Chapter Three #3
We slipped out from behind the roses and into the misted pathways that wound through the conservatory's back gardens.
The light was dim here — candles in iron sconces, the glass ceiling showing dark sky above.
Orchids hung like pale ghosts from the trellises.
Mist curled around our ankles, and the air was warm and dense and smelled like a thousand gardens in bloom.
I was walking fast — adrenaline still buzzing, the high of a clean shot making me giddy — and I didn't see the uneven tile until my heel caught the edge.
I stumbled hard. Pitched forward.
Dominic caught me.
Not the polite, steadying-arm kind of catch.
The full-body kind. His hands went to my waist, fingers gripping through the silk, and my own momentum carried me into him until my palms landed flat on his chest. He stepped back to absorb the impact and hit the glass wall, taking me with him.
My body pressed against his — hips, stomach, chest — and his hands tightened reflexively, holding me there.
We both went still.
His heart hammered under my palms. Not steady. Not controlled. Fast, hard, and getting faster.
Fog bloomed on the glass behind his head from the heat of his body. Orchids swayed above us in the mist. The sound of the gala was distant, muffled — music and laughter from another world.
"You okay?" His voice had gone rough. Lower than usual.
"Yeah." My voice wasn't much better.
My palms were still flat on his chest. His fingers were still gripping my waist. Neither of us was making any move to change that.
I should step back. Make a joke. Break the tension with sarcasm, the way I always did. Go back to being Charlie who didn't need anyone, who didn't want anyone, who kept people at arm's length because that's where they couldn't hurt her.
But I didn't step back.
I looked up at him.
In the dim candlelight, his gray eyes had gone dark. His jaw was tight — not the annoyed kind of tight, the fighting something kind of tight. His fingers flexed on my waist, and I felt every one of them through the thin silk.
"This is a bad idea," he said.
"Probably the worst."
"You're my client."
"I'm aware."
"I have rules about this."
"How many?"
"Seven."
"That's a lot of rules."
"I've never had trouble remembering them before."
Before. The word hung between us. Before two days of closets and cover stories and catching me in the dark. Before he held my hand in a parked car and said you're not alone in this anymore — and meant it.
"What's rule number one?" I asked.
"Don't touch the client."
I looked down at his hands on my waist. Looked back up.
His face shifted. Cracked. Like a wall that had been holding back a flood and just felt the first fracture.
He kissed me.
Not soft. Not tentative. His mouth came down on mine like he'd been thinking about it for days and had run out of reasons not to.
One hand slid up my back, pressing me closer.
The other went into my hair — the wig, technically, but he gripped it like he'd forgotten it wasn't real — and tilted my head back so he could kiss me deeper.
I gasped against his lips and he took advantage, his tongue sliding into mine, and my brain went blank. Just — white noise. Static. Nothing but his mouth and the grip of his fingers and the heat of him everywhere.
I grabbed his tie — the one he'd put on in the car, dark silk, perfectly knotted — and pulled. Dragged him closer until there was no space left between us, until his chest was flush against mine and I could feel exactly how affected he was.
He groaned into my mouth. Low, rough, barely audible. The sound shot through me like electricity.
He pulled back first. Neither of us could catch our breath. Forehead into mine.
"We should stop," he said.
"We should."
Neither of us moved.
His thumb traced my jaw. "Charlie..."
I grabbed his tie again. "I don't care about your seven rules."
"I'm starting not to either."
"Then shut up and kiss me."
He kissed me again — slower this time, deeper, thorough. His tongue swept against mine and I made a sound that would have embarrassed me in any other context. His hand pressed flat to my lower back, pulling my hips into his, and I rocked forward instinctively. His breath caught.
"SUV," I managed between kisses. "Now."
"We need to —"
"Now, Dominic."
He looked at me. I watched him run through his seven rules, weigh them, and set them on fire.
He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the exit.
We barely made it across the parking lot.
His SUV was parked at the far edge, away from the lights and the valets and the elegant couples who didn't know what it felt like to want someone so badly your hands shook. He unlocked it remotely, yanked open the back door, and I climbed in without a single thought about consequences.
He followed, pulling the door shut behind him, and the world narrowed to dark leather and tinted windows and the sound of both of us breathing too fast.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Just looked at each other in the dim glow from the parking lot lights filtering through the glass.
