16. Harlan
HARLAN
Derek is gone from Claire’s door. I should leave too. Instead I stand in the corridor until security confirms he returned to the east wing.
Claire opens the door again. She has taken off her shoes. Her hair is loose from whatever clip held it during rehearsal.
She looks furious. Not fragile. Furious.
“Road closed?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Great.”
“It should reopen by morning.”
“Still great.”
My mouth twitches. She looks down the corridor.
“Walk with me.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere that is not this hallway.”
I gesture toward the service stairs.
“The conservatory is closed. Staff are checking storm seals.”
“Perfect.”
We take the stairs to avoid a crowded guest elevator and the scene Derek could make there.
Claire walks beside me in stocking feet, carrying her shoes. At the conservatory, two maintenance workers finish securing the south doors. I confirm they are done.
They leave through the service entrance. Claire stands beside the dark glass.
Rain moves sideways across it. Emergency lights keep the room dim but functional.
“No dramatic blackout?” she says.
“Sorry.”
“Your resort is disappointing.”
“We work hard at it.”
She laughs once. Then the anger returns.
“He thinks filing changed nothing.”
“It changed your decision.”
“Paper is not a force field.”
“No.”
Her gaze settles on me.
“That was almost a normal response.”
“I am improving.”
The air between us shifts. I know the exact moment it happens. She puts her shoes on the floor.
I am aware of her mouth. Her bare feet. The space between her shirt buttons.
I am aware that wanting her has become a physical inconvenience. Claire notices. She notices.
“Say it,” she starts, then stops herself.
I wait. She exhales.
“What do you want?”
Better question.
“You.”
Her eyes darken. No soft answer.
No policy language. I continue.
“I want to kiss you. I want more than that. I also know Derek will call any relationship between us proof that his affair was justified.”
“Helena will too.”
“Yes.”
“Both petitions were served Monday.”
“Yes.”
“Treatment terminated.”
“Yes.”
“Your board knows the separation.”
“Enough of it.”
She steps closer.
“Do you think revenge is why I want you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have had eight days to use me as a weapon and keep refusing.”
Her mouth lifts.
“Good answer.”
I do not move. She does. Her hand closes in the front of my shirt.
“Harlan.”
“Yes?”
“Kiss me.”
I kiss her.
The first contact is not careful. Claire’s mouth opens under mine with a sound that breaks through every restraint I have managed since she walked into my office six days ago. Her fist tightens in my shirt, pulling me closer, and desire hits so hard I have to lock my knees.
I put one hand at her waist. She presses into it. The answer is in the movement, but I still let her control the distance. She erases it.
When she bites my lower lip, I laugh against her mouth. She demands to know why.
“I am having a very bad week.”
“So am I.”
This time her kiss carries laughter inside the anger. It changes the wanting. She is not an injured woman reaching for anesthesia, and I am not a rescuer collecting gratitude. She is Claire: sharp, furious, alive in my hands, choosing me because she wants to.
Her fingers go to my belt. I catch her wrist, then release it immediately when she freezes.
“Not a stop,” I say. “A question.”
I ask whether being believed is why she wants this. Anger flashes across her face.
“Don’t tell me why I want you.”
“I’m asking.”
“Then ask.”
So I do. She answers no. She wants me for reasons that belong to her.
Relief and hunger move together through my chest. “Then your room.”
“Mine?”
“You paid for it.”
Her laughter is startled and real. I want the sound almost as much as I want her mouth.
We walk back without touching. Every inch between us feels deliberate.
At her door, Claire steps inside. I stop at the threshold even though leaving may kill me.
“You are making me say everything,” she says.
“No. I am giving you the door.”
She studies me. Wanting and fear move openly over her face; neither cancels the other.
“Come in.”
I cross the threshold. The lock clicks behind me, and her choice lands in my body like trust I have no intention of wasting.
Then Claire pulls her shirt over her head. I forget every intelligent thought. Black bra.
Pale skin. A faint line where her wedding ring used to sit on her hand. I take off my jacket.
She watches. No modesty.
No performance. I have to breathe before I touch her again.
“What?” she asks.
“You are very beautiful.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Do better.”
