8. Nathan - Fuck It!
Chapter Eight
NATHAN - FUCK IT!
T he music thrums through the air, a slow, sultry rhythm that lilts through the gala like a shared secret. A live band plays something rich and bluesy, the kind of melody meant for stolen glances and lingering touches rather than rigid formality. It’s elegant without being stuffy—just like everything else in Nathan Clarke’s world.
She’s so close. The kind of closeness that makes it hard to think straight. Not when her hand is in mine, her fingers delicate but sure, like she belongs there. Not when my other hand grips her at the waist, anchoring her to me while the slow, deliberate sway of her body makes it impossible to pretend this is just for show.
This started as an act… but it doesn’t feel like one anymore.
I need to keep reminding myself that this is carefully constructed charade to seal the deal with Wallace Harris. His words from earlier—about focusing on family—echo in the back of my mind. Right now, nothing about this feels fake.
For the first time, I wonder if I’ve been playing the wrong game entirely.
She tilts her head up, her deep brown eyes locking with mine. For a moment, the world falls away. The crowded gala, the endless chatter, even the music—it all fades into the background. All I see is her.
I’m losing control.
Her lips part, her expression caught somewhere between curiosity and something deeper. Something more primal.
My grip on her waist tightens, pulling her closer. Her breath catches, the sound sending searing heat straight through me.
This is reckless. The kind of mistake that changes everything.
I should take a step back. Adjust my hold. Think about something unsexy—spreadsheets, traffic, my taxes. Anything but the way she fits against me or how one wrong move might ruin both our nights. My restraint is hanging on by a thread, and she’s holding the scissors.
If she notices the problem brewing below my belt, she doesn’t mention it. Merciful of her.
“Nathan,” she whispers, her voice a mix of warning and invitation. It’s the kind of tone that makes surrender feel inevitable.
The way she says my name snaps my control— fuck it.
I’ve spent days being anything but professional while convincing myself that I can handle being close to her without crossing the line. But every glance, every touch, every second I spend with her makes it harder to ignore the truth.
I don’t want to pretend anymore.
“Dana,” I murmur, my voice desperate and edged with need. “Tell me to stop, or tell me you want this as much as I do.” Please.
Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, her fingers tighten around mine, her body leaning into me almost imperceptibly.
“I…” she starts, but the words falter, replaced by a shaky exhale.
I let the thought hang for a moment before deciding that’s all the permission I need. I lower my head, closing the last bit of space between us, and capture her lips with mine.
The kiss isn’t a release—it’s a revelation. Urgent, consuming, and shattering, it feels like it’s rewriting every spoken and unspoken rule we’ve lived by, both on this retreat and in the office.
She responds passionately, her hands sliding up around my neck as she presses herself closer. The feel of her against me, the taste of her, is more than I’d ever let myself imagine.
It’s not enough. I want more. I need more.
The music swells, but it’s nothing more than a faint backdrop to the symphony of our movements. All I can focus on is Dana—the way her fingers curl into the fabric of my suit, the way she matches my intensity like she’s been waiting for this as long as I have.
We break apart, both of us breathless. Her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed, and I know I’ve ruined any chance of going back to how things were.
I expect the words that come out of her mouth this time. “What are we doing?” she asks softly, her voice shaky, but still steady enough to hold my gaze. Why does she need to keep asking permission?
Deciding that her hesitation is cute, I cradle her face, my fingers splaying over her jaw as my thumb sweeps a slow, deliberate path along her cheekbone. She leans into the touch gently and the motion tugs the corners of my lips up into a soft smile.
“Whatever this is, it’s consuming. I feel it in every breath, every glance, every touch. Tell me that I’m not crazy... Please. ”
She hesitates. Dammit, Nathan—too much at once. Her eyes search mine for answers I’m not sure that I have. I can see the moment her hesitation turns into curiosity.
Maybe she’d be willing to figure this out with me.
She nods, just barely, and her lips also curve up into a small, tentative smile.
She looks so beautiful.
I lean in again, pressing my forehead to hers. “No more pretending. No more games.” I lift my other hand to her cheek as well, gently holding her in place. “I want… more. With you. Is that… is that okay?”
Her smile broadens, and there’s fire in her eyes. “Okay.”
The word is simple, quiet, but it feels monumental. A shift—a turning point I hadn’t dared hope for.
I slide my hands down her arms to take her hands, threading my fingers through hers. “Let’s get out of here.”
Her eyebrows lift, a mix of surprise and amusement dancing across her face. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” I reply, tugging her gently toward the edge of the dance floor. “Unless you’d rather stay and let the Harrises monitor our every move.”
She laughs softly, shaking her head. “Lead the way.”
As we weave through the crowd, I can feel the weight of curious gazes and whispered speculation. None of it matters. The only thing that matters is the woman beside me, her hand warm in mine and her presence anchoring me in a way I never expected.
