“I can survive a tongue cramp as you sit that sweet cunt on my face a few times tonight.”
I’m in love with her.
I haven’t fully said it to myself—not out loud, not even in my own head without qualifiers—but it’s been there for a long time. Maybe forever.
I’ve danced around it. Convinced myself it was too soon, too messy, too dangerous. But the truth? There’s no one else. There never has been.
I know I need to tell her everything. About that night at the party six years ago. Why I did what I did. That I love her. That I don’t want these thirty days to end.
I don’t give a damn about the contract. I never have. I just want her.
So tonight, I’ve planned something. A night out, and a surprise.
I texted her earlier:Be ready at 8 p.m.
She immediately tried to pry for details, but I didn’t give an inch.
When she pushed harder, I teased her:Tell me the secret ingredient, and I’ll tell you the surprise.
Of course, she stayed stubborn, refusing to cave.
Fine,I told her.I’ll send something to the penthouse for you.
The dress arrived less than an hour later—a deep emerald that will make her eyes burn brighter than the city lights. The cut will hug every curve I can’t stop thinking about, like it was sewn for her and only her.
Now I’m waiting on the rooftop of Ember and Ash, a swanky, exclusive steakhouse tucked inside a lavish hotel one of my buddies owns. The whole space is lit in a soft golden glow—overhead fixtures humming low and steady, fire torches flickering against the warm summer night.
My phone buzzes from my driver with a text they’ve arrived.
A few moments later, the hotel’s maître d’ leads her through the glass doors and into the rooftop’s open air.
And fuck… I wasn’t ready for her.
She’s a vision.
More beautiful than I even let myself imagine.
She steps out onto the rooftop, the soft light catching on every glimmer of that dress, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
“Jesus, Cricket… you’re beautiful.” My voice is low, reverent. “More than beautiful.”
Her lips curl into a smile. “You clean up nice yourself, Kane. All black, huh?” Her gaze slides down me, slow and deliberate. “Trying to look dangerous?”
I smirk. “No trying necessary.”
She laughs, and I take her hand, bringing her knuckles to my lips. “I’ve been staring at this dress all day in my head. You managed to make it look better.”
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks flush. The maître d’ appears with perfect timing, and I release her hand only long enough to pull out her chair.
The first course arrives—plated like art, flavors that hit like fireworks. I expect nothing less from one of Manhattan’s richest men… after me, of course.
Dinner flows easily. No pretense, no roles, no games. Just her and me. We talk, we laugh—easier than I thought possible—and somewhere between her biting into a perfectly seared steak and me stealing the last roasted carrot from her plate, I know it with certainty.
She’s it.
I need to make her mine. Forever.
But every time I think about starting the conversation—about telling her what happened six years ago and why I did it—the words get stuck. I tell myself I’ll wait for the right moment.
