Chapter 17 #2
I moan, and he groans, disconnecting the kiss. “A preview.” He winks.
“A kiss?” I retort, but it’s only a weak breath.
“Hmm, Coraline,” he drawls. “Tell me you’re not wet right now. Lie to me if you want, but it changes nothing. We will fuck, you will scream my name, and it’s going to happen very soon.”
My knees buckle, and I try to push away from him, my chest heaving. “How soon?” I whisper.
“As soon as you answer my question.”
I could drown in his gaze—it’s dominant and adoring at the same time. “What question?”
He laughs. “Keep up, woman, we’re negotiating our nuptials.”
The words finally snap me out of my stupor. It’s like he sprayed the air with lust that fogs my mind.
I finally step back. And no surprise, I miss the closeness immediately. Grabbing the plate, I march to the living room. I’m not doing this on an empty stomach.
“How would that even work?” I sit cross-legged and dig into the plate with the vigor of a dedicated stress eater.
“We marry, and we fuck.” He sits across from me. Fuck, he’s still in that stupid towel. A towel that is tenting visibly.
“Can you be serious for a moment and get dressed for fuck’s sake?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He stands up and fucking drops the towel on his way to the bathroom. Oh, he plays the game well.
His ass is firm—no surprise there—and just delicious. I look at my plate. This quiche is delicious. Jesus. I’m a mess.
“Stop calling me ma’am. Right now. You don’t want me to remember I’m older than you.”
“Coraline, not this again,” he warns. “Stop overthinking.”
“It’s a business arrangement. I might not be good at running companies, but I need to make sure I’m not signing up for something that I would regret.”
“So that’s a yes.” He returns in his briefs only. Seriously? He could have stayed in the towel.
I groan. “Let’s talk rules and conditions, and—” I take a breath, struggling to think about the needed conversation. Am I really considering this?
Xander raises his hand. “Okay, okay… what are your conditions?” He leaves again and returns with our mugs.
I take a sip of now-lukewarm tea. Perfection. “What is this?”
“Shit. Did I fuck it up again?” He sits down across from me, with the coffee table between us.
“You made it? It’s delicious.” I take another sip of a perfectly steeped black tea with a splash of milk. Even lukewarm, it’s divine.
“I’m glad. I watched a few videos.”
“You watched tutorials about tea preparation?”
Does he even know what these small deeds do to me? I don’t think he does. He is self-assured as fuck, but that comes with his pedigree and his looks.
But caring for me, for anyone, seems a new concept to him. The persistent “why is he doing it” dominates the back of my mind, but the feeling of being cared for? It occupies the rest of my head, heart, and soul.
No one’s ever done this for me. Not really. Part of me wants to flinch, to push him away before it becomes something I learn to expect.
But I just sit there, swallowing around the lump in my throat, pretending this doesn’t matter more than it should.
Because this feeling is new.
Of being seen.
Of being worth the effort.
It’s only stupid tea, and yet, I’m aching in places I didn’t know could ache, just because someone thought to care.
“Don’t get me started. I clicked on a three-minute one and ended up down the black hole of tea ceremonies and traditions for like three hours last night.” He throws it out there casually, like he didn’t just shake me to the core.
I need to regain some control here. “If I agree to your proposal, I want you to help me save the bistro.”
“Okay, how much do you need?”
I hate when he reminds me of our money gap, even though I know he doesn’t see it as an issue. “It’s not just about money. I need help to actually bring the business back to life.”
“Okay, I’ll hire people who will work to turn it into a profitable venture within six to eight months.”
I blink. “It’s not that easy. My rent has just been increased.”
“Don’t worry about that. You will work closely with your team to make sure they follow your vision.”
My team? My vision? I wish Dad could see this through.
“What other conditions do you have?” Xander takes a sip from his mug.
“I don’t want you to fuck other women.”
He looks offended. “I wouldn’t cheat on my wife.”
My wife. Jesus. Am I really doing this? “Not even in secret?”
He studies me for a moment, his jaw ticking. “Trust me, this arrangement will be exclusive.”
“Why?” I blurt out. I still can’t believe this man is choosing me.
The circumstances aren’t romantic, but his choice is loud.
“Because it’s you I want.”
He doesn’t speak of a challenge like the last time. I shouldn’t, but I believe him.
“Aren’t there women in your circles who are more acceptable candidates?”
“If I wanted a forever with a socialite and a miserable existence, I would have married the woman my father chose for me.”
A small part of me craved he would say in words what he shows me with his devouring gaze, but I guess I can’t have it all.
“Cora, stop thinking about other women finally. I’m fucking here. I came to you with my problem. You’re my solution.”
I might fall before we finish these negotiations. What did he put in my tea? I take another sip. “There is one more thing that would be a deal-breaker.”
“Hit me,” he says, impatient.
“I don’t want you to ride the motorcycle.”
Oh, how many times had I said this sentence before? Too many to count, and I never won the argument. Until the bitter ending.
“Okay.”
“I’m serious, Xander,” I urge.
“Okay. I sold it already,” he says, tapping his fingers on the armrest.
“You sold your bike?” I put the plate down, leaning forward as if I can understand better when I’m closer. “You sold your bike,” I parrot. “Why?”
“I anticipated this demand.” His voice is laced with annoyance, but it pulls at the corner of my mouth.
He sold the bike because the last time I saw one, I ran. I didn’t even get a chance to explain. And yet here he is, pre-emptively complying with my demand.
“Xander, I need to explain.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I should. I mean, you sold the bike. I can at least explain why I’m so averse…”
His jaw ticks like he really doesn’t want to talk about this, even though he doesn’t know what this is.
He trusted me with his story, and I owe him mine. Especially if we’re to co-exist like this.
“Ten years ago I was engaged, and Ethan, my fiancé, killed himself on a bike. It was a senseless accident when he went for a joyride, speeding recklessly. Luckily, he didn’t kill anyone else,” I explain.
For the first time, I recount the sordid story with an unexpected detachment.
Xander studies me for a moment before he rounds the table and squats in front of me. “I won’t ride a bike, Coraline.”
The words hit me in my stomach. The raw commitment behind them, the intensity of his promise, dislodges the shard of Ethan’s betrayal from my heart. Like ten years later, a man shows up in my life and softens the feeling that I wasn’t enough.
“Thank you.”
We stare at each other for a moment, the delicious tension from the kiss earlier seeping through slowly.
And I realize one important thing: I never had a chance.
Escaping Xander Stone was never on the table.
Surviving him… I can only hope that chance is still mine.