Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
DALLEN
Stephen returns to the table with the kind of barely leashed energy that sets my nerves on edge.
The auction is winding down, the low buzz of conversation rising again as everyone shifts in their seats, ready for the dance to begin afterward.
I reach for my glass of wine, needing to calm my nerves after what we just did before dessert is served.
My mother is chatting with the couple beside her, my father is speaking with a local councilman, and, for a rare moment, no one is paying attention to what’s happening between Stephen and me.
Except the man himself, of course. He’s so intense, so engaged that it’s a little intimidating and not what I’m used to.
He sits beside me without a word. His arm brushes mine, and even that small contact feels electrified. My pulse jumps, stupidly hopeful at the idea that the storm between us might finally be passing.
But when he turns to me, the tension in his jaw tells me otherwise.
“You’re not working with them.” His words are low, urgent.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“The Romeros, you can’t work for them. I forbid it.”
My stomach contracts painfully. He forbids it.
I almost scoff at his gumption to say such a thing to a woman he’s known for all of five minutes.
Seriously, the man needs to read the room.
“I don’t think what I do at my work is relevant, nor is it appropriate or allowed for me to discuss my clients.
What I do at Redwood and Tully is none of your business, and neither is their choice on who we pick up and represent. ”
His nostrils flare, and I ignore the nerves that settle in my stomach.
I know, somehow deep within me, that he wouldn’t hurt me, punish me for being disobedient, but still, he’s an intimidating man, and it takes a lot to stand up for what I know is right, not just for my employment, but for me.
I cannot allow him to think he can rule me.
“No,” I cut in, voice tight. “My job isn’t up for debate, Stephen. We’ve known each other for five minutes. My clients have nothing to do with this.”
His eyes narrow—like he’s trying to choose his words carefully while keeping his composure. “They’re not good men, Dallen.”
I can figure that out myself and don’t need anyone to tell me. After I’m given a case, I research the family. Law firms don’t just represent clean parties. Some of the wealthiest people in the world are far from clean; the Romeros are no different.
“Well, I’m not in the business of judging clients, that’s for a jury or judge to do.
And I’m merely looking into their assets, so their character has no bearing on me.
” I keep my voice low and controlled, but irritation crawls up my spine.
“And unless you have a conviction or a legal document to drop in front of me, I can’t exactly go to my boss and tell him I won’t touch a new account because someone I’m dating thinks they’re shady. ”
“It’s not jealousy,” he says, calm steel in his voice. “It’s knowing they’re dangerous.”
I stare at him. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Am I?” His fingers curl slightly against his thigh. “You have no idea what kind of people they are.”
“And you conveniently won’t tell me,” I snap back. “Do you see the problem there? You want me to drop clients based on vibes and jealousy.”
His eyes flash. “This isn’t jealousy.”
“Oh, it absolutely is,” I hiss. “The moment Alex kissed my cheek, you looked like you wanted to flip a table.”
“He shouldn’t have touched you.”
“And you don’t get to decide that,” I fire back.
“You don’t get to control my job, my clients, or who greets me politely at a charity gala.
” Even though my skin crawled when Alex kissed me, leaving me feeling suddenly dirty and in need of a shower.
I shudder at the thought and reach for my wine again.
He leans close, his breath brushing my neck, and now I shiver for another reason altogether. “They weren’t being polite.”
I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the fact this man fires up my soul like no one else. “Until something’s legally problematic, until my managing partner says otherwise, I’m not dropping them. End of conversation.”
He stares at me, fury simmering beneath the surface.
But there’s something else too—fear? No, not fear.
Concern. Something heavier. I don’t let myself soften.
Not tonight. If I do, I’ll be controlled by him for the foreseeable future, or however long this—whatever we have—lasts, and I can’t allow that.
The final auction paddle drops. Applause ripples through the room. My mother stands to clap, and my father laughs at something the gentleman beside him says. Stephen turns toward me, and for a moment, everything in the world quiets.
“I want you to come home with me tonight,” he murmurs.
My breath hitches. “Stephen—”
“I’m not asking for forever. Just…don’t leave tonight like this. We need to talk, and I want you in my bed. I’m not hiding that fact.”
God help me, I should say no. I should walk out and put every wall back up. But the ache between us tightens my chest, the unresolved heat makes my skin flush, and the still-burning argument creates a restless energy inside me. All of it pulls me toward him, against every rational thought.
And I say the word I shouldn’t.
“Fine.”
