Chapter 39
The moment Lily’s hand slips into mine, I feel it—a spark that makes everything else fade.
The city lights, the laughter from the bistro, even the threat of Antonio catching onto the fact I’m currently lying to him, it all vanishes.
There’s only her, only us, and the thread of need tying us together.
I glance at her in the streetlight.
Her eyes catch the glow—wide, startled, and a little defiant, but determined in that way that has always been fatal to my self-control.
Her lips are still swollen from my kiss, a reminder I can’t stop staring at, can’t stop replaying.
She’s reckless in the ways that tempt me, and irresistible beyond reason.
She’s perfect.
In every sense of the word.
And she’s mine.
God help me, she’s always been mine.
The words claw at my throat, begging to be spoken. I want to cup her face, brush my thumbs across the flushed heat of her cheeks, and kiss her until the world falls out from under us, until she forgets how to think, until she remembers nothing except the way my hands feel on her skin.
But she deserves more than stolen moments in the shadows.
More than nights where I appear and disappear like a ghost.
More than a man who let fear tear them apart.
I want to give her all of it.
A future she doesn’t have to hide from.
A love that doesn’t have to curl in on itself to survive.
But I can’t, not yet. And that truth guts me.
Lily Davis deserves the world, and the fact that I’ve never once been in the position to offer it to her—never been free, never been enough, never been able to choose her without the whole damn city catching fire—feels like something that should be punishable by death.
Because every step she takes beside me tonight, every brush of her hand against mine, every small, unguarded look she gives me, it all feels like a promise I can’t keep.
And I’d tear the world apart just to rewrite that fate.
But for now, we just walk. Side by side, hand in hand. Guiding her through the quiet streets, careful but possessive, fingers tight around hers, neither of us acknowledging how I know where her flat is despite having no good reason for knowing.
The city stretches around us, quiet, almost reverent, like it’s watching this careful unravelling, the recklessness we’ve always carried between us, finally given room.
No marriage contract. No Jen. No sea of secrets.
Tonight, it feels like something else entirely, like the first real chance at something new.
Something bigger than either of us ever dared to hope for.
Her dress brushes my wrist with every step, delicate silk that feels both fragile and impossibly strong. She walks lightly, careful not to trip over the uneven stones, and I can’t stop myself from glancing at her.
“You’re quiet,” her voice drifts between us, soft and almost fragile, like she’s afraid any sound might shatter the bubble we’ve built around ourselves.
“Just paying attention,” I reply, though the truth is simpler.
I’m memorising her—every detail, every nuance.
The way the moonlight grazes her cheek, the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders with each breath, the way her eyes dart and hesitate.
I’m storing it all, imprinting it, so that if she ever comes to her senses and slams the door in my face, I’ll still have her. Every fragment. Every forbidden moment.
“Still obsessed, huh?” she teases, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
“Always,” I vow, letting the word hang between us, sharp, soft, and full of intent.
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t pull away. Instead, she tugs my hand, leading me down the quiet street and up through the building to her flat. When we reach her door, I hesitate, not from doubt, but from knowing that once I cross this threshold, nothing between us stays the same.
She fumbles for her keys with her free hand, and I can feel the tension building, ready to snap the second she lets me in. I want to pull her into my arms again, kiss her, hold her until she forgets everything else but the taste of my name on her lips.
“Matt…” Her voice is small, hesitant, as she looks at me over her shoulder.
“Yes?” I step close, letting her feel my heat without touching, just close enough to make her shiver.
Her hand tightens slightly in mine as she twists to face me. “Tonight… this is crazy.”
I press my forehead to hers. “You drive me crazy,” I whisper. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She laughs softly, but it’s tinged with nerves. I can feel her pulse against my chest. I inhale, memorising it. My thumb brushes the back of her hand, slow and possessive.
Finally, she opens the door, tugging me gently inside. I go willingly. I’d follow her into hell itself if she asked. Her flat—every scattered sketch, every stray shoe kicked off by the door, the collection of coffee cups in the sink—feels impossibly lived-in, impossibly hers. Safe, and yet foreign.
