Chapter 20
TWENTY
CAMERON
Friday
Golden Horizon Hotel - Grand Executive Suite
San Francisco, California
Later that afternoon, after a post-golf shower, Gregg hands me a small, chilled bottle of San Pellegrino.
He offered me the large shower first, but I’d be lying if I hadn’t hoped he would’ve joined and wrapped himself around me.
Gregg drops onto the sofa beside me, close enough that our knees touch, and he twists the cap off his own bottle with an easy crack.
“So,” I say quietly, rolling the green bottle between my palms. The condensation smearing beneath my thumb. “Paris.”
The word sits between us, heavier than it should.
“Is that something you’d actually do?” I ask.
Gregg glances up at me, his expression careful, like he’s measuring how much truth to offer. “It’s an offer,” he admits. “Kenneth Franklin, he’s an investor tied to Wilmont. He wants me for a major development at another company. It wouldn’t be small.” He exhales. “It would be… monumental.”
I study his face as he speaks and see a flicker of something restless in his eyes. “It sounds like the kind of opportunity people would chase their entire lives,” I affirm. “Your own project. Would you take it?”
“Erm…” He hesitates, then leans back, staring at the ceiling for a beat.
“Paris wouldn’t just be another project.
It would be independence to build something with my name on it.
Not my dad’s.” His mouth turns into something wry, almost bitter.
“I think you can draw your own conclusions about how that would go over with my family.”
“That sounds like legacy,” I say softly, tucking my knees under me, twisting toward him. “Your own, not inherited.”
His jaw flexes, and when he speaks, his voice drops. “Exactly.” He sets the bottle down on the table, and steeples his fingers together. “But choosing it, choosing me, it will come with fallout.”
“From who?” I prod, tilting my head. “Your dad? Would he really fight it that hard? I mean… isn’t success still success?”
Gregg lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “For him, success isn’t just what I build. It’s how I build it, and with whom.” His gaze drops to the floor. “Leaving Archeon wouldn’t be disobedience. It would be a betrayal.”
Silence settles between us, thick and fragile.
“But Paris,” I say finally. “Couldn’t it give you freedom?”
He nods slowly, eyes lifting back to mine, something honest and raw shines there. “Maybe the only freedom I’ll ever have a real chance at.”
“Then maybe it’s worth the fallout.”
His breath catches slightly. Pain flashes across his face before he can smooth it away. “Fallout means losing everything,” he whispers quietly. “Position. Heritage. Possibly even—”
He stops himself.
“Even what?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He blinks, too fast. “Just… family tensions.”
I don’t buy it, and I shift closer to study him. “Gregg,” I press gently. “Is there something you’re not saying?”
His eyes drop again, his voice slower now, tight and controlled. “I just mean that my father has plans, for me. If I walk away, I won’t just lose his approval. I’ll lose his name.” He swallows. “Everything.”
I reach out and let my hand settle against his back, feeling the steady warmth there. “Maybe you don’t need his name to have your own.” I pause, then add softly, “And besides… you wouldn’t lose everything. You’d still have me.”
Gregg lets out a long, quiet breath, like he’s been holding it in for years. He turns slightly toward me, our knees pressing together firmly. Then, just like that, he shifts.
“Well enough about that,” he announces, a crooked smile appearing as if summoned on command.
“I can’t believe how much turf I tore up out there.
I’m pretty sure the groundskeeper is drafting a formal complaint with my name already on it!
” His eyes are soft as they land back on me.
“And you,” he says, shaking his head. “You were brilliant.”
I blink, caught completely off guard by the sudden change. “Brilliant?”
“Yes.” His voice is grounded and sincere. “Daniel trusts numbers, but he listens to people.” He leans closer. “And he listened to you. The way you framed it, how did you say it? Belonging over prestige?” His mouth curves into something resembling pride. “That landed. I saw it in him.”
“I don’t think it was all me,” I deflect, shrugging lightly.
Gregg takes my hands, his grip warm. “No, Cameron,” he says. “You elevated it. You made it feel human.” He pauses. “You made me feel like I could actually do this. Without hiding behind my dad’s shadow.”
“You can, you already are, and I’m sure you have been long before we met.”
He studies me for a long moment, vulnerability in his eyes.
“But you have a way of grounding things,” he admits.
