Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
RACHEL
The elevator doors slid shut with a soft click that sounded far too final.
I stood beside Dominic, close enough to feel the heat coming off him. The gilded walls reflected us back at ourselves—him relaxed and lethal in that effortless way of his, me wound tight, eyes bright, pulse betraying me at my throat.
I couldn’t stop looking at him.
He caught me at it and smiled slowly, like he knew exactly what was happening inside my head and had no intention of rescuing me from it.
“You see only us, don’t you?” The whisper of his words caressed me without him doing a damn thing. The elevator hummed upward. Each floor ticked by, a countdown I didn’t ask for and couldn’t stop.
“This,” I said, my voice low and very steady considering I was unraveling, “is a bad idea.”
His mouth twitched. “Absolutely awful.”
When the doors opened, he stepped out first and reached back for me without looking, fingers brushing mine like a question he already knew the answer to. I laced my fingers through his before I could rethink it.
“Terrible,” I agreed, letting him lead me down the softly lit hall.
The carpet muted our footsteps. The air felt thick, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. Every nerve ending in my body was awake. Every sensible thought I’d ever had was losing ground.
He let go of my hand at his door. Just long enough.
The card key brushed the lock and it clicked to green. He paused, then glanced over his shoulder at me, eyes dark, searching.
“I should go,” I said, because it was the right thing to say.
My feet didn’t move.
The door opened. He stepped aside, holding it wide, giving me an out he didn’t expect me to take.
“You can be pissed at me tomorrow,” he said quietly.
That was all it took.
I crossed the threshold and then I was in his arms, the door clicking shut behind us like punctuation. His mouth found mine with no hesitation, no gentleness, just heat and intent and the unmistakable sense that he’d been waiting for this as long as I had.
I kissed him back just as fiercely, savoring the taste of him, the way he smiled against my mouth like he was exactly where he wanted to be. His hand slid into my hair, not pulling, just holding, anchoring me there.
This was reckless, familiar, and everything I’d been telling myself I didn’t need.
But I wasn’t going anywhere.
Two years earlier…
No sooner had I said yes than he smiled—really smiled—and it lit him up from the inside out. The kind that reached his eyes and made something bright and dangerous flare there. The gleam stole the air from my lungs, like I’d just stepped too close to the edge of something high.
I wasn’t sure he could have looked happier if someone had handed him a winning lottery ticket.
The why of that flickered at the back of my mind, but I didn’t have time to chase it.
He stepped inside without crowding me, deliberate and respectful in a way that somehow made everything feel less safe. The door closed softly behind him, the sound final enough to set my pulse skidding.
“For the record,” he said, setting the boxes down on my desk with exaggerated care, like they were sacred offerings, “I gave you live updates.”
“You did,” I admitted, hating how much I’d enjoyed them. The timestamps. The commentary. The brief moment of chaos when a typo slipped past his otherwise crisp typing. “I especially liked the part where you almost got into a fight over thin crust.”
“It was heated,” he said solemnly—too solemnly—while his dark eyes danced with mischief.
Everything about him said professional. The open-collared button-down, the tailored slacks, the way he moved with quiet confidence.
But his eyes? There was nothing professional about them at all. “I defended your honor.”
I snorted, folding my arms as I leaned back against the door. “You don’t even know me.”
He set his keys down beside the pizza boxes, then his wallet, unhurried. When he looked back at me, his gaze was warm, intent. “I know enough.”
That should have unsettled me.
Instead, it sent something low and dangerous unfurling in my chest.
He opened the first box and steam curled upward between us, carrying the scent of garlic and cheese and promise. My room felt smaller all at once. Warmer. Charged in a way it hadn’t been before he knocked.
I told myself—again—that it was just pizza.
But even then, standing barefoot in my cut-up sweatshirt with a man who’d crossed a city because I’d dared him to, I knew better.
He left the pizza where it was.
One second the boxes were the center of the room, steam curling lazily upward—and the next Dominic was in front of me, close enough that I felt the shift in the air when he moved. He braced one hand against the door above my head, caging me in without touching me at all.
Everything about the move felt intentional, planned, and I had to imagine successfully executed because he didn’t even hesitate. Nothing about Dominic Walsh was a high school boy or even a college freshman.