“I want my mouth on you.”
Her expression changes immediately.
“Better.”
I cross the room. This kiss is slower for about three seconds. Then she is opening my shirt while I unclasp her bra. I shrug out of the shirt as it falls open.
I run my palms down her back. Her nipples tighten against my chest. Her sound drops straight into my gut.
I lower my mouth to one breast. Her fingers grip my shoulders.
“Yes.”
The word holds me still for one breath. I take my time until she swears at me. Then I lift my head.
“Problem?”
“You know exactly what the problem is.”
“I do.”
“Fix it.”
The dry humor makes me grin. I kiss down her stomach. She grabs my hair when I reach the waistband of her trousers.
“Harlan.”
I lift my head.
“Still yes?”
“Yes. Very yes.”
I unfasten them. She steps out of the fabric. I kneel.
Hunger hits low and immediate at the sight of her.
For her. I kiss the inside of her thigh.
Then the other. She shifts.
“Please.”
I put my mouth on her. Her head drops back. The first sound she makes is sharp enough to make me harder.
She catches my hands and drags them to her hips. I grip her hard enough to make her gasp, using the leverage to slow her when she rushes and hold harder when she asks. Her fingers twist in my hair. Her breathing breaks.
When she comes, her knee nearly gives. I stand fast enough to catch her. She laughs against my shoulder.
“Do not say anything noble.”
“I was going to say bed.”
“Excellent.”
We reach it. She pushes me onto the mattress.
My trousers follow. Her eyes drop.
“Condom?”
“In my wallet.”
“Of course you have one.”
“A man can hope even when he knows he shouldn’t.”
“That is dangerously close to an explanation.”
“It is the only one you get.”
She takes it from me. Opens it. Her hand closes around me before she rolls it on.
I lose the ability to be funny. Claire notices.
“Good,” she says softly.
I kiss her.
She pulls me over her. I pause at the first pressure.
“Claire.”
“Yes.”
I enter her slowly. She closes her eyes.
Her nails bite into my back. I stop.
“Keep going.”
I do. The first full thrust empties my head. She wraps one leg around me.
Then the other. There is nothing tentative now. She moves with me, meeting each stroke.
I have wanted her since she stood in my office and demanded a record instead of revenge. I did not know wanting could become this violent without becoming ownership. Her mouth is at my ear.
“Harder.”
I give her harder. The headboard taps the wall. She laughs once.
Then gasps. I change angle.
Her body tightens around me. My control goes thin.
“Again,” I say.
She comes first. I follow seconds later with my face against her neck and her name in my mouth. For a while, I forget the storm outside and every crisis waiting beyond this room.
I roll onto my back beside her, lungs still working too hard. She turns and puts her hand on my chest. I cover it with mine. Neither of us speaks for a minute.
Then Claire says, “This does not make us a public couple.”
“No.”
“It does not change the evidence plan.”
“No.”
“It does not mean I know what happens after the summit.”
“Neither do I.”
She gives me a long look.
“You are supposed to argue with one of those.”
“I can argue about breakfast.”
Her mouth twitches.
“Noted.”
I kiss her forehead. She makes a face.
“Too tender?”
“Dangerously.”
I smile. Then I get up. Her eyebrows rise.
“What are you doing?”
“Going to my room.”
She sits up, sheet across her lap.
“You do not have to.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because tonight was what we agreed it was. I do not want waking up beside me to become a decision you made while exhausted.”
She keeps watching me.
I add, “Also, I have a six-thirty storm meeting and I snore.”
That fixes it. She laughs.
“Go.”
I dress.
At the door, I look back. Claire is still naked beneath the sheet, hair everywhere, watching me with an expression that makes leaving extremely stupid.
“Harlan.”
“Yes?”
“No regrets.”
My hand tightens on the doorknob.
“None.”
I leave. At dawn, Jonas calls.
“Helena is here.”
I sit up in my own bed.
“For today’s technical rehearsal?”
“Apparently. And she is asking production to remove Claire on clinical-welfare grounds.”
I close my eyes. One night. We got one night before the next move.
I get dressed. This time, the anger is useful before I reach the door.