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How would a man like him—a powerful business tycoon who has no kind bone in his body—react to me crumbling down under the burden of my current misfortune? And my newly discovered anxiety? I can’t even unwrap that one.

Will he laugh at me? Will he use it against me? Or will he hold me, like he has been for the last minute?

“We should return,” I whisper into the fabric of his shirt.

He doesn’t let go but leans back. Not entirely sure I’ve blinked away my tears, I lift my gaze. His jaw is clenched, and a line splits his forehead. His eyes glow dark.

At that moment, we belong together. Two strangers stranded on an island. No longer lonely. No longer facing the world, each by themselves. It’s comforting, and oddly peaceful.

The silence stretches like neither of us is ready to move past this tender connection.

He’s blocking the door, and I have no way to disentangle from our stance. A part of me doesn’t want to, if I’m honest. I know this is just some outlandish moment of truce between us, but fuck, my tired mind wants to revel in it.

He drops his arms, but doesn’t move. I feel the loss of his touch immediately and mourn it. Mourn it! God help me.

We remain frozen, just looking at each other. It’s almost like the other day in his office, but also different. Like the hatred level is slightly less, replaced by heightened desire, but also some deeper connection. Even though it makes no sense.

But he did look at me like this at the restaurant on our first official date. In fact, every time I drop my walls and give him a glimpse of honesty, he reacts… well, almost humanely.

Is there a chance we could play nice? The notion seems preposterous. But if someone asked me a few days ago, the idea of wanting to be kissed by this man would be equally absurd.

Yet here I am, thinking about it. His gaze is intense, all-consuming, forcing me to hold my breath and not dare to look away.

There is a battle behind his stormy look, but I’m not sure if he’s fighting with me or for me. Or against me.

His tongue darts out, and he licks his bottom lip. I can’t look away, no matter how much I want to. He shakes his head and starts turning, and a part of me deflates. But then he shocks me when he swears and grabs my face.

His palms are warm, his fingers rough against my skin. He leans down, his eyes not leaving mine.

“I asked them to refrain from documenting, and promised we will pose for a few pics during and after the dinner. Is that okay?”

I blink. Once. Twice. Who is this man?

I nod. “Thank you,” I breathe.

“Are you okay?”

Three simple words.

A short question, but it unravels all my insecurities and my stupid need for validation, for affection from those around me.

The girl who was deprived of love all her childhood begs for attention. The woman who lived by herself since she was a teenager wants to rebel against that need, but it’s a lost battle.

I’m not okay, but I’m so grateful for his genuine inquiry, I nod.

He keeps holding my face in his hands. I don’t know if he wants to say something else or kiss the hell out of me.

I don’t know if I want him to talk or to kiss me.

Talk perhaps. Verbal sparring has been our safe place.

No, kiss, definitely a kiss. Because if this pent-up tension and attraction doesn’t get released, we might kill each other.

“Fuck it,” he mumbles.

I gasp as he captures my mouth. Snaking one hand farther to cup my neck, he uses the other one to angle my head for better access.

He doesn’t waste time and thrusts his tongue, and I don’t waste time and give him immediate access.