10. Chapter 10 — Harper
The first night, we were strangers by choice. First names only, no strings. That was the deal. The second time was deliberate. Eyes open, both of us knowing exactly what we were doing while insisting it didn't mean anything.
Tonight is neither of those things.
He pulls me up from the couch. His hands find my waist and walk me back toward the bedroom slowly, like we have nothing but time. He keeps eyes on my face the whole time. He reaches past me to push the door open without looking away.
The bedroom is dark except for the city light coming through the curtains in thin strips.
He takes my face in his hands and looks at me.
Long enough that I feel actually seen, not just looked at.
Then he tips my chin up and kisses me slowly.
Not like the living room. Not testing anything. Like he's already made up his mind.
He takes his time with my clothes. Every button unhurried, his knuckles grazing my skin on the way down. I let him. I understand this isn't impatience being held back. This is him choosing to go exactly this slow.
When he finally slides the fabric off my shoulders, the cool air hits, and then his warm steady hands move over me like he wants to remember.
"Jonathan." His name comes out lower than I mean it to.
He stills. Meets my eyes. "Hey," he says. Just that.
I push his shirt off his shoulders and he drops it somewhere behind him. I move to his belt and he watches me work it loose with an expression that is patience wearing very thin. I take my time anyway.
When I finally push everything away and run my hands up his stomach, he exhales through his nose, slow and quiet. I want that sound again.
I pull him down by the back of his neck and he comes easily.
Every version of this man I've seen, operates from a position of being in charge.
Right now he's following my hands. The openness of that hits somewhere deeper than anything physical.
Then he slides his hand into my hair and tips my head back.
He kisses down my throat, my collarbone. Takes his mouth to my breast, tongue, and teeth, and I gasp. He does it again, slower, until my back arches off the bed.
His hand slides down my stomach, lower. He parts me with his fingers, and I bite down on my lip so hard I taste it. He watches my face the entire time. He takes in every sound I make, every time I shift against his hand. Like he wants to know exactly what undoes me. Like he intends to use it.
"Jonathan." His name comes out broken. "Please."
He groans but doesn't stop and moves his mouth to my other breast. He doesn't stop until my thighs are shaking and I'm pulling at his shoulders, dragging him up to me, done waiting.
When he pushes inside me, he goes slowly. Eyes on mine the whole time. I feel every inch. My breath leaves in one long, unsteady rush.
I arch up into him. He stills. Jaw tight. His hand braced beside my head. He pulls back and drives forward. I breathe his name against his jaw. He turns his head and catches my mouth, swallows the sound, and I feel it where he's buried inside me. A slow, devastating ache.
I wrap my legs around him. He groans into my neck. Low and rough. My whole body responds to it.
My hands are in his hair. On his shoulders. Moving over him. He pulls me closer when I touch him. Like being touched is something he's been starving for.
"Harper." My name in his voice, rough at the edges.
"Yes," I say. Not an answer to a question. Just the only word I have.
He shifts the angle, and I gasp. His grip tightens on my hip and he drives deeper. I stop thinking entirely. Nothing exists outside this room. Just him. Just this.
I come with his name on my lips and my nails in his back, and he follows me over a moment later. With his face pressed into my neck and my name in his mouth, I hold him through. The room goes quiet except for our breathing.
We stay like that for a long time.
When I open my eyes, he's already watching me. Not the CEO. Not the man who runs the forty-fourth floor like every answer is already known. Something stripped of all that. Raw. Uncertain in a way I have never once seen from him. That uncertainty is the most honest thing he's ever given me.
"There you are," I say, before I can think better of it.
He doesn't ask what I mean. He presses his forehead to mine and stays there. His breath evens out. Something in his face says he understood exactly.
We've gone somewhere we can't come back from. This isn't the first night or Aureole or the agreement we made. This is something without rules yet. Something I'm going to have to figure out from scratch.
We lie in the dark for a long time. His hand in my hair.
"The pension memo," I say eventually.
"Will be there in the morning," he says.
Good enough.
I close my eyes and his breathing slows against my shoulder. His hand goes still. His thumb resting just below my ear like he fell asleep mid-thought. I lie there and think: this is not something I can call one night and move on from.
I notice the weight of his arm across my ribs. I don't move it.
I'm not scared. I realize that slowly, lying here in the dark. But I should be. This was never the plan.
What I feel is the strange, clear peace of someone who's stopped pretending they don't know what this is.
I let myself fall asleep.
When I wake up, the room is grey and full of morning. He's standing at the window, already dressed. Shirt untucked, no jacket, hands in his pockets.
He's looking at the city like he's trying to figure out what to do with last night. I lie still for a moment before he knows I'm awake. I just look at him. I want one more minute before this morning has to mean something. Then I sit up, and the sheets shift. He turns to me.
"You didn't leave," he says, still facing the window.
"Neither did you."
He looks at me the way he did that very first night. Before either of us knew who the other was. Something open behind his eyes. Unguarded. He draws a breath. I don't move. I don't reach for anything. I don't give him a single reason to stop.
A beat passes.
I wait.
Something moves across his face. Not a decision, the opposite of one. Then he crosses to the bed. He reaches out and touches my face. Just for a second. His thumb traces my cheekbone like he's trying to memorize it. Then he steps back.
"We have a nine o'clock," he says.
There it is. I watch his face go back to the version I know from the office. The door closing. Quiet and final. Like a key turning in a lock.
I look at him one second longer than I should. Then I look away.
"I'll have the memo ready by eight-thirty," I say. My voice is even. I'm proud of that.
"I know you will," he says.
I get up and find my clothes in the dark. I cross to the door and don't look back.
The living room is quiet. The suite is quiet. His door is now closed. The distance between us is ten feet of carpet and everything we've been pretending isn't happening.
I walk to the couch. Pick up my notebook. Find the pension memo.
I stopped being scared last night. What I didn't count on is what comes after. Knowing exactly what you want and not being able to do anything about it.
Wanting something this clearly is its own kind of problem.
I already knew that.
I went in anyway.
Twenty days to the roadshow.