Page 9

Chapter 9

Heart vs. Head

My apartment looks different with Cole in it.

This thought strikes me as we step through the door, the celebration dinner behind us. The sleek, modern space I've carefully curated—all clean lines and neutral tones, more showcase than sanctuary—suddenly seems sterile, impersonal compared to the vibrant energy he brings into it.

He moves through my living room with the same quiet confidence he displays everywhere, taking in the minimalist furnishings, the abstract art, and the conspicuous absence of personal touches.

"Very you," he comments, running a finger along the edge of my glass coffee table.

"What does that mean?" I ask, setting my purse down and slipping off my heels.

He turns, that perceptive gaze taking me in from head to toe. "Elegant. Accomplished. Carefully controlled." His mouth quirks in a half-smile. "Beautiful but a little untouchable."

The assessment is uncomfortably accurate. My home, like my life, has been designed to impress rather than invite, to project success rather than reveal vulnerability.

"Would you like a drink?" I offer, needing a moment to regain my equilibrium. "I have wine, whiskey, or I could make coffee."

"Water is fine." He shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it neatly over a chair. The simple action—making himself at home in my space—sends a curious flutter through my stomach. "It's been a long day."

In the kitchen, I fill two glasses from the filtered dispenser in my refrigerator, using the mundane task to center myself. When I return to the living room, Cole has moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase the city lights thirty floors below.

"Quite a view," he says, accepting the water without looking away from the urban panorama. "Different from mine."

"Better or worse?" I ask, genuinely curious about how he sees my world.

He considers this, sipping his water before answering. "Neither. Just different." His free hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with casual intimacy. "Yours shows humanity's accomplishments. Mine shows nature's. Both have their merits."

The diplomatic response makes me smile. "Very politically correct, Dr. Blake."

His laugh is low and warm. "Fine. I prefer my mountain sunrises to your city lights, but I can appreciate the view nonetheless." His gaze shifts from the window to my face, intensity replacing humor. "Especially when it includes you in that dress."

The heat in his eyes sends a spark of electricity down my spine. We've been dancing around this moment all evening—maintaining professional decorum at the dinner while the memory of our previous intimacy hummed between us like a current.

"You've been very patient tonight," I observe, setting my water down on a side table. "Very... proper."

"Professional," he corrects, his voice dropping to that register that resonates directly in my core. "There's a time and place for everything, Dr. Carrington. Your colleagues didn't need to see how badly I've wanted to touch you all night."

The blunt admission pulls a soft gasp from me. This is what continues to disarm me about Cole—his absolute directness and his refusal to play the games of hint and suggestion that characterize most early relationships.

"And now?" I ask, emboldened by his candor.

He sets his glass down. "Now we're alone, and there's nothing stopping me from showing you exactly what I've been thinking about since I saw you in that dress." His eyes hold mine, gauging my reaction. "Unless you'd rather keep talking."

"No, sir." The choice is clear, and my body has already decided even as my mind catches up. "I think we've talked enough for tonight."

His smile is slow and predatory. "Good."

In two steps, he closes the distance between us, one hand sliding into my hair at the nape of my neck, the other circling my waist to pull me firmly against him. Like our previous encounters, there's no hesitation, no careful testing of boundaries. He claims my mouth with absolute certainty, his kiss deep and demanding from the first contact.

I yield immediately, opening to him as my arms wind around his neck. His taste—now familiar but no less intoxicating—sends heat racing through my veins, pooling low in my belly. His hand tightens in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss further, his tongue exploring my mouth with a thoroughness that leaves me breathless.

When we finally break apart, his eyes darken to midnight blue as his pupils dilate with desire. His breathing is slightly ragged, matching my own.

"Bedroom." The single word is somehow both a question and a command.

I nod, not trusting my voice, and take his hand to lead him down the hallway. My bedroom continues the apartment's modern aesthetic—a platform bed with crisp white linens, minimalist furniture, and another wall of windows offering the same spectacular view.

Cole takes it in with a glance before his attention returns to me. He moves with deliberate purpose, hands coming up to frame my face as he kisses me again, softer this time but no less intent.

"Turn around," he murmurs against my lips.

