14. Luther
Luther
I’m useless all week. Completely and utterly useless.
Every email blurs. Every meeting drags. Every sentence I read or hear collapses into the same relentless thought: I kissed her.
And…she kissed me back.
I haven’t stopped thinking about the way she looked at me afterward—eyes wide, startled, trusting. It did something to me. Made me feel unsteady in a way I haven’t felt since I was nineteen and didn’t know my own limits.
This feels worse. Sharper. More dangerous.
I’m cutting past the elevator bay when I see her step out of one of the cars, and the world shifts just enough to throw me off balance.
Her hair is wind-tousled, pulled into a loose braid. Beige pants. A soft pink blouse. Today’s scarf is pale rose with small black-and-white flowers, knotted carefully at her throat.
“Good morning,” I murmur.
She smiles, shy and warm. “G-good m-morning.”
I don’t mind the stutter today. I like knowing I’m the reason she’s nervous—not because I’m her boss, but because something else is happening between us.
She walks beside me, close enough that our arms brush. Not quite touching. Almost.
That’s how the entire week has been.
Almost.
It’s intoxicating to catch her looking at me from across the conference table, unguarded—curious, wanting—before she looks away.
It’s reckless to let my fingers graze hers when I pass her a document, to feel the faint hitch in her breathing when our hands touch and linger half a second too long.
It’s unbearable to stand with her in a crowded elevator, my hand resting at the small of her back—not possessive or inappropriate, just there—and feel her lean into me.
She doesn’t pull away when I touch her. She exhales. And I have to spend the rest of the ride staring at the floor numbers, pretending I’m not thinking about getting her naked and under me.
This past week has been an exercise in restraint. I’ve gone to meetings I don’t need to attend just to be in the same room as her—like now, dialed into a Novagene call with her and Vijay.
Bob interrupts her. Again.
“Hey,” I snap before I can stop myself. “Bob, can you let Anouk finish her sentence?”
The room goes quiet.
Vijay looks at me, eyebrows lifting.
Anouk flushes.
Bob sputters.
When the meeting ends, I can’t stand it anymore. I haven’t been alone with her since the kiss, and I’m at the end of my rope.
“Anouk, can we talk for a minute?”
Vijay stands, glancing between us. “Bob’s a jerk, but she was handling it.”
I frown. Does he think I’m upset with Anouk for how the meeting went? Fuck!
“I know, and I’ll talk to him about his behavior.” I think I’m pulling off the serious businessman voice. “I…just need a word with Anouk.” I even manage a tight smile.
Vijay studies me for a beat, then nods and leaves.
The door clicks shut.
“Anouk.”
She looks up at me, lips parting slightly as she wets them. I have to curl my hands into fists to keep from touching her.
“I…I have a question.”
Smooth, Luther, real smooth!
“O-okay.”
I draw in a breath. “Do you like the opera?”
Her eyes widen. “I h-have n-never been.”
“Would you like to go?” The words come out fast. “I mean—would you like to go to the opera with me?”
She tilts her head, processing. “The opera?”
“Yes.” My heart is beating hard enough that I’m shocked she can’t hear it. “La Traviata. Tomorrow night.”
Her lips part again. “T-tomorrow?”
“I have tickets,” I add quickly. Box seats. My parents’. Something I’ve only ever used for clients and board members. Never for someone I actually care about.
She hesitates, and the pause stretches just long enough for doubt to creep in. I’ve never been uncertain, and I know that’s because I never gave two shits if a woman turned me down.
I do now.
She smiles. “I’d l-like that.”
Relief hits me so fast it’s almost dizzying.
“I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow,” I say through the tightness in my throat.
She nods, still smiling, and for a second, neither of us moves. The space between us feels charged, tight—a wire pulled too far.
When she turns to leave, her hand brushes mine.
Deliberately.
My breath catches.
Tomorrow night.
I don’t know if I’ll kiss her again when I drop her off.
I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself if I do.
All I know is that I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want Anouk Starling.
“Ria, you just called me three times in two minutes,” I growl.
