Chapter Ten #2
Heat bloomed low in her belly. Her nipples hardened into tight, aching peaks against her bra.
A sudden rush of slick arousal soaked her panties, her clit throbbing sharply with treacherous need.
For one dangerous moment she remembered exactly how it felt—Pierce's heavy weight pinning her down, his thick cock stretching her open, sliding in and out in long, deliberate strokes while he whispered filthy praise against her throat.
She hated how easily her cunt clenched at the memory. Hated how wet she was getting just from his voice and the ghost of his touch.
Pierce saw it. Of course he saw it. Ten years of marriage had taught him every sign—how her breath hitched, how color rose in her cheeks, how her thighs pressed together under the table.
His fingers brushed hers. Not a hold. Barely contact. Just the warm drag of his fingertips across her knuckles. The old current surged anyway—humiliating, alive, a thread of raw heat twisting under the grief. Her pussy fluttered involuntarily, aching to be filled by the man who had broken her.
He knew. His eyes darkened with satisfaction and hunger.
"We don't have to decide everything tonight," he murmured, thumb stroking the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. "Let me take you somewhere quiet. Let me spread you open and fuck you until the only thing you remember is how deep I can get inside you."
Quiet.
The word had once meant safety. Now it meant no witnesses while he tried to fuck his way back into control.
Maren pulled her hand back sharply and placed it in her own lap, fingers curling into a tight fist to stop the trembling.
"Do not offer me your cock when you still owe me documents," she said, voice low but edged with steel despite the slick heat still pulsing between her thighs.
Pierce's face went still.
The heat between them did not vanish. It twisted—desire sharpening into anger, arousal mixing with fury.
"I was not—" he started.
"Yes," she cut him off. "You were. Maybe not only that. But enough."
He sat back as if she had slapped him.
"I miss you," he said, the words rough.
Her throat tightened. She hated him for making that sentence both true and completely insufficient.
"Then miss me with the account access restored, the alarm code in writing, the prenup delivered to my lawyer, and Sloane removed from anything with my name on it."
Power shifted across the table.
Not because Pierce stopped wanting her.
Because wanting her no longer purchased entry.
Pierce picked up the envelope and set it back inside his jacket.
"You think Roane respects you."
There it was. The turn.
"Callum pays me for work."
"He is using you."
"For what?"
"To embarrass my family. To strengthen his position with the board. To make himself look like the man who discovered you."
Maren almost laughed. "You cannot imagine a man seeing my work without claiming ownership of it."
Pierce's mouth tightened. "You are naive if you think he is different."
"Maybe. But if Callum disappoints me, I will still have a paycheck and a process memo. When you disappointed me, I lost my home."
The sentence struck clean.
Pierce looked down at his tea.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Then he said, "Sloane is not handling your name anymore."
Maren stilled.
"What does that mean?"
"I told her to stay out of anything involving you."
"In writing?"
His jaw moved.
"Pierce."
"Not yet."
"Then it does not exist."
He looked at her with something like fury and hurt braided together. "Is this who you are now?"
Maren thought of Marisol's incident form. Beatrice's yellow pad. The Valette card. Her misspelled badge. The guest ring untouched in its dish.
"No," she said. "This is who I had to become because you knew exactly how little paper I had."
Pierce stood too quickly. The businessman with the laptop looked up.
"I will send the alarm code through counsel," Pierce said.
"Good."
"And the prenup."
She held his gaze. "Good."
"Do not take that job here as proof that these people care about you."
"I don't need them to care before they pay me."
He flinched again, and this time she let herself see it without softening.
Pierce left the lounge without touching her.
That was progress.
Maren stayed at the table and wrote notes while the conversation was fresh.
4:00 p.m. east lounge, public.
Pierce offered donor-relations job through Weston Arts Trust, Hollister connection.
Admitted he changed apartment alarm code.
Offered account reversal.
Said Sloane no longer handling my name but not in writing.
Warned Callum using me.
Attempted private meeting/no lawyers/no reporters.
She sent the notes to Beatrice.
Then she sat for one extra minute because her hand was shaking and she refused to stand until it stopped.
Willa found her there at four-thirty.
"Please tell me you did not accept a job from your husband."
"I did not accept a job from my husband."
"Good. Because I need you tomorrow at seven to help revise the Valette fall salon proposal, and I hate competing with men who use foundations as apology baskets."
Maren looked up. "You need me?"
"Do not make it emotional. It is scheduling."
"Of course."
Willa slid a printed email onto the table.
From Sabine Laurent:
Madame Valette appreciated the breakfast. Please include Ms. Daws in future planning conversations if available.
Maren touched the paper with two fingers.
Pierce had brought an envelope full of borrowed respect.
Willa had brought proof.
At five-oh-two, Maren's phone buzzed.
Beatrice:
Good notes. His admission on alarm code matters. Also, Pierce's counsel just sent the prenup. You need to sit down before reading.
Maren was already sitting.
It did not help.