Chapter 10
LEVI
Charlie leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Give me the afternoon to clear my schedule. Set up some meetings."
Amelia's jaw tightened. I could see her digging in, ready to push back, to demand access now instead of later.
But then she surprised me.
"Fine," she said.
Charlie's eyebrows lifted slightly—like he'd expected more of a fight, too.
"I'll have Teddy reach out with details," he said, standing. "In the meantime, make yourselves comfortable in Charleston. It's a beautiful city when you're not trying to burn it down."
Amelia smiled, sharp. "I'll keep that in mind."
The drive back to the Embassy Suites was silent.
Amelia sat beside me in the Bentley, staring out the window, fingers tapping a rhythm against her thigh. I knew that look. She was already compiling questions, organizing her approach, mapping out every angle she'd need to cover when Charlie gave her access.
She was good at this. Better than good.
But what bothered me—what I couldn't stop replaying—was Charlie's dodge.
He's a Dane. So are we.
What the hell did that mean?
Were we related? I didn't know of any long-lost cousins. My brothers back in Montana—Ethan, Jacob, Caleb, the rest—they were the only family I'd ever known.
And Dane wasn't exactly an uncommon name.
Maybe it was just a coincidence. A weird, inconvenient coincidence that happened to involve private jets and black credit cards and a guy who grinned like he knew something I didn't.
Maybe.
The Bentley pulled up to the hotel, and the driver opened the door.
"Thank you," Amelia said, stepping out.
I followed, and we stood on the curb for a beat, the humid Charleston air pressing in around us.
"I need time to think," she said, not looking at me. "Write some things down. Maybe talk to my sources."
I wanted to grab her hand. Pull her back to my room. Rip off all her clothes and remind her that whatever was happening with Dominion Hall, we still had this.
But I didn't.
"Yeah," I said. "Okay."
She nodded once and walked inside without looking back.
I went to my room, dropped my backpack on the floor, and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Tried to piece it all together.
The text messages. The plane. Charlie's grin. The credit card with my name etched into it. He's a Dane. So are we.
None of it made sense. Or maybe it did, and I just didn't want to see it yet.
After twenty minutes of getting nowhere, I sat up.
A workout. That's what I needed. Something to clear my head, burn off the restless energy crawling under my skin.
I changed into shorts and a T-shirt, grabbed my water bottle, and headed down to the hotel gym.
The gym was small—a few treadmills, an elliptical, a rack of dumbbells, and a bench press that looked like it hadn't seen serious weight in years.
Good enough.
I started with the treadmill, pushing the pace until my lungs burned and sweat soaked through my shirt. Then I moved to the weights, running through sets with a focus that bordered on obsessive.
Deadlifts. Bench press. Pull-ups on the rickety bar mounted in the corner.
The equipment groaned under the abuse, but I didn't care.
I needed this. Needed the burn, the ache, the way my body screamed at me to stop while my mind finally, finally, went quiet.
By the time I finished, my muscles were trembling, my shirt was plastered to my chest, and I was dripping sweat onto the rubber mat.
I grabbed my water bottle and drained it, then headed for the stairs.
Five flights up. Dripping. Breathing hard.
When I pushed open the stairwell door on my floor, I froze.
Someone was standing at my door.
My hand went instinctively to my hip—no weapon, just habit—and I tensed.
Then I realized who it was.
Amelia.
She was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking like she'd been waiting.
I approached slowly, heart still pounding from the workout—or maybe from seeing her there.
"How'd you know my room number?" I asked.
She smiled faintly. "I have my talents."
I bet she did.
"Good workout?" she asked, eyes flicking over my sweat-soaked shirt, the way my chest was still heaving.
"Yeah," I managed, fumbling for my keycard. "Did the job."
I swiped the card, pushed the door open, and stepped aside to let her in.
She brushed past me, and I caught her scent—something clean and sharp, like citrus and rain—and it hit me harder than the workout had.
Intoxicating.
I closed the door behind us, tossed the keycard onto the desk, and turned to face her.
"Why'd you come up?" I asked.
She hesitated, which wasn't like her. Amelia Emerson didn't hesitate.
"Come on," I said, softer. "What's going on?"
She exhaled, looking away for a second before meeting my eyes.
"I wanted to thank you," she said. "For backing me up in there. With Charlie."
I frowned. "You don't need to thank me for that."
"And I wanted to make sure I haven't messed up your chances," she continued. "For whatever future you're trying to build here."
I laughed—short, humorless. "I'm still shopping. Maybe this'll help me get a better deal."
The words sparked an idea.
I crossed to the desk, grabbed my wallet, and pulled out the black credit card. Held it up.
"How about dinner?" I asked. "Any place you want. It's on them."
Her eyebrows rose. "You're serious."
"Dead serious. Let them pay for something useful for once."
Her eyes softened then, just a fraction. And then she did something I didn't expect.