“That’s because you’ve gone radio silent on me again.”
I look at my watch and lean back in the seat of the sedan. I decided to get a driver for the night so I could indulge in champagne at the opera and not worry about blood alcohol levels.
And…okay, fine, I wanted to make it special for Anouk. At least I didn’t order a limousine, so there’s that saving grace.
“Where are you?” my sister demands.
“On the way to the opera.”
“Hmm. Who with?”
“None of your business.”
Long pause.
“Oh my God! You’re dating someone.”
I sigh. “Ria, I’m hanging up now.”
“Who is it?”
“Bye, baby sister.”
I end the call just as the car stops in front of her apartment building.
I jog up the stairs to the porch, in a rush, to see her. She opens the door wide before I can knock, like she was waiting for me.
And for a full five seconds, I forget how to breathe.
She’s wearing a navy dress—clean lines, deceptively simple, skimming her body and falling just below her knees. A soft cream shawl is draped over her shoulders, the fabric light enough to shift when she breathes.
At her throat, a pearl choker rests against her skin, drawing attention to the elegant line of her neck, hiding her scar.
Her hair is swept up, pinned back in a way that leaves her face bare and luminous.
Without it falling forward to hide behind, I notice the sharp grace of her cheekbones, the delicate angles of her jaw, the gentle slope of her shoulders.
Her collarbones are defined. Her shoulder blades make subtle shadows beneath the dress when she moves.
She looks like she stepped out of another era—black-and-white elegance dropped into the modern night.
Audrey Hepburn, if Audrey Hepburn had green eyes and a quiet, watchful stillness that pulled you in instead of demanding attention.
I reach her and take her hand in mine.
“You look….” I swallow. “Incredible.”
Color floods her cheeks. “Th-thank you. You look…um…v-very…handsome.”
I’m in a suit; I made an effort; I wanted to look good for her. But I’m nothing compared to her beauty.
“Ready?” I hold out my arm, and she slips her hand through the crook of my elbow.
“Yes,” she whispers, answering all my questions, even the silent ones.
The War Memorial Opera House glows in amber light as we walk up the steps. People in gowns and tuxedos stream past us, chatter drifting through the open doors.
Anouk stops under the grand chandelier, eyes wide.
“W-wow.”
“You like it?” I ask.
She nods, overwhelmed in the best way.
“Champagne?”
“Yes.” She looks around and laughs softly. “I feel like we’re in the movie Moonstruck.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I haven’t seen it.”
“What?” She makes a face. “We’ll have to do a movie night soon.”
I hold her gaze as she casually makes plans for our next date. “I’d like that.”
I want to drink champagne and charm my woman, but…Dad does use the opera for networking purposes, which means everyone who recognizes me wants to talk.
“Luther, good to see you!”
“Your father said you were in San Francisco—how is the project going?”
“Are you presenting at the innovation summit next month?”
I make polite conversation, introduce Anouk simply by her name, fully aware that I’ll be getting a call from my mother by morning. Someone here will ‘just happen’ to chat with my parents and casually drop the detail that I brought a woman to the opera.
That’s how this world works.
I don’t mind—Anouk’s worth having my mother on my back.
It’s Anouk I’m worried about because every time someone acknowledges us, I feel her arm tense slightly.
“You okay?” I murmur, my lips brushing close to her ear.
“Y-yes.”
The air is heated between us.
I want her.
I am so close, I can smell her.
I wonder how she will smell aroused.
I nuzzle her neck. She gasps. I get harder.
Right then, an usher moves through the lobby, ringing a small brass bell—a gentle warning that it’s time to find our seats.
“Saved by the bell, my starling.” I brush my lips against her soft, silky cheek because I can’t resist it any longer.
“Luther.” She doesn’t stutter, but my name is almost a moan.
I love that sound. I want to hear more of it.
Will she say my name just like that when I’m inside her?
“Should we find our seats?”
“Yes.”
We step into the box, and she exhales audibly.
