Page 8 of Executive Privilege (Event Horizons Agency #1)

I change outfits three times before settling on a black dress that's professional enough to not scream "I made out with my boss in a parking garage last night" but fitted enough to remind him exactly why he kissed me and make him want to do it again.

The gallery is in the arts district, a converted warehouse with exposed brick and industrial lighting that somehow manages to feel both raw and sophisticated. I arrive exactly on time, because showing up early would look eager and showing up late would look like I'm playing games.

Nicholas is already there.

He's standing in front of a large abstract painting, hands clasped behind his back, looking every inch the successful CEO in his perfectly tailored navy suit. From across the room, he looks completely composed.

But when he turns and sees me, takes in my dress, desire flickers across his face before he can control it.

"Sadie," he says as I approach, his voice carefully neutral. "You made it."

We stand there for a moment, the weight of last night hanging between us like a third person. Finally, Nicholas gestures to the painting.

"What do you think?"

I study the canvas—bold strokes of red and black that seem to move even though they're perfectly still. "It's angry," I say. "Passionate. Like the artist was working through intense emotions."

"Interesting interpretation."

"You disagree?"

"I think you're probably right." He moves closer, ostensibly to point out a detail in the painting's composition, but the proximity sends heat through my chest. "Diego—the artist—was going through a difficult period."

"Diego's your friend," I remember. "The one who owns the gallery."

"Since we were kids. He introduced me to art, actually. Taught me to see beyond the obvious."

There's a personal quality in his voice, a glimpse of the Nicholas who exists outside Event Horizons and business meetings. "Where is he? I'd love to meet him."

"He's here somewhere, probably charming potential buyers." Nicholas's mouth quirks upward. "Fair warning—Diego has no filter and will ask you inappropriate questions about your intentions."

"My intentions regarding what?"

The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications from last night. Nicholas's eyes drop briefly to my mouth before he catches himself.

"Art," he says, but his voice is rougher than before.

Right. Art.

We move through the gallery while discussing brushwork and composition. Every casual touch—his hand on my lower back as we navigate the crowd, his breath against my ear as he leans in to explain a technique—feels charged with the memory of his mouth on mine.

"Nicholas!" A warm voice calls from across the room, and a man with kind brown eyes approaches us. He's got the kind of effortless style that comes from not caring what people think, and when he smiles, his whole face transforms.

"Diego," Nicholas says, and I'm surprised by the genuine affection in his voice. "Excellent turnout tonight."

"Better than I expected." Diego's attention shifts to me, and his smile turns speculative. "And you must be the mysterious Sadie I've heard so much about."

I glance at Nicholas, who looks like he wants to disappear. "You've heard about me?"

"Oh yes. Nicholas called yesterday to ask if he could bring someone to the opening. First time in two years he's brought anyone to one of my shows." Diego's grin is wicked. "I was very curious to meet the woman who finally got his attention."

"Diego," Nicholas says, a warning in his voice.

"What? I'm just making conversation." Diego turns back to me. "What do you think of the work?"

"It's incredible," I say honestly. "Raw and honest and completely unapologetic. This piece especially—" I gesture to a smaller canvas nearby, all blues and grays with unexpected touches of gold. "It feels like hope breaking through storm clouds."

Diego's expression shifts to genuine surprise. "That piece is called 'After the Rain.'"

"Sadie has excellent instincts," Nicholas says quietly, and the pride in his voice makes warmth spread through my chest.

"Clearly." Diego studies me with new interest.

"I used to paint a little. Nothing serious, just stress relief."

"Nothing serious," Diego repeats, amused. "The best art is never serious. It's necessary."

A group of potential buyers approaches, and Diego excuses himself to charm them. Nicholas and I continue through the gallery, but his earlier careful control seems to be fraying at the edges.

"You paint," he says as we stop in front of a piece that's all movement and energy.

"Badly. And rarely. It's not like I'm hiding some secret artistic talent."

"What do you paint?"

The question is quietly intense, like my answer matters more than casual conversation. "Abstract mostly. Colors and movement. Things I can't put into words."

