Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Dane
The oak-paneled room smells of wax and oak, centuries of history soaked into the walls. The wood creaks under me as I take my seat. Maria sits to my left, composed and gleaming, one leg crossed over the other, the perfect picture of poise.
A few cameras line the back, their red lights blinking like predators’ eyes. MPs sit in a half-circle, papers rustling, like sharks circling for headlines rather than answers.
I lean back in the witness chair, unbothered. Let them circle.
I didn’t come to London to beg.
“Mr. Black,” one MP says—gray suit, gray skin, gray soul—the kind of man who blinks too often and still thinks he can intimidate. “Why would Parliament allow a foreign investment firm to take control of one of our most respected media institutions?”
I let the silence hang, honed through years of negotiation. The cameras drink it in.
“Because without me, Bexley collapses. Thousands of jobs gone. Papers shuttered. Your constituents won’t thank you when the only thing they can read is clickbait spun out of Silicon Valley.”
A murmur ripples through the room. Pens scratch faster. Someone at the press bench smirks. They smell the headline.
Despite my best intentions, every so often my gaze flicks her way. She’s perched in one of the observer’s seats, notebook open, pen poised. It’s still there, simmering—the same pull that started in New York and hasn’t left me since. A low, thrumming tension that coils tighter the longer I stare.
Another MP, a woman with fierce eyes and an agenda, leans forward. “And what about influence, Mr. Black? A hedge fund dictating what the public reads—that’s not enterprise, that’s interference.”
I meet her stare. “With respect, your media’s already compromised. Hollowed out by short-term investors who don’t understand it. I’m the only one willing to put something real behind it. Or would you prefer your press owned by shell companies you can’t trace?”
Her features harden with disdain, but she doesn’t have an answer.
When the chair calls a ten-minute recess, I loosen my tie and stand, letting the hum of the room fade into background noise.
Inevitably, my eyes drift back to her. But this time, she has her phone in her hand, her thumb sliding across the screen. Whatever she’s reading pulls a soft smile to her face. And then I remember the call in the car, the name Brody flashing across the screen incessantly.
The pressure in my chest constricts. Jealousy isn’t something I entertain. I don’t envy. I acquire.
But the way she’s smiling at that screen—
It’s like watching sunlight fall somewhere I can’t reach.
The rest of the session passes in a string of rhetoric and restraint. Questions about governance, accountability, oversight—all the things I could recite in my sleep. I answer cleanly, coolly, while my focus stays split between the debate and the girl clinging on to the belief she doesn’t want me.
“Mr. Black,” someone challenges near the end, “how do we know you won’t strip Bexley the same way you’ve gutted other companies?”
I allow a slow smile. “You don’t. But you’ll find out.”
Flashbulbs go off. Maria rises, gathering her notes, radiating satisfaction. “Beautifully handled,” she murmurs.
The beginnings of a downpour mist the skyline as we exit Westminster, Maria at my side like a shadow I can’t shake.
“Well,” she says, her tone the verbal equivalent of a champagne cork. “That went as well as we could have hoped. You were assertive but measured — just the right balance for the press. I’ve already lined up a few follow-up interviews to reinforce the narrative.”
We climb into the car just in time to miss the onslaught of rain, now hammering against the windows as we crawl through London traffic, the streetlights shimmering on the surface of the River Thames.
“And dinner tonight...,” Maria begins.
“Dinner?” I murmur, my gaze flicking to the empty seat beside her instead.
After the press briefing, Maria had suggested that Sloane stay behind at Westminster to handle ‘follow-up documentation.’ I could hardly complain without seeming obvious. I mean, there needs to be a reason I brought her with me. But I know Maria; she never likes to share the limelight.
“The Bexleys are hosting an evening at their Surrey estate,” she says. “A handful of key MPs, some media stakeholders, and investors. Very exclusive, very controlled. Felicity Bexley insisted you be there; she wants to ‘build bridges.’”