I tilted my head back to look at him, my spine pressing lightly into the wood, and even with the room thick with the scent of hot pizza and garlic, he still smelled impossibly good—clean, warm, unmistakably masculine. “What are you doing?” I asked, my voice way steadier than I felt.
His mouth curved, slow and thoughtful, like he was considering multiple paths and enjoying every single one of them. “Exploring my options,” he said lightly. “You invited me in. I’d hate to be rude.”
Heat rushed through me, fast and disorienting.
Before I could respond, he leaned in—not all the way. Just enough that his breath brushed my lips, that pause stretched thin and electric. The kiss that followed was unhurried, almost delicate. An inquiry. A question asked with his mouth instead of words.
I answered by rising onto my toes. That was all the permission he needed.
The shift was instant. The kiss deepened, sharpened, heat blooming everywhere at once.
His other hand came up, steady at my waist, anchoring me as the world narrowed to sensation and momentum and the unmistakable spark of his tongue—cool metal stroking briefly against mine, a surprise that sent a jolt straight through me.
Fire, sudden and undeniable.
I gasped into his mouth, fingers curling into his shirt without conscious thought, and he made a low sound that felt like victory.
So much for pizza.
So much for pretending this was anything other than exactly what it had been from the start.
Tonight…
This was a collision, not a conversation.
Clothes became obstacles in a language we both understood perfectly.
His hands were at the hem of my dress, dragging it upward as my fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.
The fabric was a frustrating barrier, and I wanted it gone.
I needed to feel him, all of him. My knuckles brushed the hard planes of his stomach, and a sharp, needy sound escaped my throat.
He chuckled, a low, dark sound that vibrated right through me. "Impatient, are we?"
"Shut up," I breathed, yanking his shirt open. The last few buttons popped, skittering across the hardwood floor. I finally got my hands on him, my palms smoothing over the warm, solid muscle of his chest. His skin was hot, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my touch.
My dress was next. His fingers found the zipper at my back, but it snagged.
A frustrated groan left him, and in one swift, fluid motion, he turned me.
My back was to his chest, his arm banding around my waist to hold me still.
The sound of the zipper finally giving way was obscene in the quiet room.
He didn't just pull it down; he peeled the dress from my shoulders, his knuckles grazing my spine, making me shudder. The silk pooled at my feet, leaving me in nothing but scraps of black lace I’d bought on a whim.
He hummed his approval, a low rumble I felt more than heard. It was a sound that sank into my bones, turning them to liquid. "I really like the lace," he murmured, his breath hot against my ear.
The lace was a weapon, and I saw the moment it hit its target.
"Just get naked," I half-growled, turning to face him.
I shoved his ruined shirt from his shoulders, my hands already working on his belt.
His slacks and briefs followed, and then there was nothing left but us.
Nothing but skin and heat and the raw, hungry look in his eyes.
He backed me toward the bed, his hands never leaving me, tracing the curve of my hips, the dip of my waist. "So demanding," he teased, his voice a velvet scrape. "I like that."
The back of my knees hit the mattress, and I went down, pulling him with me.
He settled over me, his weight a delicious pressure, and then his mouth was on mine again, deep and slow this time.
It was a kiss that promised everything. He began to move, trailing his lips down my neck, over my collarbone, a path of liquid fire.
Lower still, until he reached my breasts.
And then he stopped to play.
His tongue was a wicked instrument, and the small, cool ball of his piercing was a secret weapon.
He circled one peak, then the other, never giving me what I truly wanted, just teasing, tasting.
The contrast of the hot metal and his even hotter mouth was maddening.
I arched into him, a silent plea, but he just chuckled against my skin.
He took his time, laving and sucking until my nipples were tight, aching points, and I was a writhing, mindless mess beneath him.
My fingers tangled in his hair, trying to guide him, to hurry him along, but he was immovable, a force of nature determined to explore every inch of me.
"Dominic," I gasped, his name a ragged sound. "Please."
He lifted his head, his eyes dark and possessive. A slow, satisfied smile touched his lips. "Oh, I'm not done with you yet, Rachel. Not even close." And then he began his descent all over again.