"I'd like to see your work sometime."

The statement is carefully neutral, but there's an undertone that makes my stomach flutter. "I don't think you would. It's probably terrible by actual art standards."

"I don't care about actual art standards. I care about—" He stops himself, jaw tightening.

"What?"

"Nothing. We should probably head to dinner soon. I made reservations."

So it is going to be art and dinner. I had a feeling, but I didn't want to assume. I didn't eat before coming just in case.

As we make our way toward the exit, Nicholas's hand settles on my lower back, and the touch burns through the fabric of my dress.

We walk to the restaurant is a few blocks away. It's intimate and dimly lit with exposed brick walls and candles on every table. Very definitely date territory, despite Nicholas's careful insistence that this is just art appreciation.

"This is nice," I say as we're seated at a corner table.

"Diego recommended it. Said the food was worth the pretension."

Our waiter appears, professionally friendly, and Nicholas orders wine without consulting me. It's expensive. Something I would never order. He does it so casually, I realize this is just how he exists in the world.

"Tell me more about your friendship with Diego," I say after the wine arrives.

"We've been friends since we were twelve. He moved to Austin from Barcelona with his parents, spoke about three words of English, and got into a fight with the school bullies on his first day." Nicholas takes a sip of wine. "I helped him out. We've been friends ever since."

"He seems to care about you a lot."

"Diego thinks I work too much and live like a monk." Nicholas's smile is self-deprecating. "He's not wrong."

"Is that why you live in the hotel? The monk-like existence?"

The question slips out before I can stop it, and Nicholas goes very still.

"Frankie mentioned it," I add quickly. "She handles your mail sometimes. And she loves to gossip."

"The hotel is convenient," he says carefully. "No maintenance, no complications, no—"

"No personal attachments," I finish.

His eyes meet mine across the candlelit table. "Yes."

The waiter returns to take our dinner order, breaking the moment, but the tension continues to build throughout the meal. Every shared smile, every moment when the conversation dips into territory more personal than professional—it all feels like we're dancing around the elephant in the room.

Or the kiss in the parking garage.

"Sadie," Nicholas says as we're finishing dinner, his voice lower than before. "About last night—"

"You said we were going to pretend it never happened."

"I said a lot of things last night." His fingers trace the stem of his wine glass. "Most of them were probably lies."

My breath catches. "Which part was the lie?"

"The part where I said it couldn't happen again."

The admission hangs between us, raw and honest and completely at odds with his careful control.

"So what are you saying?"

Nicholas signals for the check, his movements precise despite the tension radiating from him. "I'm saying we should get out of here before I do things that prove just how little self-control I actually have."

Nicholas follows me home in his car, and when we both park in my building's lot, the memory of last night's parking garage encounter makes the air between us electric.

"Ready to come up?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

"It's probably not a good idea."

"Probably not," I agree. "But you're going to come up anyway."

"Sadie, I need you to understand. I'm not good at... this. Relationships. Emotional complications. Trusting people."

"Who said anything about relationships?"

Surprise flickers in his eyes. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying maybe we don't have to complicate this. Maybe we can just..." I step closer. "See what happens."

"Just sex," he says, but it sounds like a question.

"Just really good sex," I correct, and watch his control snap.

This time when he kisses me, all of the hunger and need and the desperate chemistry that's been building between us for weeks is behind it. I'm dimly aware that we're in a semi-public parking lot, but I don't care.

"Upstairs," I breathe against his mouth. "Now."

The elevator ride to my floor is torture. We stand on opposite sides, not touching, the tension so thick I can barely breathe. But the moment my apartment door closes behind us, Nicholas has me pressed against it, his mouth on mine and his hands all over me.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks, pulling back just enough to search my eyes.

"Are you seriously asking me that now?"

"I'm asking because once we do this, everything changes."

"Everything already changed."

He seems to consider it briefly, then kisses my neck. His mouth finds a spot that makes me gasp, his hands map the curves of my body through my dress, and when I back him toward my bedroom, he goes willingly.

