He's right. From the moment I found out he was going to be my client, everything about this situation has been complicated.
When Liam kisses me this time, it's different. Softer, more tentative, like he's asking permission instead of demanding it. I could pull away. Ishouldpull away.
Instead, I kiss him back.
His mouth is sweet and patient, nothing like the aggressive claim from this morning. This feels like a question rather than a statement, and before I can stop myself, I'm answering with yes.
We break apart slowly, foreheads touching, breathing each other's air. The puppies sleep on, oblivious to the fact that their carers have just crossed a line there's no uncrossing.
“Stay,” he whispers against my lips. “Just tonight.”
Warning bells go off in my head. This is Liam Novak. Nova. The man who's been photographed with more women than a rock star, who treats relationships like a revolving door.
I've been down this road before with Kai, and I know exactly how it ends. With me feeling like an idiot for thinking I was special.
But then I remember his words from this morning.
It meant nothing. I went home alone both nights.
It's insane, but I believe him.
One night. That's all this has to be. Tomorrow we can go back to being client and publicist, nothing more complicated than that. I can compartmentalize this, file it away as a momentary lapse in judgment brought on by exhaustion and unexpected intimacy.
It's just physical. A release of tension that's been building since Chicago.
My body is certainly voting in favor of the idea. Every nerve ending is humming with awareness, aching to be touched by those big hands that were so gentle with the puppies.
“Just tonight,” I say.
8
Avery
Liam’s eyes darken, turning deep and stormy. He takes my hand, his fingers lacing through mine, and leads me down the hallway.
We move in silence through corridors of cool marble and dark wood, past abstract art on the walls. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs, a mix of anticipation and screaming doubt.
This is Nova. I’m walking into the lion’s den by choice.
He pushes open a double door, and I stop on the threshold, my breath catching.
This is not a bedroom. It’s a suite. The entire back wall is glass, offering a breathtaking view of the city lights. The room is massive, dominated by a low-slung platform bed that seems to float in the center.
A charcoal velvet headboard, slate-colored silk sheets, and a deep pile rug that feels like clouds under my feet as I take a hesitant step inside.
It’s impeccably, severely masculine. And utterly luxurious. There are no personal touches, no scattered photos or messy piles of books.
“Avery.” Before I can form a thought, he’s in front of me.
His hands come up to frame my face, his thumbs stroking my temples. “Last time,” he says, his voice a rough whisper that slides over my skin, “in Chicago, I let you take charge. I let you set the pace.”
A shiver runs through me at the memory. That night, I was channeling pure feminine confidence, with a hot man I thought I would never see again. I had let all my inhibitions down.
“Tonight,” Liam continues, leaning in until his lips are a breath from mine, “is my turn.”
The part of me that loves control melts under the heat of his gaze, turning me into a pool of pure, liquid want.
He kisses me again, and then his hands leave my face to journey down my body. He peels my clothes away with a frustrating, exquisite slowness.
