"Stop. Talk. Figure this all out. Me. You. The company."
"Or," I say against her mouth, "we could go to my bedroom."
She pulls back slightly. "Your bedroom?"
"You've been sleeping in the guest room for weeks. I'd like you in my bed."
"That's very direct."
"I'm done being indirect." I lift her onto the counter, stepping between her legs. "I want you in my bed. I want to wake up with you. I want?—"
My phone buzzes on the counter beside us.
We both ignore it.
It buzzes again. And again.
"You should get that," Harper says.
"I should throw it out the window."
"It might be important."
"You're important."
Harper searches my face for a long moment.
Then she nods. "Okay."
I lift her—literally lift her off the ground—and she wraps her legs around my waist with a surprised laugh.
"What are you doing?"
"Taking you to my bedroom."
"I can walk."
"I don't want you to walk. I want you exactly like this."
I carry her through the penthouse, past the guest room she's been sleeping in, past the office, straight to my bedroom.
The door closes behind us with a decisive click, and for this moment, I let myself believe nothing outside of us—not my doubts, not Harper's hesitation, not the teetering status of my position at my company—exists.
For tonight, Harper is mine.
And I'm going to hold onto that for as long as I can.
22
SOMETHING FOR DESSERT
HARPER
In all my wildest dreams, I’d never imagined I’d be carried through Victor Kade's penthouse like a damsel in distress written by someone with a very specific CEO kink.
It's been exactly thirty minutes since dinner ended—thirty minutes since Victor looked at me with such raw vulnerability that I almost confessed everything right there in his kitchen.
I didn't.
