Page 19

Keira didn’t break eye contact with Finn as she slipped out from under him. The heat of his body still clung to her skin, and her breath came in shallow bursts, each one edged with something dangerously close to longing. Her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears, her breath caught halfway in her throat. She wanted to spit something biting, something to slam the emotional door between them, but nothing came. Just heat. And the sharp sting of everything she hadn’t said.

He let her go. Not because he wanted to, she was certain—but because control was his drug of choice, and letting her go gave him the upper hand. Still, there’d been a flash in his eyes—something raw, bruised, and barely leashed—that made her blood move faster than it should’ve. His hand had twitched slightly at his side, jaw grinding tight as if reining himself in took more effort than he’d let on.

Of course it did. She saw it in his eyes—that guarded flicker of something unspoken, something that burned hot beneath the surface. It didn’t scare her, not exactly. But it pulled at her in ways she wasn’t ready to admit. That was the game they played—push and retreat, strike and parry. But that last look in his eyes?It wasn’t the Finn she remembered. That wasn’t her charming fixer with a wicked grin and a hand always reaching for hers.

As she moved away, he lingered a moment longer, breath shallow, jaw tight. Then, with one last glance at the rooftop door, he turned and made his way out of the playroom. His footsteps were quiet but deliberate as he descended the stairs, disappearing toward his office and leaving the charged air of the top floor humming behind him.

That was a man unraveling by degrees.

And she wasn’t sure which one of them she was more afraid of—him, with that dark hunger creeping in at the edges, or herself, for the part that still ached to be devoured by it.

Fear tangled with longing in her chest, regret a quiet echo behind it all, and for one disorienting moment, she couldn’t tell which would win.

She padded to the far end of the playroom, bare feet silent on the hardwood, until she reached the French doors that led out to the rooftop deck. The cool air hit her skin, shocking her back into herself. Dammit, this place got under her skin fast. And the worst part? She let it. Let him.

She made her way to the second floor, intending to check the guest bedroom, but was stopped short by one of Finn’s men blocking the hallway. He didn’t say a word—just inclined his head toward a door she was sure led to Finn's office.

Typical. A message, loud and clear—she wasn’t in control here, and every move he made was designed to remind her of that. It made her want to scream... or hit something.

Keira stalked toward his office, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She didn’t care if one of his men reported her tone, her look, or the way her jaw was locked tight enough to ache. Let them. Perfect.

Keira crossed the last few feet in three long strides and flung open the door without hesitation, the force of it slamming the wood against the wall with a satisfying crack.

“I need a shower,” she said, not bothering to mask her irritation.

Finn tilted his head toward the stairs. “Your room is the primary suite downstairs.”

“So that’s how we’re playing this?” she muttered. "I don't need a power play or a leash, Finn. I need a shower,"

"And you'll find the one you used attached to the bedroom in which you woke up this morning is still there. Do you want a leash, love? If so, you know where to find one,” he murmured without missing a keystroke.

“You do know how psychotic that sounds, right?” she snarled.

“Plenty of things sound worse when you take them out of context.”

She threw up her hands, exasperated. “Fine. But keep pulling this high-handed crap and I swear, I’ll start reprogramming your fancy security system just to screw with you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She spun on her heel and stalked back through the hall. Her footsteps struck the floor with crisp, deliberate weight—each one a punctuation mark of her rising frustration. She pushed open the door to the main bedroom and stepped inside, this time noticing how opulent it was. The room exhaled wealth, taste, and something deeply personal.

The bed was a towering four-poster made of dark carved walnut, its posts twisted with Celtic knotwork. The duvet was a deep, moody green that mirrored the mossy hills of western Ireland, offset by copper-threaded pillows and heavy velvet drapes in a shade of burnt gold. An antique armoire dominated one corner, its polished surface reflecting the soft, amber glowfrom wrought-iron sconces on the walls. Every piece of furniture was old-world Irish—sturdy, elegant, and heartbreakingly beautiful.

Her reaction to the ensuite was the same. She took in the massive—sleek slate tile, rainfall shower, and a long marble counter lined with high-end toiletries. Heated floors warmed her bare feet instantly. Plush towels were stacked in precise, almost obsessive folds—luxury in every detail, the kind that whispered wealth and control. Probably cost more than her last laptop. Of course he’d make even a shower feel like a power move.

She stripped quickly, stepped under the hot water, and groaned as the heat soaked into her muscles. Her head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut, letting the cascade of the rainfall shower drown out everything else. For a moment, it was just sensation—heat, water, and memory. Her hands slid up to cup her breasts, fingers grazing over her nipples, and in that moment, she let herself sink into the ache she'd kept buried. It wasn’t just arousal—it was loneliness, longing, a quiet desperation she rarely allowed herself to acknowledge.

Her mind—traitorous and sharp—summoned the feel of Finn's hands instead. The way he used to touch her, firm and unrelenting, like he had every right. His palms ghosting over her skin, thumbs teasing just beneath her breasts, that possessive grip at her waist that had always made her shiver. She remembered the way his breath used to roughen against her ear, the scrape of stubble at her throat, the low growl of his voice that always made her knees go weak. Heat pooled low in her belly, desire twisting through her like a live wire.

A soft gasp escaped her lips. She shouldn’t be doing this. But her body didn’t care. It had been too long—too many nights curled alone beneath unfamiliar ceilings, too many mornings waking up with nothing but the echo of dreams she never let herself finish. She was used to taking care of her own needs,to keeping things efficient and impersonal. This, though—this wasn’t routine. This was indulgence. Memory. Hunger.

Her right hand drifted down her belly, slick with steam and need, until she found the throbbing ache between her thighs. She pressed, circled, teased herself with maddening slowness, imagining Finn behind her, breath hot on her neck, mouth curved in that smug, devastating smile. Her hips rocked gently, the water masking the quiet sounds of pleasure she couldn’t suppress. But as the tension crested, a flicker of guilt laced through the heat—because while her body chased its release, her mind still clung to Finn. The man who’d locked her in his world, who stirred things in her she wasn’t ready to name.. And still, she didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Because even here—especially here—his presence clung to her like the heat in the air, thick and sultry, seeping into her skin with every breath she took. It threaded through her limbs like smoke, pooled low in her belly, and pulsed beneath her skin with an ache she couldn’t shake. He was everywhere—on her lips, in her mind, curled tight between her thighs—and it felt as inevitable as gravity. Inescapable. And dangerously, deliciously welcome.

Fifteen minutes later, she was back in the control room, hair towel-dried, dressed in a pair of black leggings and a slouchy chestnut-colored sweater. The clothes weren't revealing but clung to her body in all the right places. Still, the feel of the soft silk of the sweater clinging to her skin made something low in her belly tighten. Even though she was dressed in her own clothes, she still smelled faintly like him—clean, dark spice, and something unnamable that brought back memories she didn’t want to unpack. Not now.

She tucked one leg beneath her in the chair, anchoring herself in the familiar posture, as if reclaiming even a sliver of control could steady her. Emotionally raw but reaching forbalance, she needed to feel grounded before diving into the digital shadows. She booted the system and logged into one of her offshore sandboxes—a digital dead drop she’d built years ago, buried beneath layers of shell corporations and encrypted nodes. It took some coaxing, but she finally cracked open a dormant thread linked to the Dubai mess.