Chapter Seventeen
Ivy
The lock engages with a soft snick, sealing us in darkness thick with promise and the muffled thump of bass from the club outside.
My pulse pounds in my ears as Thorne’s silhouette moves closer in the narrow space between stacked boxes and a metal desk.
A sliver of light from beneath the door catches on the planes of his face, turning his eyes into midnight pools.
“Ivy.” My name on his lips sounds like both a question and an answer.
I take a step back, hip bumping against the edge of the desk. “This is crazy,” I whisper, though I’m not sure if I’m talking about being here with him or the way my body reacts whenever he’s near.
“Completely.” He doesn’t move closer, but his presence fills the small room like bourbon vapor in a rick house—intoxicating, everywhere at once.
"Is this because you want me?" I ask. "Or because you don't want another man touching me?"
The silence stretches just long enough to be its own answer.
"Both," he says finally. No deflection. No smirk. Just the word, raw and honest in the dark. “And because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
The admission loosens and tightens in my chest at the same time. The first reason should be enough to walk away. But the second one undoes me. I suspect Thorne Blackstone rarely allows himself to be this honest.
“You’re not alone in that,” I admit like it’s a dangerous secret.
That’s all it takes. The distance between us vanishes as he steps forward, one hand finding my waist while the other cups my face. His thumb traces my lower lip, and I can’t help the small sound that escapes me.
“I’ve been wanting to do this since I spotted you entering Tipsy,” he murmurs, nipping at my ear.
“You saw me before we came to your table?”
“I always see you, Ivy.”
Then his mouth is on mine, and thinking becomes secondary to feeling.
I sink my fingers into his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, and he makes a sound low in his throat that sends heat spiraling through me.
The edge of the desk presses into the back of my thighs as he crowds closer, his body a solid wall of heat against mine.
His lips trail from my mouth to my jaw, then down the column of my throat. When he finds the pulse point there, he lingers. The scrape of teeth followed by the soothing press of his tongue has fire blooming outward from my core, possessing every inch of me.
“Thorne,” I gasp, not sure if I’m asking him to stop or begging for more.
His hand skims up my thigh, beneath the hem of my borrowed dress. The touch of his fingers against bare skin heightens the electricity between us. But when he reaches the edge of my underwear, reality crashes back into me like ice water.
“Wait,” I gasp.
To his credit, he stops immediately, though he’s vibrating with tension. His breathing is ragged against my neck, but he pulls back enough to meet my eyes in the dim light.
“We can’t keep doing this,” I say, fighting to steady my voice. “Giving in and retreating. It’s giving me whiplash.”
He doesn’t move away, but his hand slides back to safer territory at my hip.
“What would you suggest? We’ve tried keeping our hands off each other.
” He looks to where my palm is flat against his stomach.
“And aren’t doing a very good job at it.
But, in two months or when my father’s mess is fixed, you’ll be back in New York and I’ll be returning to Quebec. ”
It’s a fair question. One I should have considered before letting myself be pulled into this closet of a room, before letting his hands and mouth make me forget all the reasons this is complicated.
Of course, that might be the solution. To stop making it complicated. “We don't have to overthink it,” I say. “Maybe we just... enjoy this until it’s over. A physical relationship with an expiration date.”
His eyes darken. “No overthinking. No expectations.” He steps closer. “Just this.”
I nod. “It’s time we stop pretending we don’t want each other. We’re both adults. We know this isn’t forever.”
“We need to be discreet.” His thumb traces patterns on my hip. “There’s no reason to confuse Madison. Or cause you issues because you’re working for my company. Not when we’ll soon be in different countries.”
He’s staring at me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. The crease between his brows has smoothed. His jaw, so often locked tight, has relaxed.
His hand slides from my waist to where the fabric of my dress meets my skin. He leans in, close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath. “Ivy,” he says, my name a rough whisper.
“Thorne,” I answer, leaning into his touch.
“Are you sure about this?” he asks, his thumb continuing its maddening path across my lip.
Instead of answering with words, I rise on tiptoe and press my mouth to his. The kiss is different this time—a deliberate choice rather than an impulsive surrender. His arms wrap around me, one hand splayed across my lower back, the other tangling in my hair.
He turns us, guiding me back until I’m pressed against the door, the solid weight of his body pinning me there. One of his thighs slides between mine, and I can’t help the small sound that escapes me at the pressure exactly where I need it.
His mouth leaves mine to trace a path down my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath my ear. “I’ve been thinking about that sound,” he murmurs against my skin. “Wondering what other noises I could draw from you.”
My hands find the buttons of his shirt, fumbling in the dim light. I need his skin against mine, need something to ground me in this moment that feels like it might slip away at any second.
When I finally make contact with the heated skin of his chest, we both groan. He’s all hard planes and subtle ridges, and I explore greedily, mapping the contours of his body as his mouth continues its devastating path along my collarbone.
His hand finds the zipper at the back of my dress, and he slowly pulls it down. The cold air hits my heated skin, sending a shiver through me. The borrowed dress loosens, and Thorne pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with want.
“You’re beautiful.” His breathing is shallow, pupils blown wide as his gaze maps every inch of exposed skin, leaving no room for doubt or inhibitions.