"What is it about you that has me making bad decisions? " He slowly unzips my dress, letting it pool at my feet. His eyes are dark with want as he takes in the black lace underneath, and the hunger in his expression makes me feel powerful and desired and completely reckless.

"Not bad decisions. Executive decisions." I smile. "Your turn," I say, reaching for his jacket.

He helps me strip away the expensive layers—suit jacket, tie, crisp white shirt—until he's standing in my bedroom in just his pants, and I can finally see what all those perfectly tailored suits have been hiding.

He's beautiful. Broad shoulders, defined chest, the kind of physique that comes from discipline rather than vanity. I let him watch me slowly remove the last of my things, then he reaches for me, pulling me against him so I can feel the heat of his skin.

His hands skim over my bare skin and between my thighs, and I arch against him with a gasp that makes him groan.

He's methodical in the best possible way, his fingers moving inside me while his thumb circles that sensitive spot that has my world going blank.

He's learning what makes me respond, what makes me whimper his name.

And he's a fast learner. Within minutes he's making my legs quiver as I rise up on my tiptoes to give him better access, forgetting everything except the way he's touching me.

"So responsive," he murmurs against my throat, his fingers continuing to find exactly the right spot to make me cry out. "I love the sounds you make for me."

He backs me against the bedroom wall, his mouth trailing fire down my neck as his hands explore every curve. When he drops to his knees in front of me, lifting one of my legs over his shoulder, I have to grip his hair to stay upright.

"Nicholas," I gasp when his mouth finds my center, the sensation so intense my knees nearly buckle.

"I've got you," he murmurs against me, his hands gripping my hips to keep me steady as he works me with his tongue."

"I want to devour you," he breathes against my skin, punctuating his words with sharp bites to my inner thigh that makes me gasp before he moves back up my body.

He lifts my leg again, this time wrapping it around his waist as he positions himself at my entrance.

"You're beautiful." The hunger in his voice has me pulling him closer.

When he pushes into me, when we finally join together with a mutual gasp of relief and pleasure, the sensation is so perfect I'm shocked. He fills me completely, stretching me in the most delicious way.

"Fuck, you feel incredible," he groans, his forehead pressed against mine as he gives me a moment to adjust. "Mmm, perfect."

He starts to move, setting a rhythm that has me clinging to his shoulders and gasping his name. He's focused entirely on me, on us, on finding the angle that makes me moan loudest.

"Look at me," he says when I close my eyes, overwhelmed by sensation.

So I do. I look at him—really look at him—as he drives deeper, harder, faster.

I stare into his eyes, his face is intense, his eyebrows furrowed, he's grunting as he pumps into me.

A bead of sweat forms on his forehead. I watch him closely as he starts to lose control and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I pull his head close to me and whisper in his ear while clenching around him, "You feel so good, Nicholas." This snaps his control completely and he shatters, and we both fall over that edge together, my body convulses with pleasure and our moans echo through my bedroom.

Even while we're still panting against each other, while he's still inside me, I can feel his walls starting to rebuild.

"I should go," he says eventually.

"Should," I repeat. "But will you?"

He's quiet for a long moment. "If I stay, this becomes too complicated."

"And if you leave?"

"If I leave, this was just..." He trails off.

"Just sex," I finish.

"Really good sex." He smiles, ruefully.

"Exactly."

"So stay or go, Nicholas. But don't pretend this was a mistake."

He pulls me closer, his arms tightening around me. "It wasn't a mistake."

"Good."

He finds his scattered clothes, dressing himself slowly.

"I should go though," he says, not quite meeting my eyes.

"So go," I say, grabbing the throw blanket off my chair and wrapping it around myself.

He pauses at my bedroom door, looking back. "Sadie—"

"It's fine, Nicholas. No expectations, remember?"

The relief in his expression tells me everything I need to know about what this was to him. Physical intimacy he can handle. Emotional intimacy—staying the night, morning conversations, the kind of vulnerability that comes with daylight—that's where his walls go back up.

Which should bother me more than it does.

The sex really was incredible, and if amazing physical chemistry without emotional complications is what Nicholas Blackwood can offer, maybe that's enough.

At least for now.