His tux was disheveled — tie loosened where I'd pulled it, hair messed where my fingers had been.
My lipstick was smeared across his mouth. We looked exactly like what we were.
"Last chance," he said. His voice was rough, strained, like the words cost him something. "Once we do this, I can't undo it."
"I don't want to undo it."
"I need you to be sure."
"I'm sure."
"Because once I touch you —" He stopped. Swallowed. His eyes were black in the low light, fixed on me with an intensity that made my stomach flip. "I'm not going to be gentle."
"I don't want gentle."
The last of his control gave way. The professional distance — the careful, measured distance he'd been maintaining since the moment he walked into Morty's office — crumbled.
"Come here."
I moved toward him and he met me halfway, his mouth on mine before I'd finished the thought. Harder this time. Hungrier. His hands found my thighs, sliding up under the silk, and I shuddered under his mouth.
"I need to tell you something," he said between kisses, his mouth moving down my jaw, my neck. "If we do this — I need to be in control. That's how I'm wired. I need to be the one setting the pace. Calling the shots."
"Okay."
"Not okay until you understand what that means." He pulled back enough to look at me. Serious. Intense. "It means I'm going to tell you what to do. Where to put your hands. When you can move. And I need you to listen."
My heart was hammering. Not fear — anticipation. The feeling of standing on the edge of a high dive, that split second before you jump where your whole body hums with the knowledge that you're about to do something irreversible.
"But," he continued, and his hand came up to cup my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone, "the second anything doesn't feel right — anything — you tell me. Red means stop. Everything stops, immediately, no questions. Yellow means slow down, check in. Green means keep going."
"Like a stoplight."
"Exactly like a stoplight." His thumb moved to my lower lip, pressing gently. "I need to hear you say it back to me."
"Red means stop. Yellow means slow down. Green means go."
"And you'll use them."
"I'll use them."
"Promise me, Charlie."
"I promise."
His eyes searched mine for another moment. Whatever he found there must have satisfied him, because his expression changed — softened and sharpened at the same time, like a predator who'd just been given permission to hunt.
"What's your color right now?"
"Green."
"Then put your hands above your head."
The command sent a shiver down my spine.
Not cold — hot, liquid, pooling low in my stomach.
I hesitated for half a second, my brain snagging on the unfamiliarity of it.
I didn't take orders. I didn't follow someone else's lead.
I was the one who planned, who improvised, who stayed three steps ahead of everyone else.
But the way he said it — calm, certain, like he already knew I'd listen — made me want to try.
I raised my arms and pressed my hands into the leather seat above my head.
He caught both wrists in one hand. His grip was firm — not painful, not bruising, but absolute. I couldn't have pulled free if I'd wanted to. Which I didn't.
"Keep them there," he said. "Don't move them unless I say so."
"And if I do?"
His mouth curved. Just barely. "Then I'll put them back."
He kissed me again — deep, thorough, taking his time now that he had me where he wanted me. His free hand slid up my thigh, pushing the red silk higher, inch by agonizing inch. His fingers traced the edge of my underwear, feather-light, barely a touch.
I arched into his hand. He pulled back.
"I said don't move."
"I can't help it."
"You can." His mouth found my neck, teeth grazing the spot just below my ear. "You're the most disciplined person I've ever met when you want something badly enough. So be disciplined."
He had a point. I hated that he had a point.
I held still. It was the hardest thing I'd done all week, including the part where someone shot at me.
"Good," he murmured against my skin. The word sank into me — warm, approving, sending heat radiating down my spine. "That's my good girl."
Oh.
Oh.
I hadn't expected that. Hadn't expected the way those two words hit me — not patronizing, not diminishing, but like being seen. Like he was telling me I'd done something right, and I'd been waiting longer than I knew to hear it.
His hand slid between my thighs. Fingers pressing against the thin cotton, finding me already wet, and his breath caught.
"Jesus, Charlie."
"Shut up."
"No." He stroked me through the fabric — slow, deliberate. "I don't think I will." His thumb found my clit and pressed, just enough pressure to make me gasp. "You're soaked. How long have you been thinking about this?"
"I haven't —"
"Lie." Another stroke, harder. "Try again."