CHAPTER 4
Brynn
Geneva, Switzerland
One Year Ago
My heart kicked hard against my ribs, then lost the rhythm.
There was gravity to him, the steady kind that held things in place instead of pulling them apart.
I had no idea what to say, so I told the truth.
“I know I talked a lot of game when you first moved closer, but I don’t actually usually do this,” I said quietly, and the words came out sounding more like surrender than warning.
He went still for a second, as if the words had caught him off guard too.
Then he stepped back, gentle and controlled, easing the warmth of his hand out of mine.
“I understand,” he said.
His voice remained even, but something apologetic softened it, as if he thought he’d misread me.
That was the moment my breath caught and refused to settle.
He hadn’t asked me to explain or tried to change my mind. He’d heard uncertainty and stepped back.
A moment earlier, he’d looked down at our hands like he didn’t know what to do with wanting something and being allowed to have it.
Now he was making sure I still had room to say no.
My hand moved before my thoughts caught up, and my fingers wrapped around his wrist.
“Wait.”
The word came out closer to a whisper, but it held everything I hadn’t figured out how to say yet.
“That wasn’t a no,” I said.
He looked at me again, more cautious now.
I swallowed once. “It was just a truth. One of mine. You gave me one, so I figured I should return the favor.”
His posture remained steady, but something shifted behind his eyes. The tension eased just enough to let uncertainty through.
He didn’t move closer again. He waited.
Then he gave a small nod, as if he wanted the moment to settle before either of us moved.
When he offered his arm, I slipped my hand through it.
The elevator panel glowed faintly when we reached it. I pressed the button.
Nothing happened.
He exhaled softly beside me. “Backup power’s probably running emergency systems only. Staff elevators, maybe. Not this one.”
I turned toward the stairwell.
Red emergency lights glowed above the door, casting long shadows down the corridor.
He followed my gaze. “You okay with stairs? I’m on the eighth floor.”
“Eight floors?” I looked down at my heels. Beautiful. Brutal. “Give me a second.”
I stepped out of them and hooked both straps over my fingers. The marble floor felt cool beneath my bare feet.
He didn’t comment, but his attention settled on me anyway.
“You good?” he asked.
“Barefoot and slightly humiliated.” I shifted the shoes in my grip. “Let’s go.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I promise not to hold it against you if you need a break halfway.”
“I won’t.” I pushed open the stairwell door. “But thanks for the vote of confidence.”
The stairwell smelled like concrete and warm dust. Red light washed the walls in dull bands as we climbed.
My bare feet made almost no sound on the steps. His footsteps stayed close behind me.
By the sixth floor, my calves burned.
I stopped at the next landing and turned. “You doing okay back there?”
His gaze lifted to mine a fraction too late. “Yes.”
I paused and waited.
“The stairs aren’t the problem,” he added.
A laugh escaped me.
God help me, I liked him.
I shook my head and kept climbing.
We finally reached the eighth floor.
I stepped out of the stairwell, breathing harder than I wanted him to notice. The corridor was cooler, with rain ticking faintly against the windows at the far end.
He came up beside me without looking winded.
Show-off.
We stopped in front of his door.
He pulled a keycard from his pocket and slid it through the lock.
The light flashed green, and the suite opened into darkness.
Apparently the blackout had spared the door locks. Small favors.
Geneva glowed through the wide windows beyond the room. Streetlights scattered across wet pavement, and reflections from the lake shimmered in broken lines of blue and gold.
He shut the door quietly behind us and gave me space.
Not too much. Just enough that I noticed he was doing it.
The air between us felt different here. Quieter. Stripped of the ballroom, the storm, and all the people who might have given either of us a reason to step back.
I turned toward him. “I know you said you don’t usually like being touched, but you’ve done this before, right?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I don’t remember the last time I did it because I wanted to.”
The answer landed low in my stomach.
I immediately had questions, but my own life didn’t leave much room for anything steady. I moved too often and stayed nowhere long enough for attachment to grow roots. When I slept with someone, it usually came down to timing and need, a way to release pressure.
Wanting them was rarely the reason I said yes.
But I wanted him.
He looked at me as if he wasn’t sure what to do with that either, not because he lacked experience, but because he was paying attention.
He tracked my breathing, the distance between us, every shift in my posture, as if he were waiting for the point where desire became uncertainty and making sure he didn’t cross it.
The scrutiny should have made me self-conscious.
Instead, heat spread slowly beneath my skin.
I reached behind me and pulled down the zipper of my dress.
The sound carried softly through the room.
His gaze dropped to the movement, then returned to my face.
Still controlled. Barely.
The fabric loosened over my shoulders and slipped down my arms. Cool air brushed my skin as the dress fell around my feet.
I stepped free of it and faced him.
His breathing changed so slightly I might have missed it, but I caught it.
There you are.
His hands flexed once at his sides before going still again.
That tiny fracture in all that control did more to me than any practiced move could have.
“Do you want to touch me?”
There was no teasing in the question. I didn’t need any.
His eyes moved over me slowly, deliberately, before settling back on mine.
“I want to kiss you,” he said.
I took one step closer. “Just kiss me?”
The question pulled the faintest tension into his jaw. “No.”
Heat curled lower.
“What else?”
His gaze dropped to my mouth. “I’m trying not to answer that too quickly.”
A smile tugged at my lips. “Why?”
His gaze stayed on my mouth. “Because I’ve been told honesty can be overwhelming.”
I moved closer until only a breath separated us. “Try me.”
His hand lifted, then paused near my waist.
It wasn’t hesitation. It was a question.
I held his gaze and closed the distance for him, pressing my body into the waiting warmth of his palm.
His fingers tightened, and my body answered just as quickly.
His other hand came up to my face, his thumb tracing once along my jaw as if memorizing the shape of it.
Then his mouth met mine.
The kiss wasn’t tentative. It was controlled for exactly one second before something in him gave.
His hand slid fully around my waist and pulled me closer as his mouth deepened against mine. Every careful inch of him turned intent, focused, almost ruthless in the way he learned what made me breathe harder and did it again.
I curled my fingers into the front of his shirt.
He broke the kiss only long enough to look at me, checking and assessing.
“Good?” he asked, his voice rougher than before.
I took a breath that didn’t quite steady me. “Very.”
His eyes darkened.
This time, when he kissed me, there was nothing careful about it.