Chapter 23 Sera
Sera
I find Adrian in his study.
The mansion is quiet at this hour. Staff have mostly retired for the evening.
Adrian was working late, a rarity these days, and missed dinner.
That was fine since I needed the time to consider what Bianca had said to me.
Use what you have. His desire. His guilt. That's power.
I've changed into something simple—a silk nightgown under a matching robe. My hair is down. No makeup. I look like I'm ready for bed.
But I'm not going to bed.
Not yet.
Adrian sits behind his desk, still in his suit. His jacket is off, draped over his chair. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, and there’s a glass of scotch half touched by his hands.
He looks up when I enter. Those silver eyes tracking me immediately.
"Is everything alright?” he asks.
"It’s late.”
He smiles slightly. “You should get rest. I’ll be up soon.”
“It’s cold,” I say, fingering my top slightly, “without you in bed.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Interest. Curiosity. "Really?”
"Mmm." I stop in front of his desk, fingers trailing along the polished wood.
He leans back in his chair, studying me. "What are you doing, Seraphina?"
"Convincing my husband to put work away and give his wife attention,” I say, huskily. “Is that allowed.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
"Depends on what you're really asking for."
Smart man. He knows something has shifted. I’ve never initiated sex before, and even with us growing closer, physical intimacy has been…lacking.
"Didn't you say I could have whatever I want?" I bat my eyelashes at him, trying my best to appear innocent and coy.
"Within reason."
I try not to roll my eyes. He's so careful about his words that I feel like I am constantly in contract negotiations rather than a marriage. Even when he gives me what I want, there’s a reason behind it.
Adrian Nero does nothing without thinking it through.
I pull my hair back slightly, making sure that my neck is on display. I don't know anything about seduction, but from the way Adrian's eyes have turned to molten silver, I'm not doing too bad.
"Is that what this is?" His hand reaches out, fingers brushing the silk of my robe. "You want something?"
"Maybe." I lean against the desk, facing him. "Or maybe I'm just tired of denying what we both want."
His jaw tightens.
"I can't stop thinking about it."
"About what?" He's toying with the robe sash, opening it and exposing the lace gown underneath.
"The gala." I let the robe slip off one shoulder. "That night. The way you fucked me against the window like you couldn't help yourself. The way you just took me. You weren’t careful then.”
The air changes. Becomes heavier, charged.
"Careful," he warns.
"Why?" I slide onto the edge of the desk, right in front of him. "You're my husband. We're married. We're having a baby together. Why shouldn't we—"
He stands abruptly, and suddenly he's between my legs, hands on either side of me, caging me in.
"Because," his voice is low, dangerous, "once we start this again, I'm not going to stop. I’m trying to be gentle with you, Sera….” He trails off. “Romantic.”
I reach out, using my nail to draw a line down the front of his shirt. “Romance has many meanings.” I meet his eyes. "I’m lonely, Adrian, and aching. I don't see the point in pretending I don't want you, don’t want that fire between us. After all, we're married."
His hand comes up, cupping my face. Thumb stroking my cheekbone. I can see him wavering. Ever so slightly. But he's a man of control, and he's not just going to give in. He's too suspicious. "This is a game to you. Testing what you can get from me.”
"Is it?" I lean into his touch.
"Which is it, Seraphina? Strategy or desire? Have I not given you enough, already?”
I roll my eyes. “Can’t it be both?"
Something dark flashes in his eyes. "You're playing with fire."
"Hasn't it already burned me?"
He kisses me.
It's not gentle. Not sweet. Nothing like the last time we were together. It's possession and frustration and desire.
His hands are in my hair, tilting my head back, deepening the kiss until I'm gasping. My fingers find his shirt, working the buttons with shaking hands.
"Tell me what you want," he demands against my mouth.
"You." It's not entirely a lie. "I want you."
"Not good enough." His mouth moves to my neck, biting gently. "Tell me the truth. What do you really want?"
My brain is fogging over. His hands are sliding up my thighs, pushing the nightgown higher, and I can barely think.
"I want—" I gasp as his fingers brush against my inner thigh. "I want to not feel trapped anymore."
He pauses. Pulls back enough to look at me.
"What else?" He's turning the tables, and it's frustrating, but my body isn't entirely my own, and I wasn't lying when I said I want him. Pregnancy nausea has given way to wild hormones, and I feel ravenous for what I know he can give me.
"I want to go to the bookshop. To see Mr. Bolinger.” The words tumble out. "I want a few hours where I'm not just... stuck here.”