Something crashes outside the door—glass breaking, followed by laughter and a muffled apology. We freeze, and the sounds from the club rush back into our awareness.
“Shit,” Thorne mutters, glancing toward the door.
The sound of voices fades as they pass by the storage room door. Thorne’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. It’s so intense it’s like a physical touch.
“We should wait,” I say, though my body screams otherwise. “Go somewhere more private.”
“Look at me, Ivy,” he says, low and commanding. I meet his eyes and see the raw desire, and it steals my breath. “The door is locked, but if you tell me you want to leave this room right now, we will.”
This is reckless, impulsive. Like my mother. And with a Blackstone. It’s everything I’ve spent my life avoiding. But with Thorne looking at me like that, his body radiating heat inches from mine, rationality feels distant and irrelevant. Screw it. Consequences can wait. I need him.
“I want you,” I whisper. “Here. Now.”
His eyes flare wide for a heartbeat, then his gaze drops to my mouth, and his tongue wets his lower lip before he closes the distance between us. He claims my mouth with a possessiveness that makes me weak, his hands cupping my face as though I might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.
“Turn around,” he says when we break for air, the command barely more than gravel and breath.
I comply, my palms flattening against the desk.
The cool air of the storage room kisses my exposed skin as he slowly lifts the hem of my dress.
This is real. This is happening. Every nerve ending in my body migrates south, anticipating his touch.
The metal desk is cold beneath my hands, grounding me even as everything inside me feels weightless, suspended.
His sharp intake of breath tells me he’s discovered the delicate lace hooked to the garters I’m wearing. He leans against me, his erection pressing into my backside, his body folding over mine. “Did you plan on someone seeing this?” he rumbles against my ear.
Knowing I shouldn't but unable to resist winding him up more, I smirk. His pupils blow wide, nostrils flaring as his jaw clenches. He delivers a sharp slap to my backside. I moan and press into his large palm.
He kneads my flesh, gripping my ass. “Did you like that?”
I’m too turned on to be embarrassed and nod. “Open your legs wider. Hold on tight to the table,” he commands.
The slow, metallic whisper of his zipper being pulled down has my pulse quickening. He thrusts his erection between my legs, leaning over my back. “I’m not going to pull out this time. I want you to feel me dripping down your thighs when we leave this room and another man asks you to dance.”
My skin flushes hot at the dirty possessiveness in his words, and I arch, spreading my legs wider, a whimper escaping my throat.
“Look at me,” he demands.
I twist to look at him. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheek. “Okay?”
My chest tightens at the question, at the way his eyes search mine. My throat closes, and my heart stutters. I cover his hand with mine and press into him. “Okay.”
He wraps my hair around his fist and tugs, pulling a needy groan from me. He doesn’t remove my thong, but pushes it aside as he thrusts into me, filling and stretching me with pleasure. “Thorne,” I gasp.
“So fucking good,” he mutters. “You feel so fucking good.” He pulls almost all the way out before slamming back into me. Euphoria waves over me.
“Again. Harder,” I rasp.
He does, and his relentless pace is perfection.
I’m so close, almost there. And then his hand skates around my waist and to the front of my panties.
He circles my clit and I’m there. My moans become louder.
His hand holding my hair releases me, and he covers my body with his.
“Scream out my name. Let every man here know who you belong to.”
My heart squeezes. I’ve never belonged to anyone. And I’m only his temporarily.
But then he shifts his hips and hits a pleasure point I didn’t even know existed. I forget about everything but what this man does to my body. And I do scream his name.
His breathing is uneven. The desk beneath me drags along the floor, papers scattering to the ground. His whispered praises mix with my gasped responses. Then he stiffens and groans, thrusting into me, filling me with his climax.
For several long moments afterward, we stay connected, his forehead pressed against my shoulder blades, our breathing gradually slowing. Neither of us seems willing to break the spell.
He presses a gentle kiss to my spine. “I didn’t plan for this to happen here,” he admits. “I can’t seem to control myself around you.”
“I didn’t plan for any of this to happen,” I confess, still catching my breath. “And the feeling’s mutual.”
He helps me straighten my dress, his hands lingering on my skin. “No regrets?” His hands—the same ones that commanded my body moments ago with such certainty—hesitate at my waist, fingers flexing like he’s not sure if he should hold on or let go.
“No,” I assure him, pressing my palm lightly against his cheek. And my heart melts a little when he leans into my touch. “No regrets.”
We take our time fixing our appearance, stealing kisses between adjustments.
His hands linger longer than necessary. My fingers trace patterns on his chest without thinking.
But this is merely familiarity, bodies learning each other.
Nothing more. A line has been crossed that we can’t uncross, but crossing it doesn’t change geography or careers.
“Come to my room tonight,” he says when we’re finally presentable, his forehead against mine. “When everyone's asleep.”
“Thorne—”
“Tell me no, Ivy.” His gaze holds mine, and in it is such hunger that my stomach flips. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
I can’t. We both know I can’t.
Despite all my reservations, despite knowing this is temporary, despite the complications waiting for us outside this room, I find myself nodding. “Tonight,” I whisper.
His answering smile is worth every risk.