Chapter 10-Stop Talking
This sixth morning, she left the Morrison files on the counter.
Not filed. Not squared to the edge. Just there, corners misaligned, one page folded at the corner where she'd marked something I couldn't see.
I stared at them longer than I should have.
It was such a small thing. The kind of detail no one else would notice. But I'd been watching her for years, and Blaire Whitmore didn't leave files misaligned. Not ever. Not unless something had changed drastically.
I didn't say anything.
I made coffee while she showered. French press—the expensive beans she ordered from that place in Seattle.
Set her mug in the exact spot she always reached for it, two inches from the edge of the counter, handle at ten o'clock.
Listened to the running water and tried not to think about it running down her body.
She emerged in charcoal gray. Hair still damp at the ends.
"Building security wants to meet."
I looked up from my phone. "When?"
"Today. Two PM." She reached for the coffee, took a sip. "About the office break-in."
"Blaire—"
"I know what you're going to say."
"Do you?"
She set the mug down with a click that was almost too careful. "That you should come with me. That I shouldn't handle this alone."
"I wasn't going to say you shouldn't handle it alone."
Her gaze narrowed. Just slightly. "No?"
"I was going to say I'm coming with you."
"Richard—"
"Not negotiable."
Three seconds passed. Neither of us spoke.
"You don't get to decide what's negotiable for me."
I stood. Slowly. "Someone broke into your office. Someone's been watching you for weeks. Someone sent you white lilies."
"I'm aware."
"Then you're aware they're going to ask questions. About suspects. About who might have done this. About the timeline."
"I can answer their questions."
"Can you? Because I'm the one who's been tracking the silver sedan. I'm the one who traced it to the shell company. I have information they need."
"So tell me and I'll relay it."
"That's not—" I stopped. Steadied my breathing. "They're going to ask if you've noticed anything unusual. If anyone's been following you. If you suspect anyone."
"And?"
"And you've been noticing things for weeks, Blaire. You just didn't tell anyone."
The silence stretched between us. Sharp-edged.
"That's different."
"Is it?" She started to answer.
"You decided to investigate the car without telling me. You decided to confront me about the flowers. You decided to stay here. And now you're deciding to come to this meeting whether I want you there or not."
"I said I'd respect your decision."
"After you made it clear what the right decision should be."
Heat flared in my chest. Sharp. Immediate.
"What do you want from me, Blaire? You want me to pretend I don't see the cracks? That I don't notice when your hands shake, your voice goes flat, or you check the lock three times before bed? You want me to act like I don't care while someone threatens you?"
"I want you to treat me like I can handle my own life."
"I do."
"No." She shook her head. Once. "You treat me like I'm something fragile. Something that needs protecting."
"You're not fragile. You're exhausted."
Her breath caught. Audible in the space between us.
I'd crossed a line, and we both knew it. Said the thing she'd been pretending wasn't true.
She could have shut down then. Could have instantly become Sunshine Blaire and told me I was wrong.
She didn't.
That was how I knew I was right.
"And I don't have the right to say that," I continued. Quieter now. "I know I don't. But that doesn't make it any less true."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" We were six feet apart now. "I've watched you for years, Blaire. I've seen how you hold yourself together. How you smile for everyone else and save the breaking for when you're alone. How you've built this entire life around being in control because it's the only thing that feels safe."
"Stop."
"And I've watched you start to crack. Not because you're weak. But because pretending all the time is fucking exhausting."
"Richard—"
"So yes. I wanted to come to the meeting. Not because I thought you couldn't handle it. But because you shouldn't have to. Not alone. Not anymore."
She stared at me. Breathing hard. Her gaze too bright.
"You don't get to save me."
"I'm not trying to save you."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
"Be here. That's all."
"That's not all." Her voice cracked. Fractures showing through. "Everyone always wants something?—"
"I want you."
Her breath stopped. Completely.
I could see her pupils dilate. The pulse hammering in her throat.
She didn't step back.
Neither did I.
"I want you," I said again. Softer. "Not the performance. Not Sunshine Blaire. You. The woman who checks locks three times and files photographs in the bottom drawer and forgets to eat when she's working. The woman who's terrified of wanting anything she can't hold onto."
"Stop talking."
"The woman who pretends she's fine when she's falling apart. Who lies awake counting reasons why this doesn't mean anything when we both know?—"
Her gaze dropped to my mouth.
Rose to my eyes.
Dropped again.
I watched her make the decision. Watched the exact moment she stopped fighting it.
Then she kissed me.
Hard. Her hands fisted in my shirt, pulling me nearer as she rose on her toes. I barely had time to understand before her mouth was on mine, hungry and demanding and nothing like the woman who'd spent the last ten minutes telling me she had everything under control.
I froze for half a heartbeat—not because I didn't want this, but because the shift from anger to need was so sudden it stole my breath.
Then instinct took over, and I was kissing her back, one hand sliding into her still-damp hair, the other gripping her waist hard enough to bruise. She made a sound against my mouth—broken, needy—, and I pulled her flush against me, backing her into the counter.
She tasted like coffee and anger and years of things unsaid.
Her hands moved to my face, my neck, pulling me down as she deepened the kiss. No hesitation. Just raw need and frustration and something that felt dangerously close to desperation.
I broke away. Breathing hard.
"Blaire—"
She pulled back. Her look was wide. Shocked at herself.
"I shouldn't have—" She started to step away.
I caught her wrist. Gentle. "Don't."
"This is a mistake."
"No, it isn't."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do."
She shook her head. Once. Twice. "We can't?—"
"Why not?"
"Because I don't—" Her voice broke. "Because I can't?—"
I waited. Giving her space to finish. To run. To do whatever she needed.
