CHAPTER 15
AUDREY
The ride up the private elevator is the longest ninety seconds of my life.
I am standing exactly one foot away from Malcolm. The physical space between us feels heavier than the actual silence. I can still taste him. My lips are slightly numb, and the erratic, frantic rhythm of my heartbeat hasn't slowed down since we pulled away from the Vance estate.
I look at the polished metal doors of the elevator, watching our reflections.
He is watching me. He hasn't looked away since we got out of the SUV. His suit jacket is unbuttoned, his tie loosened, the perfect armor of the CEO slightly dismantled.
The elevator chimes, the doors sliding open to the dark foyer of the penthouse.
I walk out first, my stilettos clicking sharply against the concrete floor. The apartment is completely silent, the city lights outside casting long, geometric shadows across the living room.
I stop near the edge of the kitchen island, turning around to face him.
Malcolm walks into the room, tossing his keys onto the marble counter. He doesn't go to his office. He doesn't walk toward the bar cart to pour a drink. He stops right in front of me, leaving just enough space so we aren't touching.
"You're shaking," he says, his voice low in the quiet room.
"I'm coming down from a massive adrenaline spike," I reply, wrapping my arms around my waist. The charcoal suit starts to feel too tight, the fabric constricting my chest. "I just told your father to go to hell in his own dining room. I think I'm allowed to shake."
"You are." He reaches out, his fingers brushing the lapel of my jacket. "Take the armor off, Audrey."
I swallow hard. The command isn't sexual. It’s a quiet, absolute demand for me to drop the defensive wall I’ve been holding up since four o'clock this afternoon.
I reach up, my fingers clumsy, and unbutton the jacket.
I shrug it off my shoulders, letting it drape over the back of one of the leather barstools.
Underneath, I am wearing a simple, dark silk camisole.
The cold air of the apartment hits my bare arms, but the shiver that runs down my spine has nothing to do with the temperature.
Malcolm’s eyes drop to my collarbone, tracing the line of my neck before returning to my face.
"Better?" he asks.
"A little." I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms again. "So. We survived."
"We established a perimeter," he corrects me, stepping closer. "Preston will spend the next three weeks trying to figure out how to breach it before the engagement party. He will look for weaknesses in my division. He will try to pressure the board."
"Will it work?"
"No." Malcolm rests his hands on the edge of the marble counter, trapping me loosely between his arms. "I control the infrastructure. He controls the optics. Tonight, we proved that his optics don't matter."
"Simon looked like he was going to cry into his soup."
A dark, genuine amusement flashes in Malcolm’s eyes. "He did."
I look down at the space between us. The victory at the dinner table feels massive, but standing here in the dark kitchen, it also feels incredibly distant. The war with his family is the reason I am in this apartment, but it isn't the reason my heart is currently hammering against my ribs.
"In the car," I start, my voice dropping to a nervous whisper. I force myself to look up at him. "When I kissed you."
"I remember," Malcolm says, his tone instantly losing the amusement. The air between us thickens, the gravity of the room shifting.
"I wasn't performing," I tell him, needing the words to be absolutely clear. "I know we have a contract. I know we have rules. But I didn't do that to prove a point to your father, or to convince Simon that I moved on."
Malcolm’s jaw tightens. He doesn't move, but the stillness radiating from him is terrifyingly focused. "I know."
"You do?"
"If I thought you were performing, Audrey, I would not have let you touch me." He leans in, his face inches from mine. "I do not play games with what is mine."
The possessiveness in the word mine makes my breath catch. It isn't a romantic platitude. It’s a statement of fact.
I reach up, my hands resting flat against the solid wall of his chest. I can feel the steady, heavy beat of his heart beneath the white cotton of his shirt.
"Then don't play games," I whisper.
Malcolm closes the remaining distance.
He kisses me. It is slower than the kiss in the car, deeper, completely stripping away the last remaining barrier between us. I open my mouth for him, my fingers sliding up his chest to grip the collar of his shirt. He tastes like expensive scotch and the cold city air.
He wraps one arm around my waist, pulling me flush against him. The other hand slides into my hair, his fingers tangling in the loose waves, holding the back of my head with a firm, anchoring grip.
I let out a soft, involuntary sound, leaning into his heat.
He pulls back slightly, his breathing ragged. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.
"If we do this," Malcolm murmurs, his voice a harsh, broken rasp in the quiet kitchen, "the contract is void. There is no consulting fee. There is no professional boundary. If you walk into my bedroom tonight, you are not a consultant. You are not a weapon against my family."
He opens his eyes, looking directly into mine. The absolute, terrifying intensity in his gaze pins me to the spot.
"If you walk into that room, Audrey, you are staying."