His shoulders ease minutely, but his eyes remain dark, unreadable. He reaches for my hand beneath the table, and even though I should pull away, I don’t.
We leave separately after he texts me his address.
Optics, of course. My parents would probably have a stroke if they saw us leave together.
He waits for me outside his apartment, and I see him kicking his heels as my taxi pulls up.
We don’t speak as he takes my hand and we enter the building and ride the elevator up.
The energy between us is too volatile, too loaded.
My stomach is in knots, anticipation tightening every muscle.
My blood pounds in my ears, and I can still feel the echo of his touch from earlier.
Desire thrums through me, sharper for having him here, finally alone in the quiet of his home—free from interruption, free to give in to whatever we want.
Damn, I have it bad…
By the time we reach his apartment, my pulse has become a frantic, nervous flutter. The space is warm, dimly lit, and expensive without being sterile. He pours wine without asking, hands me a glass, watches me take off my heels and curl my toes against one of his rugs.
Maybe it’s the wine, maybe I’m exhausted, or maybe I’m just done fighting for tonight. Frustration and weariness settle over me as I tuck myself into the corner of his couch, letting my head fall back against the cushion, wishing for a moment of peace.
He sits at the opposite end, angled toward me, glass in hand, eyes still burning with everything left unsaid.
For a few minutes, neither of us speaks. Then he breaks the peaceful silence, and I inwardly groan at the loss of calm.
“You shouldn’t work with them, Dallen.”
And just like that, my spine stiffens. “We’re not doing this again. I can’t do what you want, Stephen. End of conversation.”
“We are discussing this further.” His voice is softer than before, but more dangerous too. His quiet calm is more terrifying than his loud, abrupt manner. “I’m not going to pretend this is fine.”
“Well, it’s not your call.”
“It is when it involves you.”
“No,” I say firmly, shaking my head. I sit up and place my wine on the coffee table. “No, Stephen. You don’t get to decide which clients my firm takes on or which cases I work on. You don’t get to insert yourself into my job because you don’t like someone.”
His jaw flexes. “It’s not about like.”
“Then give me information,” I challenge.
“Real information. Something other than ‘trust me, they’re bad.’ I can’t act on gut feelings.
You’re asking me to compromise my professional ethics based on what—a look?
A warning you won’t explain?” His silence is infuriating.
“Exactly,” I say. “You don’t get to ask that of me.
Not now. Not ever.” I stand and start putting on my shoes. “I’m going home.”
He stands instantly. “Dallen.”
“No. I’m not going to sit here and let you dictate my life.” When I turn to leave, his hand closes around my wrist, firm enough to stop me. He pulls me against his chest, and I lose my balance and tumble into him. Straight into his lap.
I gasp as one arm sits against my waist, while the other slides across my thigh, fingers tracing slow, consuming lines that melt through my anger like heat through ice.
“Don’t walk away from me.” His voice is low, rough silk against my back. “Not when you don’t mean it.”
“I do mean it,” I murmur, despite my body’s response—my pulse races and my skin prickles under his touch.
Pulled by conflicting feelings, I crave him even as I try to muster resistance.
Deep down, I know he’s blurring boundaries, using my desire to win me over—but I tell myself I’m stronger than this, even while my resolve shakes with longing.
I am.
“You’re angry,” he says quietly. “I get it. But I’m not trying to control your job. I’m trying to keep you safe.”
“That’s not your responsibility. I have enough of that with my father. I don’t need it from the man I’m fucking as well.”
He growls, and I’m not sure if he’s pissed or it’s because I rolled my hips against his engorged cock. “It became my responsibility the second you walked into my life.”
His hand sweeps higher, brushing my breast, and my breath hitches, my resolve trembles. “Stephen,” I whisper, “this isn’t how you win an argument.”
“I’m not trying to win.” His lips brush my shoulder. “I’m trying to keep you.”
A shiver runs through me—want and fury tangled so tightly I can’t separate them.
I shouldn’t be with this man. Guilt stabs at me, and fear simmers beneath my longing.
Everything that makes us who we are, our past, our future, nothing meshes, and yet, I can’t seem to pull away.
“You can’t keep me from doing my job,” I manage, my voice trembling.
“I know,” he murmurs. “But I can show you how much you matter to me.”
And God help me…I let him. I let myself lean against his chest, his hands coaxing, distracting, soothing, and infuriating all at once.
I let myself breathe him in, let the heat of him blur the sharp edges of my irritation.
I let myself forget, for one dangerous moment, that the world outside his apartment that’s waiting to tear us apart doesn’t exist.
But it does.