Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
The Fainting Couch
April
April's heels clicked against marble with a rhythm that sounded like escape dressed up as purpose.
She was power-walking away from her emotions like a responsible adult who definitely had her shit together.
Not at all reeling from the fact that she'd just had sex with America's Favorite Bachelor in a library while the CFO watched, then climbed into said CFO's lap like it was the most natural thing in the world and kissed him like—
Nope. Mirror first. Emotions later.
Except her body was still trembling. Still feeling Caleb's hands, the bookshelf against her spine, the way she'd reclaimed something lost today. Fun. Confusing. Exactly what she'd needed in the moment.
But then Arthur.
Arthur.
Quiet, competent Arthur who'd stepped in the second Caleb retreated into wherever actors go when the scene ends. Who'd pulled out a silk handkerchief like he carried emergency aftercare supplies. Who'd settled her onto his lap with the same careful precision he probably used to balance budgets.
"I've got you. Let's get you cleaned up."
And she'd let him. Let herself be tended to like a problem with a solution, because her brain had still been floating somewhere between the bookshelf and the ceiling and her body felt like it belonged to someone who made much bolder life choices than she usually did.
And then she'd kissed him to close the distance he’d never pressed her to cross, because apparently tonight was the night April Feuller made decisions that would require processing later.
His mouth met hers like a conclusion, not a question. Like he'd been waiting for her to do the math.
When had Arthur become her bedrock?
Not just tonight. All day, maybe. The audit.
The supplies he'd brought. The way he'd just..
. known what she needed without her having to ask.
She'd been leaning on him without realizing.
Arthur who she'd barely noticed until suddenly he was the only steady thing in a day that had spun completely out of control.
She needed a mirror. And possibly a minute to remember how to breathe like a normal person. Existential crisis about Arthur Vance could come third.
The bathroom appeared ahead, gold fixtures gleaming through a doorway that promised privacy and silence without an audience.
April pushed through the door and let it swing shut behind her.
The bathroom was absurd. The kind of bathroom that made you question whether wealthy people felt normal emotions, or if they just fainted decoratively onto chaise lounges while someone else handled the crying. Which was why there was a chaise lounge in the bathroom. Velvet. Probably antique.
"Of course there's a chaise," April muttered, heading for the mirror. "Because God forbid someone has an emotional crisis standing up like a peasant."
She braced her hands on the marble counter and stared at her reflection.
Flushed. The necklace was crooked. Her lipstick had migrated to places lipstick had no business being. The emerald silk was still doing its job, but the whole aura screamed I just made extremely poor decisions in a library and she had no regrets.
Arthur hadn’t really touched her. She still felt more seen than she had in years.
And Caleb—
No. That was a thought for later.
And maybe, just maybe, her only regret was that it had been brief, and standing, and with one more man when she didn’t even know what was going on with all these men in the first place.
April reached for her clutch, intending to at least fix the lipstick situation—
“You missed a spot.”
She froze.
Then spun around.
Jax was sitting on the chaise lounge. Like he'd been there the whole time, when she absolutely knew the chaise had been empty thirty seconds ago.
“Jax!” April hissed, her voice jumping an octave she didn’t know she had. “This is the ladies’ room!”
He tilted his head, utterly unbothered. “Technically, it’s the luxury powder room with emergency fainting furniture, but sure.
” He gestured vaguely at the marble, the orchids, and the faint scent of money.
“It’s the rich people loophole. You didn’t think the chaise was for relaxing, did you?
A space for private conversations or anything that requires a locked door and a lack of witnesses.
” He nodded toward the steamer sitting on the counter. “They think of everything.”
April looked at the long, velvet-covered piece of furniture again. The realization hit her a second later, along with a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the temperature.
“How did you even—” She stopped. Shook her head. “You know what? I don’t want to know.” Because if she asked, she’d have to acknowledge how much he’d already seen.
“Good instinct. Plausible deniability is your friend.”
April turned back to the mirror, because if she kept looking at him she was going to start asking questions, like how long he’d been there and whether he’d heard her talking to herself about the furniture, and she didn’t have the capacity for the answers.
She pulled out her lipstick, trying to steady her hands.
In the reflection, Jax didn’t move.
