Chapter Twenty-One Reese
Twenty-One
Reese
Tomorrow.
The word kept trying to surface through the haze of want, but Reese shoved it down. Tomorrow could wait. Tomorrow with its consequences and complications and all the reasons this was a fucking bad idea.
Right now there was only Grace.
Her lips on his, soft and fierce at the same time. Her hands in his hair, nails scraping his scalp in a way that sent electricity straight down his spine. The way she moved against him, restless and wanting, grinding into his lap like she couldn’t get close enough.
And Christ, he was hard. Painfully hard.
His cock straining against his sweats, pressed against her through that thin nightgown that might as well not exist. He could feel the heat of her through the fabric.
Could feel her moving against him, that small gasp she made when he shifted his hips up to meet her.
He wanted to tear the nightgown off. Wanted to see her properly instead of just these stolen glimpses in moonlight.
His hand slid up her ribs, finding her breast. Small.
Perfect. He cupped it through the fabric, felt the peak of her nipple hard against his palm and the whimpering sound she made nearly destroyed him.
Grace rocked against him harder, seeking friction, and Reese groaned into her mouth. His other hand gripped her hip, guiding her movements, and the storm outside was nothing compared to the one building between them.
Lightning flashed. Thunder crashed.
And then—
A sharp crack. Glass shattering.
The vase on the side table, knocked by his elbow when he’d slammed down his glass, hit the floor and exploded into pieces.
The sound cut through everything.
Reese froze.
Grace pulled back slightly, breathing hard. “What—”
But Reese wasn’t looking at the broken vase on the floor.
He was seeing a different vase. Different glass. Different room.
Megan’s face, streaked with mascara, red and furious and broken. The vase she’d thrown, exploding into shards that he’d still been finding weeks later embedded in the carpet.
You break things, Reese. Her voice raw and shaking. Everything you touch breaks eventually. You broke me.
A month later, that call from her sister, voice tight with anger, grief and…blame. Yeah, blame and why not? Hadn’t Megan said it herself? That he’d broken her?
Reese’s hands stilled on Grace’s hips.
He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t lose himself in another person and forget his purpose. Couldn’t break someone else just because he was too focused on getting what he wanted to see the damage he was causing.
Grace wasn’t a distraction. Wasn’t entertainment.
She was a person with a kid and a dream and a life that would continue after he inevitably became restless and moved on to the next acquisition.
Because that was what he did. That was what he always did.
And that was fine with him because what happened to Megan couldn’t ever happen to anyone else.
He pulled back. Removed his hands from Grace’s body. “This isn’t a good idea,” he said in a gruff voice.
Grace’s expression shifted immediately. Confusion. Then disappointment. Then something worse: embarrassment. Her cheeks flushed darker and she scrambled off his lap, wrapping her arms around herself.
Reese stood, putting distance between them. Raked his hands through his hair. Tried not to look at her nipples still hard against that nightgown. At the flush spreading down her neck. At the way her lips were swollen from his mouth.
“We probably shouldn’t—” he started, voice rough.
“You’re right.” Grace grabbed the blanket, wrapped it around herself. “We definitely, definitely shouldn’t.”
The silence stretched. Awkward. Painful.
“It’s late anyway,” Reese said, forcing the words out. He peered at the old wooden clock on the wall. “Or early. Nearly one. Should probably try to sleep.”
“Yeah.” Grace wouldn’t look at him. “Sleep. Good idea.”
“I’ll take the chaise longue.”
“Fine.”
Reese moved away, finished his whiskey in one burning swallow. He was angry. At himself. At the vase. At Megan for still being in his head all these years later. At Grace for making him want things he didn’t deserve.
He turned his back on her, crouching to pick up the broken vase. Each piece felt like an accusation.
Behind him, he could hear Grace breathing, uneven and shaky.
He’d done that. Put that sound in her breathing.
You break things, Reese.
His jaw tightened as he gathered the shards, careful not to cut himself. Careful not to look at Grace. Careful not to think about how she’d felt in his arms or how much he’d wanted to keep her there.
He couldn’t be picking up the broken pieces of another woman he’d destroyed.
Not again.
Tomorrow would come whether he wanted it to or not.
He just had to survive until morning.
Except morning felt about a thousand years away as he lay on the chaise longue a few minutes later: too short, too narrow, designed for aesthetics, not for a six-foot-five man trying to avoid temptation.
The storm had quieted to steady rain. That damn clock kept ticking. And across the room, maybe fifteen feet away, Grace was in bed.
He could hear her breathing. Not the steady rhythm of sleep. Restless. Like she was as awake as he was, lying there thinking about—
Stop.
Don’t go there.
But his brain wasn’t taking orders tonight. It kept supplying unhelpful images: Grace in his lap. The way she’d moved against him. The small gasp she’d made when he’d cupped her breast. The heat of her.
The way she’d looked at him after he’d pulled away. Hurt. Embarrassed.
Christ.
Reese shifted on the chaise, trying to find a position that didn’t make him hyperaware of every sound she made. The rustle of sheets. A sigh. The creak of the bed frame when she moved.
This was torture. Actual, designed-by-sadists torture.
He should be able to compartmentalize. He’d spent his entire adult life perfecting the art of shutting down distractions, focusing on the goal, ignoring everything else. That was how you built empires. That was how you won.
Except Grace Sullivan wasn’t a distraction he could file away and forget about.
She wasn’t like the women he usually met.
The ones at charity galas who saw dollar signs or the society types who treated relationships like business mergers or even the smart, ambitious women in his professional circles who understood the game and played it well.
Grace was raw and real and unpolished in the best way.
She challenged his ideas and made ravioli that tasted like autumn itself.
She fought for what she wanted with everything she had, not because she had resources to fall back on, but because she didn’t.
She was raising a kid alone, working herself to exhaustion, dreaming bigger than her bank account allowed, and somehow still managing to be kind.
To care about people. To create warmth wherever she went.
And she was also right there. Close enough that if he got up and crossed the room in about six strides he could—
No.
Reese closed his eyes. Forced his breathing to steady. Tried to think about anything except the woman in the bed and what he’d rather be doing instead of lying on this ridiculous piece of furniture.
Property valuations. Occupancy rates. The structural surveys for the areas beneath the tower. Yes, that was what he’d think about. The fact that whatever was down there, he needed to find it. Needed to secure this property before Grace or anyone else got in his way.
Focus on that. The goal. The acquisition.
Not on Grace’s mouth. Or the way she’d tasted like whiskey and defiance. Or how she’d felt pressed against him, all soft curves and sharp edges at the same time.
Fuck.
Eventually, exhaustion won. His thoughts turned fuzzy around the edges. The sound of rain became white noise. His breathing slowed despite himself and sleep crept in.
Then the usual nightmares that came with it…