Chapter 18 Rafe
RAFE
Ishould’ve stopped her.
The moment she leaned in outside the hotel, pressed that soft, strategic kiss to my jaw in front of the cameras, I should’ve shut it all down. Called off the entire Milan operation. Sent her back to the villa, burned the footage, disappeared into the dark like I always do.
But I didn’t.
I let her have that moment. I let the headlines happen. And then I made it worse.
I followed her into the elevator and gave her something that wasn’t part of the plan. Something raw and unfiltered.
I kissed her like I meant it because I did.
It wasn’t for the cameras. That kiss was real. And now it’s in my blood, buzzing like a live wire, burning like a fuse I can’t snuff out.
I should be focused on logistics, on surveillance, on the dozens of ways this operation could spiral out of control. But all I can think about is her mouth, her body pressed against mine, and the fact that I didn't stop it because I didn’t want to.
We stepped into the suite less than a minute ago. The elevator ride is still humming in my blood, her breath, her moans, every impossible second I held back. We barely made it here without combusting.
She's in the master bedroom of the penthouse suite now, the one I had prepared for her, humming as she kicks off her impossibly high heels.
They clatter against the polished marble floor.
She does it with a careless grace, like this is just another content trip, another luxurious backdrop for her curated life.
The straps of her dress, that slinky, dark green fabric, slip off her shoulders, revealing the smooth curve of her skin. And I should turn away since she intentionally left the door open.
But I don't.
I can’t.
My eyes track every movement, drinking in every curve. She’s still humming, like she hasn’t just set fire to everything I’ve spent years building.
Her dress clings in all the right places while my control fractures in all the worst ones.
I know I should walk away. Shut the door. Drown myself in data and damage control.
But I just stand there.
Watching her like a man on the edge of something irreversible.
"Nikki," I say in warning.
She freezes, her hands halting halfway to unzipping her dress.
Then, slowly, she turns. Her eyes, magnified by the low light of the suite, meet mine.
There's something there. Mischief, yes. Defiance, absolutely.
But underneath it all, something softer.
Something almost scared, a flicker of vulnerability she tries to conceal.
It's fleeting, but I see it and it calls to me.
"You liked the kiss," she says, her lips curving into a knowing smirk. "What you don’t like is that I’m the one who took the initiative. You don't like that I'm the one who decided when the kiss happened. That's it, isn't it?"
I cross the room in three strides. "You don't get to make the rules. Not here. Not in my world. You're a guest. Not the architect of this charade."
"Oh, so it's fine when you're shirtless in the background of my stories," she replies, "looking all brooding and mysterious, causing a global meltdown, but God forbid I act like we're actually a couple.
God forbid I add a little authenticity to your meticulously planned illusion.
Is that it? Is it getting a little too real for you? "
Damn it, she's pushing me again. She’s pushing for a reaction, an explosion.
If she wants to see me lose control then she's about to get it.
I pin her against the wall, my body a barrier, one hand at her waist, the other braced above her head, slamming against the cool marble just beside her face.
Her breath catches, a small, startled gasp, and so does mine.
The air thickens, charged with an undeniable current, a raw, almost violent tension. Our bodies are mere inches apart.
"I'm not your fucking plaything," I say, my words rough with barely contained fury. My eyes bore into hers, demanding submission. "I'm not a character in your little internet drama. This is my goddamn life. And there are real consequences to your reckless provocations."
"No," she whispers, "you’re not my plaything, but I might be yours. Whether you want to admit it or not. I might just be the one thing you can't control. The one thing you can't calculate away. And that scares the hell out of you, doesn't it?"
My grip tightens on her waist, my fingers digging into her soft skin. Her dress, already loose on her shoulders, slides lower, exposing the delicate curve of her collarbones, the swell of her chest. We're inches apart, nose to nose, breath mingling.
God, I’ve never wanted anything more in my life than to fuck her.
I drink in the scent of her perfume, something light and floral, mixed with the faint scent of her skin.
Feel her chest rise against mine, the frantic beat of her heart mirroring my own.
Every nerve in my body is screaming for contact.
The control I pride myself on, it's unraveling, thread by thread.
But I don't.
