Chapter 43 #2
Matthew’s arm tightens around my waist. “Where else, asshole?” he counters, his gaze coolly dissecting James. “You think all men are self-absorbed, manipulative dicks like you?”
A muscle jumps in James’s clenched jaw. He takes a slow, deliberate breath.
“Can’t say I didn’t warn you, Counselor.
” James straightens his suit jacket, a smirk of condescending authority returning to his lips.
“Harold Bancroft is an old acquaintance of my father’s.
I wonder how he’ll feel when he learns his esteemed lawyer is…
fraternizing”—he glances at me before his gaze snaps back to Matthew—“with the very woman he’s paying a hefty sum to get rid of. ”
My stomach plummets.
Bancroft.
Of course.
James wouldn’t just threaten me; he’d go after anyone who tries to help.
Guilt churns like acid inside me. I glance at Matthew, dreading his reaction. He doesn’t flinch. If anything, his stance becomes more rooted, his expression icier.
“James, Matthew, don’t—”
“Sorry to disappoint, Devlin, but not everyone’s for sale,” Matthew interrupts, his voice deceptively soft, yet every word lands like a perfectly aimed dart. “Or did Daddy forget to teach you the difference between buying influence and earning respect?”
James just stares, his face mottling. The muscle in his clenched jaw jumps erratically. The polished veneer of the cool, collected businessman is cracking, revealing the ugliness beneath.
He struggles for composure. A dismissive sneer twists his lips.
“Say what you want,” James bites out. “Lucky for you, I have guests.” He gestures vaguely to the now utterly silent, very attentive occupants of his booth.
“I don’t get my hands dirty brawling with the likes of you in front of them.
” He shakes his head, that sneer deepening.
“That’s not how I play.” He steps up closer to Matthew, his eyes narrowing into vindictive slits.
“I hit where it really hurts, Matthew Warren. You better believe Harold will hear all about this.” He gestures flippantly between us.
“I’d polish up that resume if I were you.
You’ll be lucky if you’re still employed come Monday morning. ”
Another wave of icy dread washes over me.
This is all my fault.
Matthew is now caught in James’s vindictive crosshairs because of me.
I want to scream, to tell James to leave him alone, but the words freeze in my throat. I search Matthew’s face for any sign of fear, of regret. He remains unnervingly still. That ghost of a smirk plays on his lips, as if James’s threat is nothing more than mild amusement.
“Try it, and I’ll bury you.” Matthew’s voice is quiet, almost conversational.
“You think Bancroft is your ace? I’ll expose every dirty deal and every shady connection, so the mere mention of your family name will make Harold run screaming.
” He pauses, letting the threat hang heavy between them, his eyes as solid as obsidian.
“And that loan for Maddy’s Place?” He glances at me for a fraction of a second, acknowledging me before turning back to James with icy finality.
“Consider it settled. A gift from me to Amy so she can be rid of your control once and for all.”
The words hit me harder than James’s threats.
A gift?
My head spins.
I turn to Matthew, lips parting, a protest already forming. My hand instinctively reaches for his arm.
Before I can utter a sound, James explodes.
His face contorts with rage, losing whatever is left of his composure.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he bellows, his voice cracking with fury, drawing stares from everyone in the booth behind him.
Heads tilt toward each other; mouths move in urgent whispers.
Matthew meets James’s glare with a look of almost bored disdain.
“All I’m saying is, go ahead,” he clarifies, his voice still infuriatingly calm.
“Make that call to Bancroft. And while you’re at it, I’ll make a few calls of my own.
” A predatory smile touches his lips. “Let’s see who has more to lose, shall we? ”
The fight drains out of James, replaced by a brittle attempt to reclaim his dignity.
“This is neither the time nor place,” he says, straightening his blue-grey suit jacket with a sharp tug.
“I’m busy.” He gestures vaguely to his entourage.
“But you,” he seethes, his gaze landing on me.
His hand rises to point an accusatory finger directly at my face.
“You surprised me. You’re clearly not as innocent as you pretend to be with your precious ideals about love.
