“Celine.”
“Don’t say my name like that. Don’t use my name to end a sentence you don’t want to finish.” I take another step. The desk is between us. “I told you about Dario because it was your business. You told me you would handle it. It’s handled. I’m asking you what that means.”
“It means he won’t contact her again.”
“How?”
“The details aren’t something you need.”
The feeling in the center of my chest shifts. The gratitude and the fury sit beside each other the way they’ve been sitting since Wednesday, and I can’t separate them. I’ve been trying to separate them for two days, and they will not come apart.
I’m grateful.
I’m furious that I’m grateful. I’m furious at the man who does something for the person I love most in the world and then will not tell me what he did, as though the information is his to keep.
“It’s my sister,” I say.
“I know whose sister she is.”
“Then you understand why I’m standing here asking you to tell me what you did to fix her problem.”
He stands up. Comes around the desk. Stops close enough that I have to decide whether to hold my ground. I hold it.
“That man is not going to contact her again,” he says. “Whatever you are imagining about what that took, the reality is more straightforward.” He looks at me steadily. “She’s safe. That is what matters.”
“It matters to me how it happened.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me.”
“No.”
I stare at him. He holds it. The office is very quiet. I can hear the city from here, faint, sixty floors of air between us and it.
“You are infuriating,” I say.
“I know that too.”
I laugh. It comes out before I decide to let it, short and real, and his mouth moves in response, not a smile, the beginning of one, and I’m close enough to see it. I’m close enough to see the exact line of his jaw, the gray at his temples, and the way he looks at me like I’m something he has been patient with for a very long time.
I don’t know who moves first.
I think it’s me. My body makes the decision before my brain can catch up, fingers twisting into the collar of his shirt as I yank him down. His hand is already at my jaw, gripping hard, tilting my face exactly where he wants it. Our mouths crash together—angry, starving, and with no hesitation. The kiss is all teeth andheat, his tongue sliding against mine like he’s claiming every inch I’ve tried to keep from him.
He tastes like coffee and something darker, something that belongs only to him. His scent wraps around me instantly—warm skin, faint cologne, and that unmistakable trace of the man who has taken over every corner of my life. It sinks into my lungs and makes my head spin.
A low sound rumbles out of his chest, half growl, half groan, and I answer it with a sharp breath that breaks into his mouth. His other hand drops to my waist, pulling me flush against him so fast our bodies collide. I feel the hard line of him everywhere—chest, thighs, the insistent press of his cock against my stomach. My fingers tighten harder in his collar, wrinkling the expensive fabric as I kiss him back like I’m furious at how much I need this.
He walks me backward until my ass hits the edge of his desk. Without breaking the kiss he wedges a thick thigh between mine, spreading me open just enough. His hand slides down, possessive and sure, palming over my skirt before slipping beneath it.
I smirk against his mouth. “Naughty,” I whisper.
His fingers tease along the edge of my panties, tracing the soaked fabric with slow, deliberate strokes. He doesn’t push inside. He just rubs, firm and unhurried, right over my clit, pressing the wet lace against my swollen flesh until my hips jerk against his hand.
A sharp gasp leaves me. “Zane.”
His name comes out raw. I drag my hands from his collar, one sliding up to push through his hair, gripping tight as I pull him closer. He answers by wrapping his other hand around mythroat, not squeezing hard but holding me there, thumb pressing lightly under my jaw so I feel claimed, owned, completely at his mercy.
