Page 58 of Suite 7

I touch her face, my thumb tracing along her cheekbone. “Be patient with me,” I murmur. Her face cycles through three things at once: protest, frustration, the beginning of trust. She’s not hiding any of it. Just raw, honest want fighting against reluctant understanding. “Trust the process.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it.

I guide her toward the door, and collect her coat from where it hangs. She lets me help her into it, but her movements are stiff, resistant. The night ending like this: without a scene, without release, without even the promise of when.

“Kane—”

“I know.” I settle the coat on her shoulders, my hands lingering there a moment longer than necessary. “I know what you want right now. But this is what you need.”

Her jaw tightens. But she nods. Barely.

I walk her to the elevator. Press the button and wait with her in the charged silence.

When the doors slide open, she steps inside. Then turns to face me.

Her eyes meet mine. “How long are you really planning to make me wait?”

I smile. “Until you stop asking that question.”

The doors close on her expression — wide-eyed, aroused, furious.

I lean against the wall and let out a long breath.

That was closer than I wanted to admit.

When she kissed me. When her hands went to my belt. I nearly threw her against that Cross and gave us both exactly what we wanted.

But she needs to learn this. That she can’t seduce her way past my control. That surrender means trusting my timing, not my touch.

That I’ll deny both of us what we want in service of what she needs.

My phone buzzes.

Vera: I hate you right now.

I smile.

Me: No, you don’t.

Vera: You kissed me like that and then sent me home alone.

Me: I did.

Vera: That’s cruel.

Me: That’s control. Get used to it.

Three dots. Disappear. Appear again.

Vera: How am I supposed to sleep like this?

Me: Carefully. And remember, no touching.

Vera: You’re genuinely the most infuriating man alive.

Me: And yet here you are. Go to bed. Text me when you’re home safe.

A long pause.