If I start, I won’t stop. And if I don’t stop, I lose control. Not just over her, but over everything I’ve spent my life building.
And that's the true danger.
That's the one thing I can't allow. It's a weakness, a vulnerability I can't afford. Instead, I pull back, to break the connection, the magnetic pull that threatens to consume me until we’re both burned to ashes.
I let go.
My hand leaves her waist, her body. I step back, forcing distance between us. The sudden release makes her sway slightly. She stares at me like I just set her on fire and walked away from the flames, leaving her to burn alone.
And I did.
But it cost me every damn thing I have in me to do it.
Her eyes are wide, bewildered, a mixture of anger and something else, something akin to disappointment.
"This doesn't mean anything," I say. It's a lie, a desperate attempt to reassert the narrative, to convince myself as much as her.
"Keep telling yourself that," she murmurs, her voice a haunting echo in the sudden silence of the suite. Her eyes hold mine, unwavering. "Maybe someday you'll believe it. Because I don't. Not anymore. This means something. You can lie to yourself, but not to me."
The air in the suite is suffocating. I turn away, walking to the panoramic window that overlooks the glittering lights of Milan. The city hums below, indifferent to the silent war being waged within these walls. My hands clench and unclench at my sides.
She's a poison in my veins, an unpredictable force I invited into my perfectly ordered life. And now she's unraveling it from the inside out.
And I let her.
That’s the part that haunts me most. Not that she broke in.
But that I opened the door.
This doesn't mean anything. The words echo, hollow and pathetic, even to my own ears.
A lie. A goddamn, pathetic lie. I feel her eyes on my back, burning holes through my tailored suit jacket.
She called me out. She saw through my bullshit.
This means something. You can lie to yourself, but not to me.
Her voice, that soft, knowing murmur, twists a knife in my gut. It’s not just the words; it’s the truth of them. The truth that I’m standing here, a man who built an empire on iron control, and a slip of a woman just blew it all to hell with a goddamn kiss and a challenge in her eyes.
Fuck control.
Fuck the operation.
Fuck the consequences.
All I can feel is the phantom press of her body against mine, the memory of her breath on my lips, the way her small gasp had hitched in her throat when I pinned her. The heat of her skin. The scent of her. It’s a goddamn addiction, and I’m shaking with the need for a fix.
I spin around, the city lights blurring behind me.
She’s still standing there, exactly where I left her, a statue of defiance and hurt.
Her eyes are wide, still holding that mix of anger and disappointment.
But now, as I look at her, all I see is the raw, unadulterated desire that’s been clawing at my insides since the moment she leaned in outside the hotel.
"You think you know me?" I growl. I’m moving before I even finish the thought, closing the distance between us. "You think you can see through my lies?"
Her eyes widen further, a flicker of fear, yes, but also a spark of something else—anticipation. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back away. She stands her ground, and that just fuels the fire in my blood.
I’m on her in an instant, no gentle approach, no hesitant touch. My hands are on her, one gripping the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her soft hair, the other slamming against the wall beside her head, just like before. But this time, there’s no pulling back. This time, I’m not letting go.
"Then let me show you what else you don't know," I snarl, my mouth crashing down on hers. It’s not a kiss; it’s a goddamn declaration.
A brutal, possessive claim. I devour her mouth, her lips, her tongue, tasting the lingering sweetness of her lip gloss.
She makes a small sound, a muffled gasp of surprise, but then her hands are on my chest, gripping my suit jacket, pulling me closer.
Her response is immediate, fierce. She’s kissing me back, just as hungry, just as desperate. Her body presses against mine.
I deepen the kiss, my tongue plunging into her mouth, exploring every curve, every taste. My hand leaves her neck, sliding down her back, pushing her hips flush against mine. I feel the soft give of her ass, the hard ridge of my erection pressing against her, and a groan tears from my throat.
God, I need this.
I need her.
"Rafe," she breathes against my mouth, my name a broken plea that undoes me completely.
I kiss her harder, deeper, my hand sliding up from her hip to tangle in her hair.
I pull her head back slightly, exposing the elegant line of her throat, and trail my lips down to the hollow where her pulse beats frantically.
She shivers beneath my touch, a soft moan escaping her lips that drives me to the edge of madness.