He is giving me the out. He is standing on the edge of the cliff, offering me the chance to step back before we both jump.
I look at the man who bought an investigator’s silence, paid my mother’s debts, and threatened his own father’s empire just to keep me safe. He is a monster to the rest of the world. But to me, he is the only solid ground I have stood on in months.
I slide my hand down his chest, my fingers catching the edge of his tie. I pull it slowly, unknotting the silk, and let it drop to the floor.
"I didn't pack a bag when I left my apartment," I say quietly. "I already moved in."
Malcolm exhales a sharp, heavy breath.
He doesn't ask again. He drops his hands to my waist, grips my hips, and lifts me completely off the floor.
I wrap my legs around his waist, my arms locking around his neck. He carries me out of the kitchen, his strides long and urgent. We pass the dark living room, the hallway, and the closed door of the guest suite.
He walks straight into the master bedroom and kicks the door shut behind us with a loud, definitive slam.
The room is pitch black, the heavy blackout curtains drawn tight. He doesn't turn on a light. He carries me to the edge of the massive king-sized bed and lets my feet touch the rug.
I don't let go of his neck. I pull his mouth back down to mine, kissing him with a desperate, frantic energy that has been building since the moment he put the ring on my finger.
Malcolm’s hands move to the zipper at the back of my trousers. He is not gentle. He is efficient. The zipper slides down, the heavy fabric falling away, leaving me in nothing but the silk camisole and my underwear.
He steps back, pulling his shirt over his head in one swift motion.
The faint ambient light from the hallway bleeding under the door catches the sharp lines of his chest and abdomen. I see the pale, jagged scar on his neck, trailing down toward his collarbone. I reach out, my fingers trembling slightly, and trace the raised skin.
Malcolm catches my wrist. He doesn't pull my hand away, but he brings my palm to his mouth, pressing a hard kiss to the center of it.
"You're shaking again," he murmurs against my skin.
"It’s not fear," I promise him.
"I know."
He steps into my space, his hands gripping my waist. He pushes me gently backward until the backs of my knees hit the mattress.
We fall onto the bed together in a tangle of limbs.
The high-thread-count sheets are cool against my bare legs, but the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress is absolute fire.
He pins my wrists to the pillows above my head. It isn't a painful grip, but it is completely immovable.
I gasp, my back arching off the mattress.
Malcolm lowers his head, his mouth trailing down my jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of my neck. He bites lightly at the juncture of my shoulder, the sharp sting sending a violent jolt of electricity straight to my core.
"Malcolm," I breathe, my fingers curling against the pillows, completely trapped in his grip.
"Tell me what you want," he demands, his voice a dark, rough vibration against my collarbone.
"You," I say, the word tearing out of my throat. "Just you."
He releases my wrists, his hands sliding down my sides to grip my hips. He pulls the silk camisole over my head, tossing it onto the floor.
The cold air of the bedroom hits my bare skin, but it is instantly replaced by the heat of his mouth.
He kisses a path down the center of my chest, his tongue tracing the line of my sternum.
I tangle my fingers in his dark hair, pulling him closer, completely surrendering the last shred of my control.
Every time I try to pull him up to kiss me, he shifts his weight, keeping me pinned, controlling the pace with maddening, agonizing precision. He knows exactly what he is doing. He is systematically dismantling every defense I have left.
When he finally pushes inside me, the breath leaves my lungs in a sharp, broken cry.
He stops moving. His muscles lock, his jaw tight with the effort of holding himself back. He rests his forehead against mine, his chest heaving.
"Audrey," he whispers, the sound completely raw.
"Don't stop," I beg, my hands sliding down his back to grip his waist. "Please."
He doesn't.
He moves, the slow, deliberate friction erasing every thought in my brain.
I wrap my legs around him, anchoring myself to the solid weight of his body.
The rhythm is heavy, possessive, a physical extension of the absolute control he exerts over his world, but here, in the dark, he is giving all of it to me.
I lose track of time. The silence of the penthouse is broken only by the sound of our ragged breathing and the soft, desperate noises I can't stop making.
When the edge finally breaks, it hits me like a physical wave. I cry out his name, my nails digging into his shoulders as my body shatters around him.
Malcolm groans, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his own control finally snapping as he follows me over the edge.
He collapses against me, his heavy weight pressing me into the mattress. We lie there in the dark, our chests rising and falling in unison.
I slide my hand up to the back of his neck, my fingers playing idly with the damp ends of his hair. The vintage diamond catches on a strand, a small, physical reminder of the lie that brought us here.
But as Malcolm turns his head, pressing a soft, exhausted kiss to my collarbone, the lie doesn't matter anymore.
The engagement might be fake to the rest of the world.
But the man holding me in the dark is terrifyingly, irreversibly real.