sixteen
Monte didn't say a word when we walked out of the club together.
He just nodded once, a quiet acknowledgment, and pulled the car around like this was any other night.
I didn't let myself look back at the club entrance. Didn't let myself think about the other girls, or Tim, or the fact that I hadn't even bothered to change out of my work heels.
It was easier not to think.
Easier to pretend this was simple.
Monte opened the back door and stepped aside. I climbed in without waiting for Brooks, settling into the far corner of the backseat. The leather was cold against the backs of my thighs. I pulled my robe tighter, trying to pretend it was just the air-conditioning that made me shiver.
Brooks slid in after me. The door shut with a quiet, final click.
For a moment, we just sat there.
Monte shifted the car into drive, pulling away from the curb like nothing was out of the ordinary. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows—neon signs and streetlamps painting the inside of the car in fleeting strokes of color.
Red. Blue. White.
Brooks didn't say anything. He sat a little too close—just far enough that he wasn't actually touching me, but close enough that I could feel the heat of him anyway.
I kept my gaze fixed on the window. My heart was beating too loud in my ears.
It should have felt final. Like a line had been crossed that couldn't be uncrossed.
Instead, it felt inevitable.
I could feel him watching me. I didn't have to look to know.
A block passed. Then another.
Finally, his hand shifted between us—just a fraction. His knuckles brushed the side of my thigh, barely there, but it felt like an electric current lit under my skin.
I didn't move away.
The car turned onto a quieter street, the noise of traffic fading behind us. My breath was coming too shallow, too quick.
He still hadn't spoken.
I swallowed, my voice rough when I finally broke the silence. "This doesn't mean we're back on good terms."
His gaze felt heavy on my profile. "No?"
"No."
Another block of silence. The car hummed steady beneath us, carrying us somewhere I wasn't sure I was ready to go.
"I didn't say we were," he said quietly, "but you're still here."
I turned my face toward him then, just enough to meet his eyes. Even in the low light, they looked darker than usual.
The honesty in his tone made something twist low in my stomach.
I looked away first.
His hand shifted again—slow, deliberate. The backs of his fingers brushed higher up my thigh, just under the edge of my robe.
"You don't have to come home with me," he said, voice lower now. "You can tell Monte to turn around."
I didn't answer.
The car slipped through another green light. A flicker of a neon OPEN sign splashed red across his cheek, then disappeared.
"You don't owe me anything," he said.
My throat felt tight. "I know."
His hand settled over my knee—warm, solid. A weight I didn't realize I wanted until it was there.
"You don't have to prove anything to me," he added.
I swallowed hard. My fingers clenched in the thin fabric over my thighs. "I'm not."
His thumb brushed a slow line across my skin. "Then tell me why you agreed to come because I know it's not about money."
I kept my gaze on the passing buildings, each one a blur of brick and light.
I stayed quiet eyes fixated out the window.
He exhaled, the sound more like a sigh than a breath. His hand slid higher, curving around the side of my thigh. Not possessive—just there. A reminder.
The car turned again, slowing as we crossed into a neighborhood with tree-lined sidewalks and quiet townhouses. The kind of street that looked exactly like the kind of man he was pretending not to be.
Neither of us spoke.
My pulse was an unsteady thrum, too loud in the hush of the car.
I could feel the way he was watching me. Not like he was waiting for permission—more like he was trying to memorize exactly how I looked in this moment. Like he needed to keep it.
His hand tightened, just a fraction. "Look at me."
I didn't.
"Amira."
I turned then, because I couldn't not. Because his voice sounded too close to something that would break me.
His eyes searched mine in the low light, dark and steady.
He didn't push it. Didn't smirk like he was winning something. He just studied me—like he was bracing himself for whatever I was about to do.
I turned back to the window, pressing my palm flat against the cool glass.
The car slowed to a stop in front of the building that was starting to look too familiar. Security lights haloed the entrance in soft white.
Monte didn't turn around. He just waited.
Brooks let his hand fall away from my leg. The loss of it made me feel unsteady in a way I didn't want to admit.
For a long second, I didn't move.
Then I reached for the handle and pushed the door open.
Cool air rushed in. I climbed out without looking back, feeling the weight of his gaze follow me all the way to the sidewalk.
The door shut behind me.
