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The last thread snaps.
But he doesn’t kiss me. Not yet.
Instead, his hand comes up slowly, fingers ghosting along my jaw. “Last chance to be rational.”
“I'm done being rational. I've been rational all day. Through meetings and calls and arguing with my father. I'm tired of rational.”
“Layla.”
“Touch me. Like you wanted to last night. Like you've been thinking about all day.”
His thumb traces my lower lip. I part them. His breathing goes ragged.
“I had plans. Wine. Conversation. Easing into this.”
“What happened to your plans?”
“You happened.” His other hand slides into my hair. “You always happen to my plans.”
He kisses me then, and it's not gentle. It's searing and unrelenting, like a dam breaking after too long under pressure. His lips crash into mine with the hunger of every look, every touch we've denied. His tongue demands entry, claiming me with a desperation that sends heat straight to my core. I make a sound I don't recognize—part gasp, part surrender—because nothing could have prepared me for this.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer. He responds by pressing me back against the desk, papers crinkling beneath me. His mouth travels to my jaw, my neck, finding that spot below my ear that makes me moan.
“Every meeting,” he murmurs against my skin. “Every fucking meeting, watching you across that table while all I could think about was this.”
“I know.” My hands find his hair, holding him against me. “I felt it too.”
He pulls back to look at me, and the hunger in his eyessteals my breath. “I need you to be sure. Because I meant what I said. I don't know how to want you just a little.”
Instead of answering, I reach for the first button of my dress. His eyes track the movement as I work it free, then the second.
“That's not...” His voice breaks when I reach the third button, the one he's been obsessing over. “That's not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
The button slips free. The dress parts slightly, revealing the lace beneath. His control visibly cracks.
“Fuck.” He catches my hands. “Not here. Not against a desk like some rushed...” He takes a breath. “Let me do this right.”
Before I can respond, he's leading me out of the office, through the living room with its spectacular view. His bedroom door opens to reveal a massive space dominated by a king bed and more windows overlooking the city.
“This is a room,” I say, glancing around at the understated luxury. Warm lighting, sleek lines, quiet wealth everywhere I look. “It's very you.”
“It's better now that you're in it.” He turns me to face the windows, the city lights sparkling below. His hands settle on my shoulders, thumbs tracing the neckline of my dress. “Do you know what you look like right now?”
“Tell me.”
“Like everything I've wanted and been too stubborn to admit.” His lips brush my ear. “Like the reason I can't focus. Can't think. Can't remember why keeping my distance seemed so important.”
I lean back against him, feeling the solid warmth of his chest. “Then stop keeping it.”
His hands slide down my arms, then around my waist. “I want to see you. All of you. Will you let me?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He works the remaining buttons slowly, torturously. Each inch of revealed skin gets attention—a kiss to my shoulder, fingertips tracing my spine. By the time the dress pools at my feet, I'm trembling.
“Beautiful,” he breathes, taking in the matching lace I'd optimistically worn. “So fucking beautiful.”