Epilogue
CHRISTIAN
The Grand Summit Hotel looks different in the evening light—all illuminated windows and holiday decorations against the night sky.
Snow still covers the grounds from yesterday's storm, pristine and glittering under strategically placed landscape lighting.
Sophie sits beside me in the Bentley, her expression curious as we pull up to the circular drive where we arrived for the gala just weeks ago.
A lifetime ago, it seems. She hasn't asked where we're going for our evening together, trusting me despite having every reason for caution after my recent mistake.
That trust is a gift I don't take lightly, a responsibility I intend to honor with every action moving forward.
"The Grand Summit?" she questions as the driver opens her door. "Are there two galas in one month?"
I exit the car, circling to offer her my hand. "No gala tonight. Just us."
Her eyebrows lift in surprise as she takes my hand, allowing me to help her from the car though she needs no assistance.
She's wearing a dress the color of midnight, not the emerald velvet from the gala but equally stunning against her honey-blonde hair and fair skin.
My choice to bring her here was deliberate, planned with the same strategic precision I bring to business deals, but with an entirely different purpose.
Not acquisition but recognition. Not claiming but honoring.
"I've arranged something special," I tell her as we enter the lobby, empty now of the crowds that filled it during the gala. "A return to where this began. Where I first claimed you as mine."
Her eyes soften at the reference, recognition dawning. "The mistletoe kiss."
"Among other things," I agree, guiding her not toward the main ballroom but to a private elevator accessed with a keycard I was provided earlier. "Though my understanding of 'mine' has evolved considerably since that night."
She smiles, the expression reaching her eyes in a way that still takes my breath away. "I've noticed."
The elevator rises smoothly to the top floor of the Grand Summit, where the hotel's most exclusive suite awaits.
Not for the purposes Sophie might assume—though I won't pretend I haven't imagined it—but for something equally intimate in a different way.
A gesture to Ben our new beginning, our deeper understanding, our promises to each other.
"Where are we going?" she asks as the elevator continues its ascent.
"You'll see," I reply, enjoying the anticipation building in her expression. For once, my need for control serves a purpose beyond my own security—it allows me to create something special for the woman who has changed everything in my carefully ordered existence.
The penthouse suite is empty. Not just unoccupied, but deliberately cleared—no staff, no security, not even the usual discreet hotel manager lurking in the background.
The city glitters below, snow painting the terraces white, Christmas lights blinking on the far slopes.
Inside, a fire already burns in the massive stone hearth, the only sound the soft tick of the heat vents and Sophie's breath as she takes in the scene.
"Christian," she says, her voice suspended between question and wonder, "did you…rent the entire floor?"
I pour her a glass of wine, not trusting myself to say yes without adding something completely unnecessary, like "I wanted you to feel safe" or "I couldn't stand the idea of anyone else in this building tonight." Both are true, but the words would only embarrass us both.
Instead, I hand her the glass and say, "I wanted you to myself."
She stands in the center of the grand living room, swirling the wine and looking at me over the rim of the glass, wary but soft.
The navy dress she's wearing drapes her curves in impossible ways, the neckline low enough to reveal the faintest shadow between her breasts.
I watch her throat move as she swallows, then sets the glass down, hands folded in front of her.
"You don't have to keep proving things, you know," she says. "I'm here, aren't I?"
"I know." I cross the room, stopping just shy of touching her. "But I want to."
Her gaze flickers to my mouth, then up to my eyes. "Why here, Christian?"
I could give her a clever answer. I could say this is where I first saw her as more than an acquisition, where the idea of ownership became something riskier: devotion. But that's not enough. Not for tonight.
"Because this is where I realized I was in trouble," I say. "And because I want to rewrite that memory with something better."
She laughs, but it's a nervous sound, the kind that trembles at the edges and betrays how new this is for both of us. Her fingers twist in the fabric at her waist, and I can't help myself—I reach for her hand, untangling her grip, flattening her palm against my chest.
Sophie stands still as prey, but her pulse flutters beneath my thumb. "You don't have to rush," she whispers.
I want to say, I've been rushing since the moment I saw you. Instead, I tell her, "I'm exactly where I want to be."