Monte pulled away from the curb as Brooks rounded the car to join me.
He didn't say anything when he stopped beside me.
Neither did I.
He lifted a hand—like he might touch my face—but he let it fall before he made contact.
Then he turned and keyed in a code at the front door. The lock clicked open.
He looked over his shoulder once, a question in his eyes he didn't voice.
And I followed him inside.
The elevator ride up felt longer than it should have.
He didn't touch me. He didn't have to. The air between us was thick enough to feel like contact.
I stood in the far corner of the lift, one hand curled tight around the sash of my robe. My hair was falling loose over my shoulders. My pulse was still an unsteady thing in my throat.
He watched me the whole way up—silent, steady. Like he was cataloging every flicker of hesitation I couldn't hide.
When the doors slid open, I didn't wait for him to lead. I stepped out first.
We walked into the penthouse and he closed the door behind us with a muted click.
I didn't look back at him. I walked farther into the penthouse, feeling the cool air of the AC move over my skin.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I could hear his shoes scuffing the floor, deliberate, measured. I could feel the weight of his attention, tracing over every inch of me.
"You don't have to stay," he said finally, his voice lower than it had been in the car.
I didn't answer.
I reached up, untied the knot of my robe, and let it fall open.
His breath left him in a sound that wasn't quite a word.
Slowly, I turned to face him.
He looked like he was trying not to move—like if he so much as exhaled too hard, he'd cross the room and ruin any illusion that this was my choice.
I let the robe slide off my shoulders, pooling around my ankles in a soft hush of fabric.
His gaze dragged down my body—hungry, unapologetic. When it returned to my face, it felt heavier somehow.
Something flickered in his eyes. His jaw tightened. But he still didn't move.
So I did.
I closed the distance between us, step by deliberate step. My heels clicked against the polished floor, loud in the hush of the apartment.
When I stopped in front of him, he didn't reach for me. He waited—like he was giving me a chance to change my mind.
I didn't.
I lifted my hands to the lapels of his suit jacket. Slid them down over his chest, slow enough that he'd feel every inch of contact.
His breath hitched. Just a little.
I pushed the jacket back off his shoulders. He let me.
It landed on the floor behind him.
His tie was next. I worked it loose, tugged it free, dropped it without ceremony. My hands were trembling, but I didn't stop.
When I reached the first button of his shirt, his hands came up—closing gently over my wrists.
"Amira." His voice was rough. Warning and plea all at once.
I looked up at him, meeting his eyes head-on. "Don't."
His jaw flexed. He let go.
I unbuttoned his shirt, one slow movement after another. When I pushed it open, the heat of his skin rushed into the space between us.
My palms flattened against his chest. He was warm, solid. Real in a way I didn't have the words for.
I scraped my nails lightly over his skin, feeling the muscle tighten under my touch. His breath came out in a controlled exhale.
When I leaned up and kissed him, he didn't hesitate.
He kissed me back like he'd been holding it in the whole time.
His hands caught my waist, dragging me closer until my chest was flush against his. The contact sent a shiver down my spine.
I tilted my head, deepening the kiss until it went messy, heated. His tongue swept over mine, slow and possessive.
I broke away first, breathless.
His mouth chased mine, but I pressed a hand flat to his chest, keeping him back just enough to look at him.
"Take it off," I said, voice low.
His brows lifted, like he wasn't sure he'd heard me right.
I slid my hand down, traced the line of his belt. "All of it."
His eyes darkened.
Without a word, he unbuckled the belt, the sound loud in the hush of the apartment. The zipper followed. He pushed the trousers down his hips, kicked them aside.
He stood there in nothing but black briefs, every inch of him tense and waiting.
I didn't rush.
I traced a finger down the center of his chest, over the flat plane of his stomach, stopping just above the waistband.
His breath shuddered out. His hands fisted at his sides like he didn't trust himself to touch me yet.
I let my gaze drag over him, unhurried. "You look nervous."
His mouth curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "I'm not."
"You sure?"
His eyes searched mine, dark and steady. "Take them off me."
I didn't hesitate.
I hooked my thumbs in the waistband and pulled them down, slow enough that the anticipation nearly choked me. When they hit the floor, he stepped out of them, utterly unashamed.
The heat between us went from a low simmer to something closer to a burn.