12. Huxley
HUXLEY
T he storm is screaming against the glass, but the noise in my head is louder.
Gwendaly’s mouth is a frantic, beautiful disaster against mine.
One second we were tearing each other apart over a guest list, and the next, the air in the kitchen is pure heat.
I have her pinned against the marble island, my hands tangled in the silk of her robe, and I can’t tell where the anger ends and the desperation begins.
"I thought... I was just a line item, Huxley," she gasps against my lips, her hands clutching the front of my shirt so hard the buttons are straining. "I thought I was just a strategic asset."
"You’re a nightmare," I growl as I lift her onto the counter. My hands slide under the silk, finding the heat of her thighs. "You’re everything I’m supposed to be too smart to want."
She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer. The friction of her silk against my clothes is agonizing. I’m usually the guy with the plan, but right now, I’m just a man who is starving for her.
"Then want me," she challenges, her amber eyes wide and bright. "Stop managing me, Huxley. Stop analyzing the numbers. Just for one night, be real."
"You want real?" I lean in, my nose brushing hers. "Real is that I’ve spent every night in this house wondering what you look like under those suits. Real is that I can’t look at a report without seeing you. Is that real enough for you, Gwendaly?"
She doesn't answer with words. She grabs my tie and yanks me down, her kiss hungry and unpolished. I sweep the discarded guest list off the counter with one arm, the papers fluttering to the floor like useless white flags. I need her. Not the contract. Not the ports. Just this woman, right now.
"The bedroom," I mutter, my hands sliding under the hem of her robe. Her skin is like heated velvet.
"No," she says, her voice a low, urgent hum. "Here. I don't want to go to your wing or mine. I want to stay right here where everything is falling apart."
I don't argue. I can't. My hands are busy with the tie of her robe, and when it falls away, I realize that no data could ever prepare me for her. She is breathtaking—a masterpiece of mahogany skin that makes the rest of the world look like it’s in black and white.
"Huxley," she breathes, her fingers digging into my shoulders. "Tell me this isn't the deal. Tell me you’re not thinking about the stocks."
"The stocks can burn," I say. I pull my shirt over my head, dropping it somewhere on the floor. When our skin meets, the contact is a total shock. She lets out a small, broken sound, her eyes fluttering shut as she arches into me.
"Talk to me, Gwendaly," I whisper, my hands moving over her. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you to stop being a Kinlow," she says, her voice trembling. "I want the man who built me a studio and makes bad jokes at 3:00 AM."
"He’s here," I promise, my mouth finding hers again.
I slide my hand between her legs, my fingers brushing against the damp lace of her panties.
She's already slick, a silent admission that she's been wanting this just as long as I have.
I hook my fingers into the elastic, tugging them down and away, leaving her completely exposed to the cool kitchen air and my heated gaze.
"You're so wet for a man you claim to hate," I murmur, my thumb finding the hood of her clit.
"I hate how much I want you," she gasps, her head falling back. "I hate that you're the only one who can make me feel like I'm not just a name on a building."
I use my teeth to graze the junction where her neck meets her shoulder, and she whimpers, her pussy pulsing against my fingers. "Good. Because I'm going to make you forget your name entirely. I'm going to make you scream mine until it's the only word left in your vocabulary."
I move my hand lower, sliding two fingers inside her. She’s tight, wrapping around me as if she never wants to let go. "Fuck, Gwendaly. You're so warm. So soft."
"Huxley, please," she groans, her hips bucking against my hand. "I need... I need more."
I pull back just enough to look at her, my thumb working in circles against her clit while my fingers buried deep inside her. "Tell me exactly what you need. Be specific, Gwendaly. Use your words."
"I need you inside me," she says, her voice breaking. "I want to feel you. All of you. I want you to stretch me out until I can't think about anything but the way you're filling me up."
I laugh. I reach for my belt, my movements frantic as I free my cock. It's aching, heavy and throbbing with a need that’s been building since that cabana in Napa. I grab her thighs, pulling her to the very edge of the marble island.
"Look at me," I command.
She opens her eyes, her pupils blown wide with lust. I line myself up, the tip of my cock brushing against her soaking wet entrance. I linger there for a second, teasing her, watching her breath hitch.
