Chapter 13 Elena #2
A girl behind the check-in desk grins at him, spouting a greeting for Mr. Highcourt, but doesn’t offer him a keycard or ask how long he’ll be staying.
He nods to her, but keeps us walking, down the opulent main hall dripping with marble and crystal chandeliers, through a door labeled Private, before pulling out his wallet and slipping an unlabeled keycard free.
He holds it against the black box beside the fairly small elevator, and the doors open instantly.
His hand presses harder into my back, pushing me gently forward, and before I can question it, the doors shut behind us.
It’s just us, locked inside a moving metal box, again.
I stare at him. He stares at the doors.
“Harry—”
“Don’t.”
I swallow down the rising unease threatening to take hold of me. I’ve seen him annoyed, have heard him angrily shout down the phone one morning when I’d slipped into the house while he was working, but this is different. Tense. Boiling.
We ride in silence until the doors chime, drawing open to reveal another set of doors, this time locked with a traditional padlock instead of a keycard.
He slips a keyring from his suit jacket’s inner pocket and unlocks the door, holding his hand out to gesture me through. Every click of my heels feels like I’m walking to my execution, stepping into the dark room on the other side, even my breath echoing in what must be a massive space—
The door shuts behind us. The lights switch on in an instant, and the curtains I couldn’t see before follow suit.
With a soft mechanical hum, the blackout drapes draw back from floor-to-ceiling glass on my right, revealing the unfiltered, glittering sprawl on Manhattan below us.
Every light in the city seems to pulse, drawing my attention, making the air in my lungs go static.
From this height, even the chaos of Midtown shrinks into something manageable and quiet, like a toy city behind the glass.
The ceiling above is almost as tall as the one in the sitting room in Highcourt Hall, ribbed with crown molding and softened by warm lighting in golds and ambers.
Everything gleams — from the high-polished deep wood floors beneath my heels to the brushed brass fixtures arcing overhead.
A massive cream sofa, L-shaped and plush, anchors the space, facing a marble fireplace that apparently lit when the lights flicked on, crackling quietly.
It’s not sterile or cold like Highcourt Hall seems to feel. It’s warm, rich with texture and the scent of him. A curved staircase sweeps up to a mezzanine level above, lined with glass panels and overlooked by a chandelier that looks far nicer than the ones in the lobby downstairs.
I blink, stunned. This isn’t the hotel’s penthouse. This is his, and it feels far more like him than Highcourt Hall does.
Still, he says nothing.
He walks forward, his footsteps turning muffled by the plush rug beneath the main seating area.
His suit jacket slips from his shoulders in a smooth, practiced shrug, and he tosses it over the back of the nearest chair like this is normal, like he’s taken me somewhere I should have expected.
And I’m still standing just inside the doorway, unsure whether to move or breathe.
He turns to me, his fingers hooking in the knot of his tie, and pulls. It slides free from his collar, a slow, deliberate motion as his dark green eyes pin me in place, unreadable, unknowable. My breath catches — part panic, part heat — as he holds my gaze for the first time since the restaurant.
“Harry,” I say warily, my voice barely more than a whisper. I hate how weak it sounds. “I—I shouldn’t have said that. At the restaurant.”
His nostrils flare.
“I had too much to drink. I don’t really drink that much, and I wasn’t thinking. I know that was—” Inappropriate. Reckless. Insane. The words die in my throat as he takes a slow step toward me.
And then another.
And another.
Shit.
My pulse thuds hard enough that I can hear it in my ears, too loud, too fast. The air crackles between us, restless and confusing, and I know I should step back or keep apologizing or do anything my mother harped about in all of those ridiculous marriage-prep talks, but my feet refuse to move and my mouth refuses to cooperate.
“You think I’m angry at you?” His voice is so low it’s nearly a growl. Another step, and I can see the flecks of gold in his irises, but his pupils are growing.
I swallow hard. “You—You haven’t spoken in half an hour.”
“No, I haven’t.”
He stops just in front of me, close enough that the smell of his cologne wraps around me, surrounding me in woody, deep notes that feel intoxicating all on their own. Close enough that when I dare to glance down, I can see how white his knuckles have gone from how tightly he’s gripping his tie.
His free hand lifts, fingers brushing the bare skin just above the neckline of my dress. A shiver races down my spine from just the barest graze of his fingertips, tracing me, skimming the ridge where my neck meets my shoulder.
