10. Crossing Lines #2
I pull her dress down just enough to expose her shoulders, the tops of her breasts. The limo's dim lighting turns her skin gold, and I take a moment just to look.
She's beautiful.
The real kind, not the airbrushed version. Curves and softness and the kind of body that makes you forget every impossible standard you've ever seen.
"Stop staring," she murmurs.
"Can't." I trace the line of her collarbone with my thumb. "You're..."
"If you say perfect, I'm leaving."
"I was going to say devastating."
Her breath catches.
I kiss her throat. Her collarbone. The soft swell of her breast above the dress's edge. She arches into me, hands fisted in my shirt, and I can feel her pulse racing under my lips.
"Connor..."
"I know."
I shift her in my lap, and she lifts just enough to let me adjust. There's a moment. One perfect, suspended moment where we're just looking at each other.
Her eyes are hazel with green flecks. I memorized that weeks ago from a file photo.
But seeing them this close, in the dark, looking at me like I'm something worth wanting. That's new.
"Come here," I say quietly.
She does.
I've had sex before.
Obviously.
But this...
This is different.
Maybe it's the adrenaline. Maybe it's three weeks of fighting side by side. Maybe it's the fact that I've spent every night since Paris actively trying not to think about this moment.
Or maybe it's just her.
Rachel moves against me with the same confidence she uses to command a runway. No hesitation. No performance. Just want, pure and honest and real.
I bury my face in her neck, breathing her in. Jasmine and something clean and warm underneath. The scent I've been trying not to notice every time she walks past me.
"Look at me," she whispers.
I do.
Her pupils are blown wide. Her lips are parted. And when she moves, when she takes what she wants and gives me everything in return, I feel something in my chest crack open.
This isn't just sex.
This is territory I've never let myself enter.
This is falling.
"Rachel..."
She kisses me. Swallows whatever confession was about to escape.
Smart woman.
Her rhythm changes. Gets urgent. I grip her hips, guiding her, and she gasps my name like a prayer or a curse or both.
"That's it," I murmur against her throat. "Take what you need."
"Connor, I..."
"I know. I've got you."
And I do.
I hold her through it. Feel her shatter and rebuild in my arms. Watch her come undone with my name on her lips.
Beautiful doesn't cover it.
When she collapses against my chest, both of us breathing hard, I don't let go.
Can't let go.
The limo glides through Paris streets. Eddie's eyes are locked on the road like his life depends on it.
Rachel's head rests on my shoulder. Her dress is still half-off. My shirt is untucked and probably ruined.
I don't care.
"That happened," she says finally.
"Yeah."
"We just... in the back of your limo..."
"Yeah."
She lifts her head to look at me. "Any regrets?"
I should say yes. Should rebuild the walls, reinforce the boundaries, go back to being the fixer who knows better than to sleep with a client.
But I look at her face. Flushed and happy and unguarded. And the truth comes out before I can stop it.
"No."
Her smile could light cities.
"Good," she says. "Because I'm not done with you yet."
"Rachel..."
"Your suite or mine?"
The question hangs between us.
This is the moment I could still pull back. Could blame the adrenaline, the champagne, the heat of victory. Could wake up tomorrow and pretend this was a one-time lapse in judgment.
Could.
But I won't.
"Mine," I say.
"Then tell Eddie to drive faster."
The hotel lobby is empty at this hour. Just marble floors and art deco fixtures and a night clerk who doesn't look up from his computer.
Rachel's hand is in mine.
We don't run. We don't rush.
But every step toward the elevator feels inevitable.
The doors close.
I hit the button for the penthouse floor.
And Rachel looks at me with those hazel eyes and says, "No regrets?"
"None."
"Not even..."
I kiss her before she can finish. Press her against the elevator wall and kiss her like we didn't just do this ten minutes ago. Like I'm not about to do it again the second we're behind closed doors.
The elevator dings.
Penthouse floor.
My suite is three doors down. I unlock it with hands that aren't quite steady.
The door swings open.
Rachel steps inside first.
Then she turns to face me. Dress still half-unzipped. Hair wild from my hands.
"Well?" she asks.
I step inside. Let the door close behind me.
Lock it.
"Come here," I say.
She does.
And as I pull her close, as her arms wrap around my neck and her body presses against mine, I feel the last of my walls crumble.
I'm falling in love with her.
The thought hits clean and cold.
Not lust. Not protectiveness. Not professional investment in a client's success.
Love.
And I have no idea how to do this without destroying us both.
I lock it away. Bury it. Go back to the moment.
But it's already too late.
She's already under my skin.
And tomorrow, when reality crashes back in, I'm going to have to figure out what to do about it.
But tonight...
Tonight, I'm just going to let myself fall.
I wake to sunlight and the slow realization that Rachel Nguyen is asleep in my bed.
Not on the sofa. Not in her own suite.
Here.
Her dark curls are spread across my pillow. One hand is curled against her chest. She's wearing my shirt and nothing else, and the sight of it does something dangerous to my heart.
Last night wasn't a mistake.
It was inevitable.
I just crossed the one line I swore I'd never cross with a client.
I should regret it.
I don't.
And that's the most dangerous thing of all.