The door clicks shut behind us, and for a heartbeat, the world outside ceases to exist. The distant hum of Lyon, the soft slap of the river against the quay, all fade to nothing. There’s only the heat between us—thick, charged, undeniable.
I let go of her hand, just enough to brush my thumb along her jaw, tracing the line that makes her impossible to forget. She tilts her head, letting me, letting this, happen. And I burn with it—the way she’s both defiant and yielding, how every inch of her radiates tension and longing.
“This fucking dress,” I murmur, voice low, almost a growl. “You know it’s driving me insane.”
She laughs softly, a nervous, breathy sound that twists my gut. “I wasn’t thinking about you when I made it, Matt.”
“No?” I step closer, slow, deliberate. Close enough that the heat from my body presses into hers, close enough that every shallow breath she takes brushes against my chest. “Because it feels like you did. You had to know what seeing you in this would do to me. Christ, you're a vision.”
Her eyes dart to mine, searching, warning, teasing all at once. And I can’t stop myself from leaning in, just a fraction, my lips hovering near hers. The air between us is electric, vibrating with every word left unsaid.
“You’re reckless tonight," she whispers.
“And you love it,” I counter, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. My thumb lingers against her temple, light but possessive.
She shivers at the contact, and my chest tightens in response. Every instinct in me screams to take her, to claim every inch, to walk straight into Jonathan’s office and tell him she’s mine. That no contract, no false accusations, no man alive gets to stand between us anymore.
But the part of me that’s always done the calculations—the part that knows when to wait—pulls the reins tight. The part that keeps her safe.
Not tonight.
Not yet.
But soon.
Her gaze drops to my lips. “Matt…” Her voice cracks, soft, a tremor of something I can’t name—fear, desire, maybe both.
I tilt my head, careful, teasing. “Say it.”
“Say what?” she whispers, trying to steady herself.
“That you want me,” I say, low and precise, letting the words sink between us like a promise—and a challenge. “That it’s always been us.”
She swallows hard, eyes flicking up to mine, wide and luminous. “I—”
Reaching for her as she hesitates, my fingers curl around her waist, pulling her closer so that her body slots against mine, like the missing piece to a puzzle.
Her breath catches. “Matt…”
She leans into me, just a fraction, and I can feel the war inside her—the part that wants to fight, the part that wants to surrender. And I want both. I need both.
I step back just a little, enough to look down at her, drink in the curve of her jaw, the swell of her lips, the fire in her eyes. “Tell me I’m right,” I demand, my voice soft but edged with desperation. “Tell me you want me.”
Her lips part, her breath shallow, and I see it—the surrender, the longing, the heat simmering beneath the surface.
“You know I do, Matt. That’s never changed, but we can’t,” she whispers, voice trembling.
“Fuck that,” I mutter, then I kiss her.
In a second, I have her pinned to her front door.
My hands on her waist, my hips flush against hers as I slant my mouth over hers.
Her lips are soft and parted, and her mouth opens wider to let out a needy little whimper, surrendering completely to the kiss.
Her fingers twine through my hair, sweet touches that make my body burn.
Her tongue sweeps into my mouth, bringing with it a hint of wine that makes me pause for a split second.
But the second she senses my hesitation, she’s holding me closer, rising onto her tiptoes to lock her arms around my neck.
In response, I drop my hands, gripping her ass.
The feel of her pressed so tightly against me for the first time in too long rips a hungry groan from deep in my chest, and I’m helpless to do anything other than grind my hips against hers, seeking some kind of relief from the torture she’s causing.
There’s nothing soft or hesitant about the way she leans into my touch, kissing me back with pure fervour, a year’s worth of longing that our brief night together did nothing to dull.
If anything, that hint of what could be has made the past two weeks feel like a relentless, torturous edging session, one that only now we’re finally able to let explode.
Every touch, every kiss, every heated gasp that spills into the other, years of longing and restraint detonating all at once, leaving nothing between us but the raw, consuming fire we’ve been starving for.
A desperate moan vibrates in my throat as I kiss her with everything I have. My palms slide up from her ass, past her hips, skimming the sides of her breasts as I collar her throat with one hand and cup her jaw with the other. The noise she makes in response has my cock jerking against her hip.