I flinch when he hooks a finger beneath the thin strap of my dress. His eyes flare.
“When I’m angry at you,” he says, his voice rough and strained, “you’ll know.”
His finger curls, tugging the strap just enough to let it slip off my shoulder, just enough to make my breath hitch. His gaze drags from my lips to the slope of my shoulder, down my body, then back up, burning.
“That display in the restaurant?” His thumb strokes along where my collarbone would jut if I followed Mom’s advice and tried those weight-loss drugs she never shuts up about. “That wasn’t you misbehaving. That was you testing me.”
A strangled little noise catches in my throat.
The corner of his lips tugs upward, the kind of sharp, knowing smirk that sends heat pooling low in my belly.
Then, before I can process what he’s doing, he loops his tie around the back of my neck and pulls.
My gasp is swallowed as his mouth crashes into mine.
The kiss is feral, more heated than he’d been in the woods, more fiery.
It makes me feel like I’m on fire within seconds.
He’s not asking, not coaxing, but demanding, his tongue pressing in, claiming me, conquering — and when I sag against him, he growls into my mouth, one hand sliding down to wrap around my waist.
He keeps the tie held in his other, pulling just hard enough to keep me in place, just enough to remind me exactly who’s in control. It sends a shiver down my spine, the silk whisper of his tie against my skin, the pressure enough to tip my head back just slightly as he pins my mouth to his.
Then his hands are moving, unyielding, impatient — one second, I’m by the door, and the next, he’s got me by the waist, sweeping me toward the wide marble island in the open plan kitchen.
His hands are everywhere — roughly gripping at my hips, his fingers dragging along the back of my dress, locking around the zipper.
He tugs.
The back of my hips hits the counter, the tie falling away, and before I’ve even registered it, the dress slips from my shoulders and pools at my waist. Cool air makes my skin prickle, but then his palm is cupping my breast, and I’m back to being made of flames.
He tears his lips from mine, dragging them down the column of my throat with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter, nipping at the sensitive skin like he’s daring it to leave a mark this time.
At least he’s touching me again.
“Turn.”
His voice is raw. It’s a command, not a suggestion, and I don’t hesitate.
The moment I face the counter, his hand splays out between my shoulder blades, gently but firmly urging me down.
The marble bites into my bare stomach, my breasts freezing against the cold surface, but I barely notice — not when his fingers hook into the bunched fabric of my dress and push it down my thighs, pooling on the floor around my feet.
I hear his sharp inhale before the words come out.
“No fucking underwear. Seriously, Elena?”
The possessiveness in his voice, in his actions as he kneads the flesh of my ass, makes me shiver, a single thought running through my mind in his voice: You’re still my son’s.
His hand shifts, running up the curve of my back and all the way down, slow and deliberate, before landing a firm smack against my rear.
The noise echoes in the cavernous loft, sharp enough to make me yelp, my fingers scrambling against the counter as heat blooms across my skin and between my thighs.
God.
“You wore this,” he murmurs, dragging his fingertips over the stinging flesh to soothe the burn, “for me.”
It isn’t a question. I swallow, my heartbeat running like a drum, my breath coming in short and uneven bursts. “I…Yes.”
Another smack lands, this time paired with his free hand knotting into my updo, sending pins scattering across the marble.
He yanks, just enough to arch my back, just enough to force my eyes to the wide window across from us, Manhattan twinkling like a sea of stars and over-boiled hot dogs.
My reflection stares back at me — flushed, wrecked, naked, desperate.
And him, towering behind me, all barely contained dominance, his eyes dark with need.
I arch deeper for him, hands braced against the counter, heart in my throat. His palm smooths over the curve of my rear before digging in hard enough to make me squeak, a moan spilling out behind it as he nudges my legs apart with his knee.
He leans over me, his hand leaving my rear only to find mine on the marble, fingers slotting tight between my own. He presses my palm flat down, holding me there, pinned — and his lips hover just beside my ear.
“Mine.”
That word, that single goddamn word, is enough to make my body go far too pliable for him. Mine. That, coming from him, feels like a bomb detonating.
The hand in my hair disappears, the other still holding tight to mine on the counter. His belt buckle tinks, leather slipping free. “Now keep still.”
I don’t have time to react.