Page 156 of Nine Week Nanny

He follows me to the edge of the rooftop, where the string lights end and the shadows deepen. I can't outrun him here. There's nowhere to go except back through the crowded bar or down sixteen floors in an elevator.

My breath comes fast and shallow as I stop near the entrance, gripping the metal railing.

The city sprawls below us, twinkling and oblivious. I can sense him behind me, close enough that his warmth radiates against my back.

"Sloane."

I turn to face him, my name on his lips like a plea. The dim light catches his jawline as he leans down, his eyes searching mine. The noise of the bar fades to a distant hum.

"I haven't stopped thinking about you. Not one single day. Not one night."

My throat tightens. Five months of building walls, of convincing myself I was over him, and he shatters it all with one sentence.

"Pope, we can't just?—"

His hand slides down my arm, deliberate, until his fingers lace with mine. My body betrays me, leaning in even as my brain screams caution. I'm trembling, but I don't let go.

"Can't what?" he asks, his voice barely audible over the thrum of blood in my ears.

A waiter passes with a tray of champagne flutes. Laughter drifts from a nearby table. The city moves around us, but it's all background noise to the heat simmering between us.

"We tried this before," I whisper. "Look what happened."

"I'm looking at you now." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "Only you."

The touch sends electricity up my spine. I should pull away. I should make some excuse about an early meeting tomorrow. I should remember how it felt to pack my life into boxes and drive away from everything I'd built.

Instead, I stand frozen, caught in his gravity.

"Come to my room with me."

The bluntness steals my breath. His room. Just us. No interruptions, no child monitors, no custody battles or tabloid photographers. Just skin on skin and all the words we never said.

My feet don't carry me away. I hesitate, my heart in my throat.

"This doesn't fix anything," I manage.

"I'm not asking for fixed. I'm asking for tonight."

Every sensible part of me says no. Every cell that remembers the pain screams no.

But my pulse, my treacherous, wanting pulse, screams yes.

I finally nod once, almost imperceptibly, and he takes my hand, leading me inside toward the elevators.

The elevator doors slide shut, and just like that, we're alone. Pope's eyes don't leave mine as we travel to his floor. We don't speak. The air between us crackles with electricity, thick with months of silence, hurt, and the ache of wanting.

His knuckles brush mine. It's not a grab, not a demand, just a question. I answer by sliding my fingers between his, holding on like I should have months ago.

The door to his suite clicks shut behind us, and déjà vu slams into me. A hotel room. A door at my back. The first time, he was a stranger, and I let him take me like I’d never see him again.

This time, he isn’t a stranger. He’s everything I swore I couldn’t have, and still the only man I want.

Before I can think, Pope has me pinned against the door, his mouth crashing into mine. All the careful distance we fought to maintain vanishes, burned away in the heat of his kiss. Hungry. Desperate. Consuming.

And I match him, breath for breath, like I’ve been starving too.

“I’ve missed you,” he growls against my lips, his hands sliding beneath my blouse, palms hot on my skin.