Chapter 25
* * *
Emma
Ever since Margaret called the office, the rest of the week had been one long, creeping panic attack. Jennifer kept drafting emails she never sent. Kevin joked about “fixing the books,” and David actually paused to consider it.
That was the moment I knew we were fucked.
We had one week before the cat clawed its way out of the bag. One week to spin the fallout into something that wouldn’t send the company into a tailspin.
But tonight, I didn’t have to be Emma Sinclair, CEO of Elion.
Tonight, I could just be Emma.
Damien had planned another date night—a “pajama party,” he’d clarified with a laugh.
Candace had insisted on selecting my outfit: a satin shorts-and-tank set that draped in all the right ways and hinted in all the others, paired with delicate black lace underneath.
She winked. “You know… just in case.”
My stomach fluttered at the memory.
The elevator climbed toward Damien’s floor, and I slid out of the jacket I’d used to hide the barely-there silk beneath.
The numbers blinked upward one by one.
Then the elevator chimed.
The doors parted.
And Damien was there—waiting, leaning against the wall like he’d been listening for the precise moment I arrived.
And he was wearing gray sweatpants.
Holy shit.
Heat rushed into my cheeks before I could control it. The white T-shirt was unfair enough—thin cotton stretched across his shoulders—but the gray sweats were a personal attack.
“Hi,” I managed, the word catching as my attention jerked upward. I was no better than a man staring at a woman’s chest.
He straightened, a lazy grin pulling at his lips. “Hi.” Then he reached for me. Arms folding around me, drawing me into the warm, steady line of his body. I went willingly, sinking into the hold like it had been waiting for me all along.
His fingers slipped beneath my jaw, tilting my face up to kiss me—nothing like our last, no rush of heat or urgency. Just tender pressure. A kiss that steadied rather than devoured.
One of his hands cupped the base of my skull as he drew me in, our mouths finding an easy, instinctive rhythm—steady, almost shy in its tenderness. The kiss eased into a final brush of lips, a quiet promise neither of us said aloud.
Then—
I felt it.
Not intentional.
Not deliberate.
Just the unmistakable press of his body shifting against mine, the accidental brush of a third arm he had absolutely no control over.
He jolted—just enough to break the moment—clearing his throat, the tips of his ears turning pink.
“You did that on purpose,” he muttered, color creeping to his cheekbones.
“Did what?” I giggled, trying—and failing—to look away.
He shot me a suffering look, his face shifting from pink to a full, mortified red. “Please stop looking at me like that,” he pleaded, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“Like what, Mr. Holt?” I dropped my voice into a low purr.
“Emma,” he warned, the flush climbing higher, blooming across his skin. “I’m trying to be good here.”
My own blush warmed its way down my collarbone, the implication landing heavy and alive between us. I rolled my eyes with an exaggerated sigh. “Fine.”
He stepped forward, pressed a simple kiss to my forehead, and slipped an arm around my waist, guiding me through his home.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we passed the couch.
“You liked the terrace last time,” he said, a mysterious grin tugging at his mouth. “I thought we could do something similar tonight.”
I narrowed my eyes, even as my pulse fluttered with anticipation.
He swung open the glass door and ushered me back under the fairy lights. But there was no table this time. Instead, a low mattress waited—blanketed, piled with pillows, a bottle of wine and a dessert platter arranged beside it like an afterthought.
“Really? A pajama party and a mattress on the patio?”
“That isn’t—” he stammered, dragging a hand along his jaw as he took in the setup. “Okay, I can see why you’d assume that.”
“Assume?” I balked.
“Yes, assume,” he shot back. “Tonight was supposed to be fun. Wine, chocolate, a movie.” He pointed a finger at me, accusatory and dramatic. “And now you’ve perverted my mind. Tainted it with improper thoughts.”
I leveled him with a halfhearted glare, even as something low inside me tightened. “I’m not the one wearing—” I gave him a pointed once-over. “Forbidden gray sweatpants.”
“Oh, right,” he said dryly, his attention drifting over me in a deliberate pass. “Because you stroll in here looking like that”—he gestured lightly toward the dip of satin at my neckline—”and I’m the one with insidious intentions?”
The joke landed.
But the echo didn’t come.
I waited—instinctively—for my father’s voice to cut through the moment. The accusations. The insults. The sharp, familiar sting I’d braced myself for most of my life.
Nothing.