"You're so beautiful," I whisper. "And you're mine. Tonight, you're not a Luckett and I'm not a Kinlow. Tonight, you're just a woman who needs to be fucked, and I'm the only man who's going to do it."
I insert myself, sliding into her all at once. Her voice fracturing into a sound that was half-sob, half-triumph, her eyes rolling back as I bury myself to the hilt. She's so tight it's nearly painful, but she's so wet that I slide in like I belong there.
"Fuck," I moan and bury my face in her hair. "You're perfect. You're so fucking perfect."
"You're so big," she whimpers, her legs locking around my back, pulling me deeper. "Oh my god, Huxley. You're hitting everything."
I start to move, slow and deep, savoring the way her pussy clings to me with every withdrawal and welcomes me back with every thrust. The desperate, damp clatter of our bodies is the only thing louder than the rain.
"Is this real enough for you?" I ask, my voice a ragged edge. A brutal sort of hunger took over, each connection vibrating through my marrow. "Do you feel this, Gwendaly?"
"Yes," she gasps, her hands moving over my chest, her nails digging into my skin. "Yes, Huxley. Right there. Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."
I lose myself in her. Every thrust is a confession, every groan a surrender. I'm not calculating the ROI. I'm not thinking about the board. I'm just feeling the way she arches under me, the way her pussy clenches around my cock with every stroke.
"I'm going to come," she cries out. "Huxley, I'm?—"
"Go," I growl, slamming into her. "Come for me, Gwendaly. Show me how much you want this."
She trembles, her pussy gripping me in a series of frantic, tightens around me, her body vibrating with the force of her release.
Seeing her like that—shaken and glowing—was a match to the gasoline in my veins.
My own civilized edges blur into something wild, my orgasm ripping through me as I seed her, filling her with everything I haven't been able to say.
We stay like that for a long time, tangled together on the kitchen counter, our breathing the only sound in the room. The adrenaline starts to recede, leaving something much more terrifying in its place: vulnerability.
Eventually, we move to the master suite, tangled in sheets and not caring a bit about the cost. Every touch is a negotiation, every kiss a concession. I find the spots that make her toes curl.
"Huxley," she cries out, her nails scoring my back as the final wave hits.
I bury my face in the crook of her neck, my heart hammering against her ribs. As the rain outside settles into a rhythmic patter, Gwendaly falls asleep with her head on my chest. Her breathing is deep and steady, a sharp contrast to the chaos of my own thoughts.
I lie there in the dark, watching the way the moon catches the ruby on her finger. The Kinlow Clause is still active. The Singapore group is still circling. My father is still expecting a corporate wedding. But I just let the one woman I can't afford to love see the man behind the machine.
I wake up before the sun is fully over the Atlantic.
The room is filled with that soft, grey light of early morning. Gwendaly is still asleep, her curls sprawling across my pillow, looking softer and more beautiful than any woman has a right to look. One of her hands is resting on my arm, her fingers relaxed.
I look at her, and the panic hits me like a cold front.
The logic, the data, the rules—it all comes rushing back, screaming at me about the risk of what just happened. I’ve compromised the deal. I’ve turned a strategic partner into a personal obsession. If my father knew... if the board knew...
I carefully untangle myself from her, my movements clinical and cold. Every inch of distance I create feels like a betrayal, but the professional version of me is back online, and it’s telling me that this—this closeness—is the one thing that can destroy the merger.
I stand up, grabbing my discarded clothes from the floor. I don't look back at the bed. I can’t. If I look at her, I’ll stay, and if I stay, I’m in over my head. I head to the door, my hand on the handle, when I hear her stir.
"Huxley?" her voice is thick with sleep, confused.
I stop, but I don't turn around. I can't let her see the look in my eyes. "It’s late, Gwendaly. I have a call with the Singapore reps in twenty minutes."
"It's six in the morning," she says, the sleepiness fading into a sharp, wounded clarity. "What happened to the man who made bad jokes?"
"He was a glitch," I say, my voice flat, professional, and empty. "Rule Two, remember? No drama. Let’s keep this focused on the narrative. I’ll see you at breakfast."
I walk out and close the door, the sound of the latch clicking into place feeling final.
I head to my office, but as I claim the seat at my desk and open the Luckett files, the words on the screen don't make sense. I’ve regained my distance, but as I glance at the door I just shut, I realize I’ve never felt more like a prisoner in my own house.