She didn't run.
Instead, she kissed me again.
Softer this time. Slower. Like she was testing something. Like she was giving herself permission.
I let her set the pace. Let her hands slide down my chest, grip my shoulders, pull me nearer. Let her lead the way she needed to lead everything else.
Then she whispered against my mouth: "Bedroom."
Not a question.
I pulled back far enough to see her face. Her pupils were blown. Lips swollen. She was breathing like she'd run a mile.
"You sure?" I asked.
Her gaze met mine. Clear. Certain.
"Yes. Now stop talking and take me to bed."
We barely made it to the bed.
Her charcoal blazer hit the floor first. Then my shirt. Her hands shook as she reached for my belt, and I caught them, stilled them, brought them to my mouth.
This wasn't like yesterday morning.
Yesterday had been urgent — kitchen counter, barely contained, both of us still half-dressed and not caring. We'd been proving something then. That it was real. That we still fit.
This was different.
This was a choice we were both making with clear eyes. This was me showing her everything I couldn't say out loud — that I saw her, that I wasn't going anywhere, that she didn't have to be afraid.
"We don't have to?—"
"I want to."
"Blaire—"
"I want to," she said again. Firmer. "I want this. I want you. Stop giving me reasons to run."
So I stopped.
I kissed her instead. Slow and deep, I worked the buttons of her blouse and slid it off her shoulders. Just simple silk. Black lace underneath.
She pulled at my belt with more urgency, her breath coming faster as I unzipped her skirt, let it pool at her feet. She stepped out of it, backing toward the bed in just her underwear, and my chest tightened watching her.
She was beautiful.
Not the polished, composed beauty she showed the world. But the real thing. Flushed and breathing hard and looking at me like nothing else existed.
I followed her to the bed. Eased her down onto the mattress. She reached for me, pulling me down with her, and I went willingly, settling between her thighs as her legs wrapped around my waist.
"Richard." My name on her lips. Breathy.
I kissed her throat. Her collarbone. The hollow between her breasts.
She arched into me, hands sliding down my back, nails scraping lightly. I groaned against her skin, and she made that sound again — broken and needy — and pulled me nearer.
I reached behind her, unhooked her bra with fingers that weren't quite steady. She let me pull it away, let me look at her, and when I lowered my mouth to her breast, she gasped, hands fisting in my hair.
I took my time. Tasting. Exploring. Remembering what made her breath catch, what made her nails dig into my shoulders, what made her whisper my name.
She wasn't performing now.
No Sunshine Blaire. No walls. No distance.
Just her. Present. Real. Looking at me like I was the only thing in the room that mattered.
It terrified me how much I wanted this. Wanted her.
Not the version she showed the world. This.
When I finally slid my hand between her legs, she was already wet. Ready. I stroked her through the lace, and she moaned, hips rolling against my palm.
"Off," she breathed. "Please."
I pulled her underwear down slowly, watching her face. She didn't look away. Didn't hide.
Just watched me watching her.
I touched her again. Skin to skin this time. She was slick and hot, and when I slid one finger inside her, she cried out, head pressing back into the pillow.
"God, Richard?—"
My strokes were deep. I loved watching her face. The way her lips parted. The flush spreading down her throat to her chest. The way her hips rolled against my hand, chasing more.
"More."
I added another finger. Stroked deeply. She moved with me, chasing the sensation, and I could feel her starting to tighten, starting to climb.
"Not yet." She pulled at me. "I want you inside me."
I pulled back just long enough to strip off the rest of my clothes. She watched, her gaze dark, and when I settled back between her legs, she reached down, wrapping her hand around me.
I hissed. "Blaire?—"
She stroked me once. Twice. Then guided me to her entrance.
I pushed inside slowly. Giving her time to adjust. To breathe.
She was tight. Hot. Perfect.
When I was fully seated, I stilled, letting her feel it. Letting us both feel it.
Her gaze opened. Met mine.
"Move," she whispered.
So I did.
Slow at first. Deep, rolling thrusts that made her gasp and arch and dig her nails into my back. I watched her face, taking in every expression, every sound, every flutter of her lashes.
"Harder." Her voice rough.
I gave her what she wanted. Picked up the pace, drove deeper, and she matched me thrust for thrust, meeting me with a ferocity that made my vision blur.
"Yes." She wrapped her legs tighter around me. "Like that. Don't stop."
I wouldn't have stopped if the building was on fire.
I felt her start to tighten again. Felt her breathing go ragged. I shifted the angle slightly, and she cried out, arching her back off the bed.
"Richard—"
"I've got you."
"I'm going to?—"
"Let go."
She came apart.
I felt it in the way she clenched around me, in the way her whole body went taut and trembling. She cried out my name — not controlled, not careful, not Sunshine Blaire pretending pleasure —
Just broken and real and mine.
"I've got you," I told her. "I've got you."
She was shaking in my arms, and I held her through it, watching her come apart, feeling her trust me enough to let go completely.
I followed her over, burying my face in her neck as I came, her name on my lips.
After, we lay tangled in sheets, breathing hard.
She didn't pull away.
I didn't let go.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Neither of us spoke.
Finally, she shifted. Just slightly.
"The meeting."
"We'll go together," I said. Quiet. Final.
She didn't argue.
She just pressed closer, her hand settling over my heart.
Claiming.
Her palm was warm against my chest. I could feel my heartbeat pulsing against her skin. Steady. Sure.
It was still beating.
For her, it always would be.
And if my chest felt a little too tight holding her there —
I didn't let go.
Not yet.
We had a meeting to get to. I knew that. She knew that.
But for another minute, I kept my hand steady against her back and let her breathe against my chest.
She didn't pull away either.
That was enough.