The silence held, cushioned by the protection Damien had built around us—inch by inch, gesture by gesture. The same structure he’d nearly torn down. The same one he’d spent every breath since repairing.
It was the only reason my head was clear enough to joke at all tonight, in the wake of Wednesday’s unwelcome news.
Our eyes locked, something unspoken threading between us—an understanding of where we stood now, of the fragile but steady ground we were choosing beneath our feet.
A ground that now ached with a deeper, sweeter need.
“You’ll be the death of me, Ms. Sinclair,” he said through his teeth as he stepped back, guiding me farther onto the terrace.
The mattress was plush, pillows piled everywhere, not a sharp edge in sight. On the building facade, a projector cast a glowing movie title across the wall: NOW YOU SEE ME
I folded into the pillows, tugging one into my lap. “What’s it about?”
“It’s a thriller,” he said, settling beside me with an almost sheepish shrug. “Four magicians hired by some rich guy to pull off illusions that are really high-level burglaries. Like I said, I had innocent intentions.”
I arched a brow, lips curving. “Please. You know I love crime.”
“Only elegant ones,” he quipped, catching the connection immediately.
It had been the first night we talked. The same night he’d messaged me on the dating app. Candace and I had eaten squid ink pasta and watched a documentary on an art heist. He’d downloaded Netflix just to watch it with us.
The beginning of something neither of us understood yet—something that would end up defining us.
My fingers drifted to my nails, picking lightly as the memory unspooled in my mind.
“Shall we get started?” he asked, lifting the remote.
“Sure,” I murmured, pulling a piece of dark chocolate from the platter and letting it melt on my tongue.
The projector flared to life.
Warm gold light washed over the terrace as the opening sequence sharpened into view—sleek black title cards, a city skyline reflected in dark water, shuffling cards overlaid with the mechanical click of locks and safes, layering a quiet, steady undercurrent beneath the night.
Damien uncorked the bottle beside him with a bright pop and poured us each a glass. The wine was luscious—dark berries, a little smoke—pairing perfectly with the chocolate lingering on my tongue.
We settled in as the movie played on, my attention far too occupied with the inches between us—his proximity a current I couldn’t ignore—to catch the first ten minutes.
“What’s happening?” I asked, my voice thinner than I intended.
“That’s the bad guy.” He pointed toward a man with slicked-back dark hair, a tailored charcoal suit, and the kind of cool, detached stare that belonged to someone who’d never been told no in his life. “He’s—”
“Wait,” I interrupted, my brows tightening. “Isn’t that the guy who hires them all?”
He went still. “No…”
I stared at him. “Did you just give away the ending of the movie in the first fifteen minutes?”
“No…” he repeated—suddenly fascinated by a piece of chocolate on the tray.
“Damien Holt,” I chastised, scandalized. “This had the potential to become my favorite movie, and now it’s ruined forever.”
“Come on,” he groaned, sounding genuinely wounded. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Sure you didn’t.” I waved him off with exaggerated disinterest.
The movie droned on, but I barely registered any of it. There was no point. He was too close, the wine spreading a warm glow through me, and besides—he’d already spoiled the ending.
I let myself lean against his shoulder.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then he shifted, wrapping an arm around me, drawing me with him as he reclined against the pillows. My cheek settled over his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing sliding beneath my ear like it had been waiting there.
My fingers drifted across the fabric of his shirt, tracing the faint dip and lift of muscle underneath. A burst of light flared from the projector—pyrotechnic magic exploding across the terrace—and with it, an image cut through my mind so sharply I went still.
Damien above me.
His weight, his heat.
The flex of his body as he moved over mine.
Air caught. Something low in my belly tightened, a slow ache gathering between my thighs. It had been years since I’d been with anyone, and the last time had been a drunken mistake I’d walked away from before sunrise.
But this…
This didn’t feel anything like that.
With Damien, the idea of being touched didn’t spark regret or shame.
It sparked a slow, still want that felt terrifying and right.
His hand drifted along my spine, kneading the spot at the base that had throbbed all last week. The pressure melted something inside me.
“You don’t have to.” My words softened. “It feels a lot better.”
“I’m glad to hear that. But my hands need something to do, and your back is the safest place for them.” The words were measured. His restraint wasn’t. I felt it in the air—heat and want and a distance he was barely holding.
I tilted my head up to look at him through my lashes.
Something caught in his throat, eyes darkening, hunger flickering beneath the restraint he was barely holding together.