Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Sebastian “Bash” Laurent
The Peninsula Hotel disappeared behind us as my driver pulled away from the curb, and the town car settled into the particular quiet of a city moving past tinted glass.
Emilia sat in the corner opposite mine, the emerald dress catching streetlight in flickers, her hands folded in her lap with the studied stillness of someone whose mind was moving very fast. I recognized the posture.
I’d been watching her long enough to know the difference between Em at rest and Em processing — the slight tension in her jaw, the way her eyes tracked the passing city without really seeing it.
She was running calculations.
So was I. Mine kept arriving at conclusions I wasn’t ready to act on, which was a new experience for a man who had built his entire life on the principle that clarity preceded action.
“You’re staring,” she said without looking at me.
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?” The familiar edge in her voice, but softer than usual — the evening had worn something down in both of us. “New ways to make my job harder?”
“About whether you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
She turned to face me then, hazel eyes catching the glow of Michigan Avenue’s storefronts. “I’ve been investigating corruption since before you built your first skyscraper. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re being tracked by people who don’t play by journalist rules. They don’t care about your sources or your ethics. They care about silencing problems.”
“And I’m a problem?”
“You’re a goddamn catastrophe waiting to happen.”
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Coming from the man whose empire might be built on fraud, that’s rich.”
The accusation should have stung. Instead I found myself drawn to the fire in her expression — the way her jaw set when she was preparing for a fight, the way she never once adjusted her posture to make herself smaller in a space.
Every executive in my boardroom had, at some point, made themselves smaller in my presence. Emilia Rivera had never once tried.
“I told you before — I didn’t authorize those materials. Someone in my organization is using the Lakefront project to line their own pockets, and when I find out who, they’ll wish they’d never heard my name.”
“Such confidence.” She shifted slightly, her knee brushing mine through the fabric of her dress. The contact sent heat racing up my thigh. “You really believe you’re innocent in all this?”
“I believe you’re too smart to think I’d personally oversee concrete specifications on a development project. I have people for that. People who are apparently better at betrayal than I gave them credit for.”
The car slowed at a red light, and the sudden stillness amplified everything — her breathing, the rustle of silk against leather, the weight of all the things pressing against the air between us.
“Is this all just a game to you?” Emilia asked quietly. “The alliance, tonight, the—” She stopped herself, but I knew the shape of what she hadn’t said. The office. The almost. The space between us that had been closing and opening and closing again for weeks.
“Nothing about you feels like a game to me.”
Her eyes searched mine. Looking for the lie.
She wouldn’t find one — I’d stopped lying to myself about this somewhere between the service corridor and a café in Logan Square, somewhere between watching her refuse to flinch under a roomful of hostile whispers and hearing myself tell a man who’d never once been told no that his invitation list was about to shrink considerably.
“That man tonight,” I continued. “He didn’t come to that gala by accident.
Someone sent him, and whoever sent him has been tracking your movements for longer than you know.
Until we understand who we’re dealing with, you need to be careful.
No late-night source meetings without telling someone where you are. No—”
“Don’t.” Her voice cut clean through the car’s quiet interior. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”
“I’m telling you how to stay alive.”
“And I’m telling you that I’ve survived threats before.
Lawsuits. Career assassination attempts.
Men with considerably more practice at burying people than you trying to make me disappear.
” She leaned forward, close enough that I caught her scent — something floral from her shampoo layered over the ink-and-determination smell I’d cataloged on the first night without meaning to.
“I’m still here. I’m still writing. And I’m not going to let some shadow operative in an expensive suit scare me into backing down. ”
“I know you’re not.” I said it simply, because it was simply true. “That’s not why I’m worried.”
She blinked. The sharpness in her expression shifted into something less certain.
“Then why?”
I looked at her for a moment — really looked, the way I’d been trying not to do all evening because doing it in a moving car with no crowd to hide behind felt like a different kind of exposure than the gala had offered.
“You twirl a pen when you’re thinking through a problem,” I said.
“You push your hair behind your ear when you’re uncomfortable but don’t want anyone to notice.
You talk to yourself when you’re organizing ideas — not loudly, just under your breath, like you’re having a private conversation no one else is invited to.
” I paused. “You laugh differently when something actually surprises you versus when you’re being polite.
And when you’re scared — really scared — you go very still for exactly three seconds before you decide what to do about it. ”
Emilia’s breath caught. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve been watching you since that first night.
Since you stood in that service corridor and looked at me like I was a puzzle you couldn’t wait to solve, and I realized you were the only person at that entire event who didn’t give a damn about my name or my money or my reputation.
” I held her gaze. “You just saw me. Whatever that’s worth. ”
“I saw a target,” she said. Quieter than before.
“Maybe at first.” I lifted her hand from her lap, pressed my lips to her knuckles — felt her breath stutter. “But not anymore. And I don’t think that’s what you see either.”
The city slid past the windows. Neither of us spoke.
Then she looked at me — really looked, the same way I’d been looking at her, and I watched her do the thing I’d seen her do a hundred times: run the calculation, weigh the evidence, arrive at a conclusion.
This time the conclusion was me.
She crossed the space between us and her mouth found mine — not frantic, not impulsive, but with the specific deliberateness of a woman who had decided something and was following through on it completely.
I responded instantly, one hand coming up to cradle her jaw, the other finding her waist as she shifted closer.
She kissed like she did everything else — with total commitment, nothing held back, no half-measures. The kind of kiss that made it impossible to remember why this had seemed complicated.
I drew back just enough to look at her — flushed, eyes dark, the professional composure thoroughly dismantled — and felt something loosen in my chest that had been wound tight since the moment she’d stepped back in my office.
“You’re sure,” I said. Not a question, but needing the confirmation anyway.
“Sebastian.” Her hands framed my face, her thumbs tracing my jaw.
“I watched you stand between me and an entire room of people who wanted to see me fail tonight. I watched you deal with Thornton and the journalist and that man on the terrace, and you did all of it without asking me to be grateful or smaller or different than I am.” Her eyes held mine. “I’m sure.”
Something moved through me at that — too large and too specific to name cleanly. I kissed her again instead, deeper this time, and felt her exhale against my mouth like she’d been holding it for weeks.
My hands found the zipper at her back and drew it down slowly, feeling her breath hitch as the silk loosened. I pushed the dress from her shoulders with both palms, letting my hands travel the full length of her arms as the fabric fell, learning the warmth of her skin in the dark.
The lace of her bra was pale against her, and I traced the edge of it with my fingertips — the curve of the underwire, the swell of her breast above it — before cupping her fully in both hands.
She was soft and warm and perfect, and when my thumbs brushed her nipples through the thin lace she made a sound that landed low in my gut and stayed there.
“Beautiful,” I said against her throat, and meant it in ways that had nothing to do with the dress or the evening or anything except the woman currently arching into my hands.
I rolled her nipples gently between my fingers, felt them tighten and peak, felt her fingers dig into my shoulders in response. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“I have some idea.” She rolled her hips deliberately against me, her breath catching at the hard length of me straining against her. “I can feel exactly what I do to you.”
I reached behind her and unclasped the bra, letting it fall, and then filled my hands with her again — bare this time, the warmth of her skin against my palms, her nipples stiff and sensitive as I learned the weight of her.
I bent my head and took one into my mouth, tongue circling slow and deliberate, and her back arched sharply, her fingers threading into my hair to hold me there.
“Sebastian—”
I moved to the other, gave it the same attention, felt her hips roll against me with increasing urgency. She was chasing friction and I let her chase it, kept my mouth on her breasts while she ground down against me, her breath coming faster, her thighs tightening around mine.