I huff out a dry laugh. “Build bridges or count casualties?”
Maria smiles thinly. “Both, probably. But it’s important that you’re seen there. They want reassurance you’re not some Wall Street marauder here to gut their legacy.”
“Who else will be there?” I ask, still watching the wet city slide past.
“Stan and Felicity Bexley, of course. A few members of their board. Sir William from the Department for Digital Affairs, he’s always eager for a photo op. Oh, and the Drakes, I believe.” She glances up from her notes. “I’ll brief you on the key talking points.”
“I’ll manage,” I say flatly.
“Ah, and I think Hugo Bexley is making an appearance.” Maria’s smile is as lethal as mine. “Apparently, he’s crawled out of his latest coke-induced stupor.”
“Yeah—and out from under a few dozen naked tits he was buried beneath at the Serpent,” I drawl.
“Perhaps don’t mention it at dinner.”
“Do you think I’m a complete imbecile, Maria?”
She chuckles lightly but thankfully keeps quiet for the rest of the journey.
By the time I’m sliding the key into the lock of my hotel suite, I’m ready to hit the gym.
Anything to burn off the tension of the day.
And it’s got nothing to do with the stress of the billion-dollar acquisition of a media giant and everything to do with the memory of her quiet moan crawling through my head like smoke.
Thankfully, the hotel gym is quiet. I don’t like company when I’m working out.
I strip off my shirt, the sting of cold air meeting sweat-slick skin as I grip the bar and push through another set.
Muscles strain, veins stand out, and the ache in my shoulders feels clean, earned.
Clearing my mind of any noise. When I’m done, I toss a towel around my neck and head to the changing room.
I drag the towel over my chest and strip out of my workout gear, knotting the towel low around my hips.
The fabric clings to damp skin as I step toward the sauna, the heat already misting the glass. I close my eyes and soak it up.
I rest back against the cedar slats, letting the sweat bead and slide down my skin.
For a few minutes, it’s nothing but silence and the pulse in my ears until a faint beat of music threads through the glass.
My eyes flick open. Through the haze on the sauna door, the gym comes into view, and it’s empty except for Sloane.
She’s alone on the floor, her body tuned to the rhythm.
At first, I think she’s simply stretching—but then the motion shifts.
Controlled, fluid. A turn, a sweep, a reach.
It’s not a workout. It’s choreography. Her shorts sit indecently high on her thighs, the fabric tracing the curve of muscle and skin.
The sports bra does nothing to hide every line of her, the fullness of her breasts, the subtle twist of her waist as she turns.
I can’t take my eyes off her as she moves with the grace of a ballerina. She’s totally lost in it. A focus I understand. The kind that owns you.
My pulse thuds, heavy like a fever dream I can’t shake, as I picture her naked, my lips and fingers tracing every curve, teasing her thighs open until she’s writhing on my tongue, begging, letting me own every inch of her.
I’m fighting a losing battle as a hot pulse takes control of my body, balls fucking aching, cock swelling like a needy fucker.
It’s almost a relief when she stops, one hand braced on her knee, head bowed. I just about have my breath under control when she reappears at the sauna door, wearing only a bikini top, a towel around her waist, and my sanity hanging by a goddamn thread.
Christ almighty, someone’s fucking with me today.
She pushes through the door, freezing the second she sees me.
I raise a brow, feigning nonchalance. “What a surprise.”
“Oh, sorry,” she says, flustered, her eyes dropping between my thighs, widening when she sees the effect her little performance had on me before they jump back guiltily to mine. “I didn’t know you were in here. I’ll go.”
“Stay,” I growl, the roughness of my voice surprising even me.
“I should go,” she repeats, one foot already out the door.
“That didn’t stop you last time.”
Her brow pinches. “What?”
“Watching,” I grit out. “You enjoyed every second of that.”
Irritation flashes in her gaze before she spins and storms off.