The kiss is slow at first. Careful, almost. I taste the wine on her lips, feel her sigh against my mouth, the smallest shiver running down her arms. She kisses like she's still a little afraid of me, or of herself, or maybe of what comes next.
I could tease her, draw this out, but patience has never been my strength. Not with her.
The first time I touch her, really touch her, it's with both hands bracketing her jaw.
She makes a tiny sound, not quite a gasp, and I know I've startled her.
She recovers quickly, threading her fingers into my hair, pulling me closer, her nails scraping my scalp just enough to make my vision blur at the edges.
My mouth moves from her lips to her jaw, her earlobe, tasting the skin there, the perfume I bought her, the salt of sweat already blooming at her hairline.
Sophie's breath catches, her body curling toward mine, until there's nothing between us but the dress and the thin shield of my self-control.
"Christian," she says, and my name has never sounded more like a prayer or a dare.
I slide my hands down her back, anchoring her, and she melts in a way that answers every question I never knew how to ask.
The trust in it unmoors me. For a second I want to say something—something true and dangerous, like If you told me to stop I would, but god, I hope you never do.
But then she tugs my shirt free of my waistband and her cold hands slip under, flattening against my spine, and all language evaporates.
We move, still half-clinging, to the velvet sofa facing the fire.
I lower her with both hands, careful, reverent, still not quite believing she's here, that this is real.
Her legs slide along mine and she pulls me down on top of her, the blue dress riding up above her knees, her thighs bare and perfect, soft as summer after a long winter.The way Sophie arches under me, the way her hands fist helplessly in my shirt—every movement kills me.
I bury my nose in her hair, inhaling the scent of her.
“God,” I mutter, and she shivers like I bit her.
“Christian,” she says again, softer now, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to want this much.
I palm her thigh, pushing her skirt higher so I can wrap her legs around my waist. The heat between us is fucking nuclear. She’s trembling and I’m shaking with the effort not to just tear her dress down the middle.
“You’re so beautiful,” I tell her, because I need her to know. Because I’ve never said it to anyone and meant it like this.
She laughs, breathless. “You’ve seen a hundred women in prettier dresses—”
“None of them were you,” I bite out, and then I’m kissing her again, rougher this time, greedier. Her mouth opens under mine and I swallow her sigh, my hands sliding up until I feel the soft give of her breast.
She’s wearing some kind of lacy bra. I can feel the texture beneath the thin dress.
I want to see her, all of her, but I force myself to slow down, to peel the fabric from her shoulders inch by inch instead of yanking it off the way I want.
She’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, her breath coming in little gasps as I slide the dress down her arms and let it puddle at her waist.
The sight of Sophie half-naked, flushed and trembling in the firelight, almost undoes me. She tries to cross her arms over her chest but I stop her, catching her wrists in one hand and pinning them gently above her head. “Don’t hide from me,” I whisper against her jaw.
She nods, her blue eyes shining with something like trust, and I let go.
I kneel between her knees, running my hands up her calves, her thighs, feeling the goosebumps rise under my palms. She’s wearing matching navy lace panties—delicate, feminine, not designed for seduction but more seductive for it. I want to tear them off with my teeth.
Instead, I lean forward and mouth her breast through the bra, feeling her arch up into my touch.
She’s so sensitive—she whimpers when I nudge the lace aside and flick my tongue over her nipple, so I do it again, again, until she’s panting, her hands in my hair, pulling me closer.
I suck her nipple into my mouth, biting just enough to make her gasp, and she claps a hand over her own mouth to stifle the noise.
“Don’t,” I growl. “I want to hear you.”
She lets her hand fall, her head dropping back against the cushions. The sound she makes when I switch to her other breast is pure music. I could spend hours here, mapping every inch of her skin with my mouth, memorizing every place that makes her shudder or moan.
But I’m dying. My cock is so hard I’m afraid I’ll embarrass myself before I get her panties down. I make myself slow, focus, let the anticipation build for both of us. She’s still breathing hard when I finally let her up for air, her hair a mess around her face, her lips swollen and wet.