How are those working out for you? Cuz it looks to me like arrangements have their place after all. ”
Before I can even flinch, Matthew steps between me and James’s finger. His body is a solid wall. “Put your fucking finger down if you want to keep it.” The warning is laced with an unmistakable promise of violence.
James’s finger remains outstretched before something in him deflates.
He slowly lowers his hand. A smirk, forced and ugly, twists his lips.
He gives his blazer another ostentatious adjustment, a peacock preening after a near miss.
Then, without another word, he turns on his heel and strides back to his stunned entourage.
Matthew doesn’t move for a beat. His back is rigid. When he finally turns to face me, the icy control he showed James has vanished. It is replaced by a turbulent storm. In his eyes, I see a possessiveness tangled with an aching vulnerability that seizes the air from my lungs.
His chest rises and falls in harsh, heavy waves.
“Let’s go.” The command is a low growl, wrapped in a fierce urgency.
Before I can respond, his hand captures mine, fingers lacing through my own with a desperate strength that sends a raw current straight up my arm. He’s moving before I am, pulling me with him.
“Matt, where—?” My words are lost as he pulls me deeper into the club, away from the exit, toward the back hallway.
I know this stretch of wall.
How could I forget?
The exact spot where I watched my world burn down on the screen of my phone.
He stops just short of it, spinning me around.
His free hand slams against the wall beside my head, caging me in.
His eyes burn into mine, wild and searching.
For a heart-stopping moment, he just stares, his breath coming in ragged bursts that ghost across my face.
My pulse hammers against my ribs, every nerve ending screaming with anticipation.
“Fuck it,” he mutters.
And then his mouth crashes down on mine.
Fierce.
Starved.
A release of every ounce of pent-up need he possesses. His hand clamps around my waist, yanking me against the hard length of his body.
There’s no hesitation. No performance.
This is pure, unvarnished Matthew.
Under the dizzying onslaught of his taste, his scent, and the sheer force of his need, something inside me that has been coiled tight for weeks finally snaps. My own carefully constructed walls, already battered, just…
Give.
My hands, braced against his chest, fist the fabric of his T-shirt before sliding up to wind around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer.
The fight drains out of me, replaced by a matching, desperate hunger.
My fingers tangle in the soft hair at his nape, urging him on.
With the hard wall at my back, the unyielding heat of Matthew’s body against my front…
His name is a silent scream in my mind. A litany of confusion, desperation, and an exhilarating, all-consuming want.
The kiss deepens, then devours.
A pure whirlwind.
The scrape of his stubble against my skin. The taste of him mingling with the vodka’s lingering fire. The possessive slide of his tongue claiming mine.
All thought evaporates, replaced by unadulterated sensation.
The club’s thumping bass recedes to a distant pulse, a counterpoint to my heart hammering against his.
His hand at my waist slides lower, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of my hip, pulling me tighter still.
A low groan rumbles from his chest, and I answer with a broken sound of my own, lost in the onslaught.
My other hand traces the strong column of his neck, slipping under the collar of his leather jacket to the hard muscle beneath.
Matthew tears his mouth from mine with a rough grown, burying his face in the curve of my neck as he fights for air. My eyes flutter open, dazed, trying to orient myself in the sudden stillness.
And that’s when I see him.
Standing a few steps away at the mouth of the hallway, half-obscured by the flickering lights.
James.
He’s not moving, just watching us. His hands clenched into fists, his face a mask of possessive rage. As my eyes adjust, I see something else in the tight set of his jaw, in the tremor of his lip…
A wounded disbelief and a flicker of what looks like regret.
The sight of him watching me with Matthew against the very wall that was a monument to his betrayal sends a triumphant surge of defiance through me.
I drag Matthew’s mouth back to mine, kissing him with a fierceness that is a claiming, fueled as much by the man watching us as by the desperate hunger for the man in my arms.
Matthew’s lips leave mine to trace a scorching path down my jawline to the sensitive skin of my neck. I gasp, my head falling back against the wall, arching into him.
His name escapes my lips, a ragged, breathless whisper. “Matt…”
Here, on the very spot that once symbolized my pain, Matthew is helping me rewrite my history. And every cell in my body screams its answer.
Yes.