It feels like a small world carved out of the opera house just for us—curved walls wrapped in deep red velvet, warm wood paneling polished smooth by generations of hands. Two chairs sit slightly apart, angled toward the stage, close enough that our knees could brush if either of us shifted.
“Is this…ours?”
“Tonight, it is,” I say.
Once we’re seated, she leans onto the low railing, edged in brass dulled by time. From here, the orchestra pit is visible in perfect clarity—the musicians tuning, bows lifted, breath held.
The stage feels close enough to touch.
“This place is old,” she murmurs. “What must it have been like a hundred years ago?”
“Opening night.” I take her hand in mine. “Men in tuxedos and women in silk gloves. Industrialists. Politicians. The kind of people who thought opera proved something about who they were.”
She smiles faintly. “And now?”
“Now”—I bring her hand to my lips, kiss her skin softly—"this is for us.”
Her eyes soften at that.
The strings warm up; the brass hums; the lights dim.
“This is so b-beautiful,” she whispers.
I lean close. “So are you.”
The music swells.
The curtain rises.
She watches the performance with a reverence that makes me watch her instead.
When the soprano sings Sempre libera, Anouk closes her eyes, lips parted, as if she’s absorbing every note through her skin.
“She’s amazing,” she whispers.
“So are you,” I whisper back.
She blushes.
We step into the lobby during the first intermission for champagne and light bites in the Patrons’ Lounge with its tall marble columns and gold-trimmed mirrors that reflect the chandeliers.
Servers move smoothly through the crowd with trays of champagne flutes, sparkling water, and hors d'oeuvres with foie gras and caviar.
Men in dark suits and women in evening dresses cluster in familiar constellations, catching up, trading observations about the performance, already dissecting the soprano’s phrasing or the conductor’s tempo. It’s social and ceremonial at the same time—less about indulgence, more about tradition.
Anouk stays close to me, taking it all in with immense curiosity, her fingers brushing my sleeve now and then. It’s a subconscious gesture, and yet it tells me she trusts me, and that excites me.
I hand her a glass of champagne. “Here you go.”
She takes the glass and sips. “This is how royalty gets treated, right?” There’s humor in her tone mixed in with awe.
“I wanted your first opera experience to be amazing.”
“It is.” She goes on tiptoe and kisses my cheek. It’s unguarded, unplanned, and beautiful.
If people weren’t going to call my mother to tell her about my date before, they certainly were going to now, after that kiss. And if they were going to anyway, might as well….
I put my hand on her waist and pull her close. “What was that for?”
“Th-thank you?”
“Thank me properly, my starling.”
Her expression flickers with uncertainty. “How?”
I leisurely brush my lips against hers, enjoying their softness, her capitulation. She parts her lips, lets my tongue in. It’s heady, her taste blended with Ruinart.
I raise my head after a long moment, reluctantly, wanting more.
“Now, that’s a proper thank you.”
She smiles almost cheekily. “I’m g-glad you told me. I’ll k-keep it in mind for next t-time.”
God, she’s adorable.
I take her home after the opera, even though I want to ask her to come to my place and spend the night with me.
I don’t because I have a feeling she isn’t ready.
She hums a melody from the opera under her breath as we drive home. Her voice fills the car like light.
“You sing beautifully.” I’m so smitten it’s almost pathetic.
She startles. “Oh. S-sorry, I didn’t—”
“Don’t apologize.” My voice is low. “Please don’t.”
She smiles bashfully and keeps humming until we pull up to her building.
I walk her to her door.
“Thank you for tonight.” She clasps her hands together nervously. “It was…m-magical.”
“Anouk?”
She looks up.
I don’t think. I just lower my head and kiss her.
I take my time. It’s not urgent, but it’s hungry. Needy.
Her lips are the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.
She leans into me, hands curling lightly on my jacket, and it feels like the whole city exhales around us.
When we break apart, her eyes are shining, her lips are wet.
I brush a hand along her cheek. “Goodnight, my starling.”
“G-goodnight, Luther.”
I watch her go inside, dress swaying softly, and I know that I’m falling in love, which I’ve never done before.