I comply, shivering with anticipation as his fingers find the zipper at the back of my dress. He lowers it with tantalizing slowness, his knuckles brushing my spine in a deliberate caress that makes my skin tingle. When the zipper reaches its end, just above the small of my back, his hands slide beneath the loosened fabric to my shoulders, easing the dress down my arms until it pools at my feet in a puddle of silken fabric.

I stand before him in nothing but a strapless black bra and matching lace panties, feeling strangely vulnerable despite our previous intimacy. There's something different about this encounter—something more deliberate, more meaningful than our passionate reunion at the lodge.

His sharp intake of breath is deeply satisfying, as is the barely restrained hunger in his eyes as they travel over my body.

"Christ, Tess," he breathes, his voice rough with desire. "You're perfect."

Before I can respond, he pulls me to him, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that's equal parts tenderness and possession. His hands explore the newly exposed skin of my back, my waist, and my hips, learning the curves and planes of my body with exquisite attention.

When we part, I reach for his shirt’s buttons, wanting to feel his skin against mine. He captures my wrists in one large hand.

"Remember what I told you before? About how I lead?" His voice is gentle but firm with the reminder.

My pulse quickens. "I remember."

"Good." He releases my wrists, bringing one hand up to trace my lower lip with his thumb. "I plan on taking my time tonight. I want to find every spot that makes you gasp, every touch that makes you tremble." His eyes hold mine, ensuring I understand. "You’ll learn how to beg and suffer for me. Please me."

He steps back, creating a small space between us.

"On the bed." His tone makes it clear this is not a suggestion.

I move to comply, sitting on the edge of my four-poster bed, suddenly very aware of my near-nakedness compared to his still-clothed state. Rather than join me immediately, he unbuttons his shirt with deliberate slowness, never taking his eyes from mine.

The gradual reveal of his torso—broad shoulders, muscled chest dusted with dark hair, flat stomach with a trail disappearing into his slacks—is a performance designed to build anticipation. It’s devastatingly effective. By the time he shrugs the shirt from his shoulders, my breathing has quickened, and my skin flushes with desire.

"Like what you see?" The question teases, but his eyes are serious, wanting genuine confirmation.

"Yes, sir," I admit, allowing myself to appreciate his body openly. "Very much."

"Good. Because I can't get enough of looking at you." His smile is satisfied but not smug.

He steps forward, positioning himself between my knees, one hand coming up to cup my cheek. The tender gesture amid the heated moment tightens my chest with an emotion I'm not ready to name.

"I'm going to touch you now," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Everywhere. And I want to hear every sound. I want to know exactly what you like, what drives you crazy, what makes you come apart in my hands. No holding back. Understand?"

The explicit instruction, delivered in that commanding tone, sends heat flooding through me.

"I understand."

"Good." He leans down to claim my mouth again, the kiss deep and thorough, before trailing his lips along my jawline to the sensitive spot just below my ear. When he finds it, I gasp, my head falling back to give him better access.

"There," he murmurs approvingly. "Like that."

His mouth continues its exploration, tracking down my throat to my collarbone while his hands move to my back, deftly unhooking my bra. When the garment falls away, he draws back slightly to take in the newly revealed skin, eyes darkening with appreciation.

"Perfect," he says again, cupping the weight of one breast in his palm, thumb brushing over the nipple in a light caress that makes me arch toward him.

"Cole," I breathe, already aching for more.

"Patience," he admonishes gently, even as his touch grows more purposeful, rolling the hardened peak between thumb and forefinger. "We have all night."

His mouth replaces his hand, hot and wet around my nipple, while his fingers attend to its twin. The dual sensation pulls a moan from deep in my throat, my hands tangling in his hair.

He works me this way for long minutes, alternating between breasts, using lips and tongue, the occasional scrape of teeth in a symphony of sensation that has me writhing beneath his touch. Just when I think I can’t bear any more without some relief where I need it most, he moves lower—trailing kisses down my sternum, across my ribs, to the sensitive skin of my stomach.

His hands find my hips, fingers hooking into the waistband of my panties. He pauses—then looks up.

That look alone sends a shiver through me.

He drags the lace down my legs with torturous slowness. His gaze locked on mine as he removes the final barrier between us.

Now fully naked, I fight the urge to cover myself. Instead, I hold his gaze—and that’s when he reaches for something behind him on the bed.

My breath catches.

Leather.