She started unbuttoning her blouse.
My brain short-circuited.
"Yes," she said, fingers working down the buttons, slow and deliberate. "We should go to dinner."
She paused, looking up at me through her lashes.
"But first," she said, "I want an appetizer."
The blouse fell open, and I forgot how to breathe.
The blouse slid off her shoulders and hit the carpet like a starting gun.
Amelia stood there in a thin black bra and jeans that tortured me, eyes locked on mine with that reckless fire I’d never been able to resist.
I was still dripping sweat, chest heaving, every muscle burning from the workout. I smelled like iron and exertion and raw want.
She took one step forward.
“You’re filthy,” she said, voice low, almost accusing.
“Yeah,” I rasped. “And you’re about to be.”
She closed the distance, palms flattening against my soaked shirt, dragging it up and off in one impatient yank. The fabric peeled away from my skin with a wet sound, and then her mouth was on me—hot, open, tasting the salt on my collarbone, my throat, the ridge of my shoulder.
I groaned, hands already in her hair, fisting the knot at the back of her head until it spilled loose in dark waves. She bit down on the muscle where neck meets shoulder, hard enough that my hips jerked forward involuntarily, grinding the rigid line of my cock against her stomach through my shorts.
“Fuck, Amelia—”
She licked the sting away, then dragged her tongue up the side of my neck, teeth grazing my jaw. “I can taste how hard you pushed yourself,” she whispered against my ear. “I want to taste how hard you’re about to push me.”
My control snapped.
I spun her, slammed her back against the door, and crushed my mouth to hers. The kiss was brutal—no warm-up, no gentleness—just teeth and tongue and two years of pent-up fury. She kissed me back like she wanted to draw blood, nails raking down my sweat-slick back, leaving fire in their wake.
I shoved a thigh between hers, pinning her, and she rolled against it with a broken moan that went straight to my balls.
My hands dropped to her jeans, popping the button, ripping the zipper down.
She helped, kicking them off, and then there was nothing but black lace panties already soaked through.
I dropped to my knees.
“Levi—”
I hooked my fingers in the lace and tore. The fabric gave with a sharp rip, and she gasped as cool air hit her. I didn’t give her time to recover—just spread her open with my thumbs and licked one long, filthy stripe from her entrance to her clit.
She cried out, thighs trembling, hands slamming against the door for balance. I did it again, slower, savoring the way she flooded my tongue. She tasted like desperation and mine.
I ate her like a man possessed—sucking her clit, fucking her with my tongue, one finger then two sliding in deep. Every time she got close I backed off, raking the inside of her thigh with my teeth until she snarled my name and yanked my hair so hard my eyes watered.
When I finally let her come, she shuddered—hips bucking, a choked scream ripping out of her as she soaked my chin and my fingers. Glorious.
I stood before the aftershocks finished, shoved my shorts down, and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around my waist, arms around my neck, and I slid into her in one brutal thrust.
We both shouted.
She was scalding, clenching, perfect. I pinned her to the door and fucked her like I was trying to punish her for leaving, for coming back, for still owning every inch of me.
She took it—took every punishing stroke—and demanded more, nails carving half-moons into my shoulders, heels digging into my ass, urging me deeper.
“Look at me,” I growled.
Her eyes snapped open—dark, glazed, furious—and locked on mine as I drove into her again and again, the door rattling in its frame with every thrust.
“Tell me you feel this,” I snarled against her mouth. “Tell me you still fucking feel me.”
“I never stopped,” she gasped, voice breaking on the last word.
That was all it took.
I spun us, stumbled to the bed, and flipped her onto her stomach. She went up on her knees without being told, back arched, offering herself. I gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and slammed back in.
The angle was merciless. She buried her face in the pillow and screamed into it as I set a brutal rhythm—skin slapping skin, the bedframe slamming the wall, my name a broken chant muffled by cotton.
One hand snaked around to trace a line from her clit up to her neck, and back again. The other fisted her hair, pulling her head back so I could see her face in the mirror across the room—mouth open, eyes wild, tears of overstimulation streaking her cheeks.
“Come again,” I ordered. “Come on my cock while you watch what we do.”
She did—harder than the first time, body seizing, pussy clamping down so tight I saw stars. I followed her over with a guttural groan, burying myself to the hilt and spilling deep inside her in hot, endless pulses.
We collapsed sideways, still joined, my chest to her back, both of us shaking and gasping like we’d run ten miles with bullets chasing us.
I stayed inside her, arms locked around her waist, face buried in her sweat-damp hair, breathing her in.
Minutes—or hours—later, she finally spoke, voice hoarse.
“Dinner’s definitely on them now.”
I laughed against her neck, the sound ragged and wrecked and perfect.
“Yeah,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to the mark I’d left on her shoulder. “We’re ordering the most expensive fucking thing on the menu.”