide.
My fingers slip beneath the hem of his shirt. Warm skin. Solid muscle. The kind of body built from violence, not gym mirrors. He inhales sharply when my palms flatten against him, his hand sliding up under my top, fingertips tracing the line of my spine.
His forehead rests against mine for one breathless second. “This was never going to stay professional,” he whispers, his voice rough.
His mouth claims mine again, harder this time, with no hesitation, no careful, slow build.
His hands are gentle as he pushes me back to lie on the counter.
I spread my legs for him instinctively, my breath catching when the hard line of him pushes between my thighs through the thin fabric of the joggers.
His hands slide to my hips, and he drags me to the very edge of the countertop.
He hooks his fingers into my joggers and tugs them free, chucking them somewhere on the floor.
And then he stares for an uncomfortable few seconds with hunger in his eyes, drinking me in.
My breath comes in short pants, watching as he lowers his head, placing a lingering kiss on my inner thigh.
His fingers trace along my opening, barely touching but burning at the same time.
And then I feel the warmth of his mouth as he leans closer.
He presses his tongue against my clit, firm and hard, licking along my opening.
I arch off the counter, groaning in pleasure.
His hands go to my thighs, pinning me back in place whilst he continues to taste me, using long, delicious licks.
It’s minutes before I come apart, my fingers in his hair pulling at the roots to have him closer, but pushing him away at the same time because it feels too much, too fast, too everything. I shudder, the movement rocking my entire body right before I stiffen and come apart.
Warren crawls back up over my body, gentle kisses fluttering across my skin. “Leoni…” he murmurs against my throat.
I tug at his shirt, “Off,” I whisper, breathless. The need to have him inside me is overwhelming.
He doesn’t hesitate. He yanks it over his head, and it hits the floor without a sound. And God, seeing him like this, close enough to touch, skin warm and marked with ink and tension, something inside me just falls.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of his bottoms, and he freezes, his breathing sharp.
“You sure?” he murmurs, the backs of his knuckles brushing my cheek.
I nod. “I need this,” I whisper. “I need you.”
His mouth is on mine again while his hands slip under the t-shirt, pushing it up until it’s bunched under my arms. He pulls it off and tosses it aside, his eyes dragging over me with something dark and hungry.
“Fuck…” he breathes, his voice rough. “You’re beautiful.”