Understanding dawns in his expression. Then something that might be amusement. "And you thought seducing me was the way to get that?"
"Is it working?"
His hand slides higher, fingers brushing against the lace of my underwear. "What do you think?"
I can't think. Can barely breathe. His fingers are teasing, circling, making my hips roll toward him involuntarily.
"Adrian—"
"Tell me exactly what you want," he says. "Be specific."
"The bookshop. Tomorrow. With you and security." I'm panting now. "A few hours. That's all."
"And in exchange?"
"This." I pull him closer, legs wrapping around his waist. "Tonight. However, you want."
"However, I want?" His eyes darken. "That's dangerous offer.”
"I trust you." And it’s the truth. I do trust Adrian—with this, anyway.
He lifts me suddenly, papers scattering off the desk. Lays me back against the wood, looming over me.
"You're going to regret giving me that much freedom," he warns.
"Prove it."
His mouth crashes into mine again as his hands work my nightgown up and over my head. Cool air hits my skin, but his body is warm, solid, everywhere at once.
"So fucking beautiful," he mutters against my collarbone. "Every time I look at you, knowing you're carrying my son—"
His hand splays across my stomach possessively.
"Mine," he growls. "Both of you. Mine."
The possessiveness should scare me. Instead, it sends heat pooling low in my belly.
"Say it," he demands, fingers hooking into my underwear, dragging them down my legs. "Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours." The words come easier than they should. "Tonight, I'm yours."
"Not just tonight." His fingers slide through my wetness, and I gasp. "Every night. Every day. You're mine, Seraphina. You just keep forgetting."
He works me with his fingers, watching my face as I fall apart. It's been weeks since anyone touched me like this. Weeks since that night at the penthouse. My body responds desperately, climbing fast.
"That's it," he encourages. "Let me see you. Let me watch you come on my fingers like the good girl you are."
The praise combined with the pressure sends me over the edge. I cry out, back arching off the desk, and he swallows the sound with another kiss.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "Fuck, you're beautiful when you let go."
He's still fully dressed. I tug at his shirt, frustrated.
"Off," I demand. "All of it. Off."
He steps back, and I nearly whine at the loss of contact. But then he's stripping—shirt, belt, pants—and I'm watching the reveal of skin and muscle and scars I've felt but never really seen in the light.
"You're staring," he observes.
"You're gorgeous." It slips out before I can stop it.
His smile is sharp. Pleased. "Your turn to stare is over."
He pulls me off the desk, spinning me around so my back is against his chest. One hand wraps around my waist, the other sliding up to cup my breast.
"Look," he orders, and I realize there's a large window across from his desk. The curtains are open, showing our reflection in the dark glass. "Look at us."
I can see everything. My body pressed against his. His hands on me. The way my skin is flushed, my hair wild.
"This is what you look like when you're mine," he says against my ear. "Remember it."
His hand slides down between my legs again, and I watch in the window as he touches me. It's obscene. Intimate. I should look away but I can't.
"Adrian—please—"
"Please what?"
"I need—" I push back against him, feeling him hard against my lower back. "Please."
"Use your words, Seraphina. Tell me what you need."
"You. Inside me. Now."
He bends me over the desk, hands on my hips, positioning me. I feel him there, pressing against me, and then—
"Fuck," I breathe as he enters me. It's intense, overwhelming, too much and not enough.
"You feel that?" His voice is strained. "Feel how perfectly you fit me? Like you were made for this. Made for me."
He starts to move, and I brace myself against the desk. Each thrust drives me forward, papers crumpling under my hands. It's raw and primal unlike the last time we were together, which was sweet and soft.
This is darker. More desperate. More real.
"Watch me fuck you," he orders.
I force my eyes to the reflection. See his face twisted in pleasure, concentration. See my own desperate expression.
"This is what marriage is," he pants. "Taking what we need from each other. Using each other. And you're finally learning that, aren't you?"
"Yes—God—yes—"
His rhythm is brutal now, chasing something. One hand finds my hair, gathering it, using it as leverage. It should hurt. Instead, it makes everything more intense.
"I'm close," I gasp. "I'm—"
"Not yet." He slows down, torturing us both. "Not until you promise me something."
"What?" I'm nearly sobbing with frustration.
"That you're done running. Done fighting this." His hand slides around to my throat, not squeezing, just holding. "That you're going to try. Really try. To make this work."
"That's not—that's not fair—I am—"