“Even me. Especially me.” A faint smile tugs at his mouth.
“I don’t think I’ve ever stood in front of an investor and felt absolutely calm.
I kept looking at you. And everything clicked into place. ”
The air between us changes, charged in a way that has nothing to do with Wilmont, or Paris, or legacy.
“What?” I ask softly, my voice barely more than a breath. “You keep looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
His eyes drop to my lips. “Like you’re about to forget about your project. Paris. Your name.” He looks back into my eyes. “Everything.”
“Maybe I am,” Gregg says, his voice husky, a faint laugh threading through it.
He leans in slowly, close enough that I know he is giving me time to stop him. I don’t want to.
When our mouths meet, there’s nothing hesitant about it.
No test and no question. It’s a pull and a surrender, like we’ve both been holding our breath and finally let go at the same moment.
His hand comes up to my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheek as if anchoring me there.
The tenderness of it hits harder than the kiss itself.
I lean into him without thinking, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer because distance suddenly feels impossible.
The kiss deepens, controlled, but beneath it there’s something simmering, something patient that has been waiting far longer than either of us wanted to admit.
Every movement feels intentional and inevitable.
With a quiet urgency, he shifts, laying me back against the sofa. Our bodies align easily and naturally, my legs wrap around him like this was a language we already know how to speak without words.
When I pull back, it’s only enough to breathe him in, to let my mouth brush his ear as I whisper, my voice low and certain, “I want you.”
His answer comes soft and warm against my skin. “Are you sure?”
I don’t hesitate. I definitely don’t overthink it. I just tell the truth.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure of anything.”
My hands slide beneath his T-shirt, finding the heat of his skin, tracing the lines of strength in his abdomen.
Gregg inhales sharply, his forehead resting against mine.
Outside, the rhythm of the city fades, replaced by the soft sound of lips, the whispering graze of breath, and a rising intensity that needed no words.
Gregg stands slowly, fingers still tangled with mine.
There’s no urgency, just the gravity of a mutual pull.
He tugs me gently to my feet and whispers, “Come here,” his voice is husky and adoring.
I follow him through the soft-lit suite, our hands never breaking.
The city beyond the window, the bridges, the fog, the traffic, it all felt impossibly far away.
When we reach the bedroom, the city lies beneath us, a thousand silent witnesses.
Gregg turns and takes my face in both hands. Our lips meet again and his tongue parts my lips, slowly this time, deep and deliberately. His kiss unravels every defense in me without force, and I grip the bottom of Gregg’s shirt and pull it over his head.
“I don’t ever want this feeling to end,” Gregg whispers between kisses.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I answer, pulling him closer, chest to chest.
We move together toward the bed, our bodies brushing together, breaths breaking between kisses.
Gregg’s fingers skim the hem of my shirt, pushing it upward and pulling it free in a swift motion.
He guides me backwards until the mattress catches me behind my knees, and he eases me down with a tenderness that contrasts the fire in his touch.
Gregg hovers above me, his breath unsteady.
He traces the corner of my mouth with his thumb while he undoes the button of his shorts with the other.
He lowers himself onto me, trailing his lips slowly down my throat, pausing at the hollow just above my collarbone.
His breath is warm against my skin, and each kiss sends shocks through my body.
He readjusts and grinds his hard dick against my own through our shorts, causing me to moan into his mouth.
My fingers curl into the sheets and my chest rises with a sharp intake of breath I can’t quite steady.
Gregg doesn’t rush though, and he follows the line of my sternum, his mouth brushing along my skin deliberately.
Each kiss feels soft but hungry, like he’s committing the taste and my trembling to memory.
When he reaches the center of my chest, he lets out a low, unguarded sound that is half a whisper, half a sigh.
My hands find his wide shoulders, and I dig my fingers in as a shiver rolls through me.
“Tell me if it’s too much.” He sighs, pressing another kiss just below my ribs, his voice barely a breath against me.
“It’s not.” My eyes flutter closed, voice breaking softly. “God, it’s not.”
Gregg’s lips move lower, charting the line toward my navel, worshipping every inch. I arch my back and take a sharp intake of air, and slide my hands into his hair in a silent, aching invitation. His fingers slide to my waist, to the elastic of my gym shorts, lingering there.