I don’t know what the hell’s got into me, but I spring to my feet, chasing her down. She breaks into a half jog as she pushes through to the pool, flinging her towel on a lounger and wading into the water like the stubborn mule she is.
I’ve officially lost my mind for this woman as I wade in after her with only the small towel around my waist protecting my modesty.
“What are you doing? Stop following me.” She looks over her shoulder, forehead furrowed, jaw on the ground.
She shrieks as I close the distance, caging her against the pool’s edge, gripping her waist firmly.
“You’re crazy,” she breathes.
“Seems that way.”
Her chest rises fast, breaths quick and shallow. I slide a hand up to her jaw, my thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t push me away. Her lips part slightly, eyelids flickering as my thumb drags over her lower lip.
“You know,” I murmur, “of all your talents, I didn’t think voyeurism would be one of them.”
Her eyes narrow. “It’s not.”
Her eyes dart down to the massive tent jabbing insistently against her thigh, barely concealed by the flimsy wet towel.
“Then maybe stop staring,” I say, voice quiet.
“Ugh, will you put that thing away.”
My grin deepens. “You didn’t seem to mind when you were drooling over it yesterday.”
Color flares in her cheeks. “I was not—”
I step in closer, water rippling between us. Her back presses against the tiles as I lift a hand to her cheek, brushing away a droplet that wasn’t there a moment ago. Her skin is warm under my palm.
“You know what I think?” My breath grazes her temple, my lips close enough for her to feel the words. “I think you liked it. Just like you like this.”
Her breath catches as my fingers drift down, tracing the strap of her bikini.
I hook it with a finger, tugging just enough for the fabric to stretch over her taut nipples before letting it snap back.
She flinches, but not from fear. My thumb brushes her nipple, so lightly it’s almost a question.
I hold it there, keeping my eyes on her face, waiting for the pull-back that doesn’t come.
Oh, she likes it.
Her eyes flutter closed. I watch her throat move as she swallows, lips parting like she’s forgotten how to breathe.
“Still going to tell me you don’t like it?” I murmur.
Her fingers come up, uncertain, catching at my shoulders as if to steady herself. The move pulls her closer, her body brushing mine, slick skin meeting slick skin.
I drop my hand to her waist, tracing the line of her hip with my thumb. She exhales, a small, shaky sound that goes straight to my cock—as if it needs any further encouragement.
Her lashes lift, and for a second, neither of us moves. Then I tilt her chin up, our mouths so close her next breath mingles with mine.
“Tell me to stop,” I breathe.
She doesn’t.
I lift her, her legs wrapping around me on instinct. A soft sound escapes her when I grind forward, my lips skimming her cheekbone, drinking in the sweet, unsteady rhythm of her surrender.
Her lips brush mine—barely a touch—but it’s enough to set every muscle in me straining for more.
I’m seconds from losing every ounce of control when the pool door flies open.
We freeze as an elderly couple strolls in.
The man stops dead. The woman’s hand flies to her chest.
For a second, no one speaks. Just me, half-naked with the world’s largest boner, holding Sloane against the pool wall like I’m trying to grind her into the tiles.
Sloane jumps back like her ass is on fire, pulling herself out of the pool, scrambling for her towel.
“Lovely evening,” the gentleman says, trying admirably to ignore the elephant in the room—or, more accurately, in my towel.
“Hey,” Sloane mutters, avoiding all eye contact.
I wade out, whistling under my breath, clutching the towel strategically against my crotch to preserve what’s left of my dignity.
The woman clutches her imaginary pearls, her face somewhere between horror and cardiac arrest. I flash her a wink as I pass because, at this point, what’s left to lose?
Before I go, I pause, glancing back at Sloane, who now seems intent on denying my existence entirely.
“We’ll continue this discussion later, Sloane.”
She flashes me a look as if to say Christ, will you just fucking leave already.
I chuckle to myself as I push through the double doors to the gym.
Yeah, I’ve officially lost my mind over this woman.
But the biggest surprise?
I’m enjoying every second.