When we step away from the heart of the party, the night air is a welcome contrast to the warmth inside. Dana draws in a slow breath, like she’s steadying herself, her gaze flicking toward the water. The stars above reflect in the dark waves, and the distant hum of laughter and music blends with the soft lapping of the tide against the yacht.
The shift in atmosphere is immediate. Quieter. More intimate.
She laces her fingers with mine, her grip firm and sure, and for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I have to fight for control.
I already have exactly what I want.
“Wait here,” I say, stepping aside and pulling my phone from my pocket.
Dana tilts her head, curiosity flashing in her eyes, but she doesn’t voice the question I know is forming.
I dial a number I know by heart and lift the phone to my ear. It rings once before the familiar voice of my Chief Operating Officer answers.
“It’s me,” I say, my voice quiet but resolute. “Let’s move forward with the transition plan. Start drafting the announcement—I’ll confirm the details tomorrow, but it’s time.”
The silence on the other end stretches for a beat before she replies. “Understood.”
I hang up and slip the phone back into my pocket, my heart pounding. Harris’s words weren’t just advice—they were a push I didn’t know I needed. And Dana? She’s the clarity that made everything else fall into place.
When I turn back to her, she’s watching me, her arms crossed over her chest. All of her weight is on one leg, making her hip pop out to the side. It’s enthralling. “Something you need to tell me?”
“No, not yet,” I reply, my gaze settling on her face. “But soon.” Her dissatisfied expression brings a smile to my face. Oh, I love to tease you, Dana.
“Okay…” She arches an eyebrow, her lips twitching. “Why so serious all of a sudden?”
The unexpected quip catches me off guard, and a laugh escapes me. “Because someone’s got to make sure everything’s under control.”
“And here I thought that was my job.” She smirks, stepping closer and slipping her hand back into mine.
“It is your job, boss lady.” The warmth of her touch is grounding even as my thoughts swirl with the changes I’ve set in motion.
“Let’s go,” she says simply. For the first time in years, I feel like I’m heading in the right direction.
The cool night air wraps around us as we slip away from the party, making our way back toward the yacht. The distant glow and music of the gala cast a surreal backdrop to the tension simmering between us.
Dana’s hand is still in mine, her steps slowing as we near the deck’s railing. Her skin glows under the moonlight, her expression shifting—something softer, unreadable.
Her skin glows under the moonlight, the soft light catching on the curve of her cheekbone, the delicate slope of her nose. There’s something almost serene about her in this moment, like she belongs here, in this quiet space between the chaos of the gala and the pull of whatever this is between us.
And then, she looks at me—really looks at me, like she’s weighing a choice she’s already made.
It’s a slow shift—her expression unreadable at first, lips parting as if she’s about to speak, but doesn’t. Her lashes flutter, breath catching when I don’t look away. A slight tilt of her head, the barest catch of her lower lip between her teeth, and suddenly, the innocence of the moment is gone.
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
And I’m more than willing to let her.
I lean in, my breath ghosting against her cheek before I shift lower, letting my lips graze the shell of her ear. “I’ve been dying to taste you.”
A sharp inhale. A delicious shudder.
I slide my hands to her waist, fingers flexing against the silky fabric of her dress as I pull her closer, aligning her body to mine. The pressure is subtle, suggestive—enough to make her aware of every inch of space between us. Or rather, the lack of it.
“Nathan,” she breathes, torn between a plea and a dare.
I let my lips brush along the line of her jaw, teasing. “Yes?”
“You’ve got me between a rock and a hard place,” she breathes, and I chuckle darkly.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Her hands grip my arms as I dip lower, my mouth tracing a slow, deliberate path down the side of her throat. A barely-there graze of teeth, just enough to make her tremble.
“We shouldn’t—someone might see.”
“Let them,” I murmur, soothing the spot with my tongue.
A shiver wrecks through her, and I don’t miss the way her thighs press together.
My hands slide lower, tracing the curve of her back before settling at the hem of her dress. “You wore this knowing exactly what it would do to me,” I rasp, fingertips toying with the fabric, inching it higher, slow and unhurried.
“Nathan,” she warns, but her grip tightens against my shoulders, holding me there instead of pushing me away. Then, accusingly: “ You’re the one that picked it out for me!”
I smirk, my lips hovering just above the neckline of her dress. As I avoid addressing her point, I take in the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat. “I think you like the idea of being caught.”
She exhales sharply, her nails digging into my skin. “I hate you.”
I smirk, savoring the stutter of her heartbeat beneath my lips, right where she’s most vulnerable. “No, you don’t.”
Then I drop to my knees, hands firm on her thighs, and when my lips meet her skin, she doesn’t stop me—she holds me there.