April set the lipstick down.
Her hands were still braced on the counter, but her reflection had gone soft at the edges—less polished, more real.
The air shifted. Jax stepped behind her.
Close enough for her to feel the heat of him at her back.
“May I?” he asked, voice low. “Touch you here?”
His fingers hovered near the delicate chains of her dress where they draped over her shoulder.
April nodded. “Yes.”
Jax’s hand moved with reverence. Like he was tracing circuitry. Two fingers tracing the fine gold links from her collarbone to the dip of her arm.
Each link a choice she’d made to be seen tonight.
“You look like art,” he said, low against her ear. “But this part—”
He dipped his head, lips brushing the bare skin just beneath the chain.
Soft.
Barely there.
But it landed like a promise.
“This part feels like mine.”
April’s eyes fluttered closed for a second. When they opened again, her reflection didn’t look shocked. It looked claimed.
His eyes met hers in the mirror.
His hand still rested on her shoulder where the chain had been.
April turned. For a second, they looked at each other.
Then she kissed him first.
The contact sent a jolt through her system. His mouth was warm, tasted faintly of mint even now.
Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer.
Jax groaned and kissed her back.
Like he’d been holding it in all day.
The silk chafed where it clung to her, pressure and friction layered over nerves already strung too tight.
She rose onto her toes.
For leverage.
For more.
His hand settled at the base of her head, the other hand found her waist. When they broke apart, Jax’s voice came out rougher than before.
“Good to know you like being watched. Because I like watching.”
“With permission.”
Heat sharpened into something more dangerous—curiosity. “You watched?”
“Not the library. The cameras don’t reach there.”
“But I saw you leave. Saw how you looked.”
He awkwardly ran a hand through his hair, “I watched you. All day. Traffic cameras. Building security. The parts already recorded anyway.”
He met her eyes. Didn’t flinch.“I figured I should still confess. Just in case you wanted to throw something. Or press charges. Or make me beg.”
“I’m ready for punishment.”
The words lingered, playful on the surface, threaded with memory. She should be creeped out. She should be running. Instead—
“What if I don’t want you to stop?”
Jax’s expression become predatory. “Then we’re going to have a very good time, April.”
He crossed the space between them until he was close enough that April had to tilt her head back slightly to keep eye contact.
“And for the record,” he continued, voice dropping into something lower, more intimate, “watching you choose yourself? Watching you step back into him even with Arthur right there?”
“That was the good stuff.”
April’s brain, already working overtime on desire and consent and whether this was the best or worst idea snagged on the contradiction.
“Wait.” She pulled back slightly. “You just said the cameras don’t reach the library.”
Jax went still, not guilty. Just caught. “Some don’t.”
“Then how did you?” April’s eyes narrowed. “Arthur. Caleb. ‘Step back into him.’ You saw something.”
“I tried. Cut the feeds. Turned away from the screens. But I have access to building security, and I…”
He met her eyes. “I looked. Just for a second. Maybe more than a second. I’m not going to lie to you about that.”
April's pulse kicked again—different this time.
He'd tried.
He'd failed.
He was telling her anyway.
That was either the most honest thing a man had ever said to her, or the reddest flag in a field of red flags.
Maybe both.
He reached up, brushing a strand of hair away from her face with careful fingers. Jax’s thumb traced her jawline. His mouth didn’t touch her, but she could feel the shape of the kiss waiting there.
“Touch has a memory,” he murmured.
April recognized Keats even through the haze clouding her brain. Her pulse jumped at how easily he wielded it.
“Jax,” April whispered.
She wasn’t sure if it was a warning, a question, or just his name shaped like permission.
His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair.
“You know what’s funny about poetry?” he said, his lips almost touching hers now. “People think it’s all metaphor. Safe. Abstract.” His other hand found her waist, pulling her closer.
“But sometimes,” Jax continued, his mouth so close she could feel the shape of the words, “a rose is just a rose. And a want is just a want.”
He kissed her.
Not like Caleb. No performance, no running commentary.
This was quieter, more deliberate, like he'd been thinking about it all day and was done pretending he wouldn’t act on it.
April's hands found his shirt, fisting the fabric, and kissed him back.