NORA POV
The moment his mouth left mine, I thought my lungs might collapse.
My back was still pressed against the cool glass of his penthouse windows, city lights bleeding behind him, his taste still clinging to my lips, his hands burning into my waist like brands.
A kiss. That word was pitiful compared to what had just happened. That wasn't a kiss—it was a seismic event, an aftershock still trembling through every nerve. I had clutched his shirt so hard my knuckles ached, gasped against his mouth like I'd been drowning for years. And Adrien—untouchable, immaculate Adrien—had groaned into me.
The thought made my knees knock together even now. A sound so raw, so unlike the marble man the world knew. It was him stripped bare, even if only for seconds.
I tried to steady myself, but my hands hovered uselessly—over the edge of his sofa, the counter, anything to anchor me—as though I had forgotten how to function. All I could feel was the weight of his mouth, the firm grip on my spine, the way I had melted when I swore I'd never let myself bend.
God. What had I done?
I caught my reflection in the black glass behind him—hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes wild. I didn't look like me. I looked like a woman claimed.
The thought terrified me more than the paparazzi ever could.
And yet, the paparazzi were waiting too.
My phone buzzed from the coffee table where I'd dropped my bag earlier. One vibration. Then another. Then a cascade, the sound like machine gun fire in the silence. Dread crawled up my spine as I reached for it, his gaze following every movement.
Headlines, tweets, tags—my face staring back at me. Not just blurry, half-obscured glimpses anymore. This was clear, brutal. A shot from the night before, me tilting my head up toward him, lips parted. Not touching, not yet, but the image screamed seconds away.
The caption:
"Adrien Duval's secret romance? Mystery woman identified?"
And the comments—God, the comments.
— Who is she? She looks cheap.
— Gold digger vibes. Classic.
— Not even in his league.
— Adrien deserves better. This won't last.
Each line slashed at me, sharp and fast, leaving me raw. My stomach lurched. I dropped the phone on the couch cushion like it had poisoned me.
Before I could speak, his hand lifted. Not touching yet, just hovering near my cheek like a command and a plea at once.
"Nora," he said, voice low, rough. "Don't listen to them."
I swallowed, throat tight. "Easy for you to say. They've been calling me a nobody, a leech—"
"You are not theirs to name." His jaw flexed. Then, softer: "You're mine."
The word detonated inside me. I should have protested, shoved him back, put distance between us. Instead, I swayed forward, heat pulling me in like gravity.
And then he kissed me again.
No hesitation this time. No almosts. Just fire. His mouth crushed mine, angled deep, stealing my breath. My hands shot to his shoulders, nails curling into the fabric, dragging him closer.
His hand slid into my hair, fisting gently, tilting my head until I gasped into him. That gasp turned into a sound I didn't recognize—half sigh, half moan—as he swallowed me whole.
The kiss escalated, frantic, greedy. His body pressed mine back against the wall, solid and unyielding. My fingers twisted in his shirt, pulling, desperate for more of him, all of him.
When his hand gripped my waist, hard enough to anchor me, a shiver rolled through me so violently I nearly collapsed. My leg brushed his, and he groaned into my mouth again. That sound undid me. My lips parted, and his tongue slipped against mine, deepening everything, setting me ablaze.
Time disappeared. There was only his breath, my pulse, the dizzying rush of heat. Every nerve screamed yes, yes, yes.
When we finally broke apart, I was gasping, forehead pressed to his chest. He held me there, chest heaving, hand still tight in my hair.
"Nora…" His voice cracked in a way I had never heard. Vulnerable. Almost broken. "If you knew what this does to me—"
I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the tears that threatened. "Don't say it. Please. Don't make this harder."
His grip tightened on my waist. "It's already too late."
And in that moment, I knew he was right.
His mouth was on mine and the world simply ceased.
The kiss wasn't tentative, wasn't gentle. It was a storm breaking through a dam, years of pressure giving way in an instant. Heat surged everywhere at once—my chest, my stomach, lower, deeper. His hands framed my jaw as though he needed to memorize every angle, every line of me, and when his tongue slid against mine I actually moaned into him. It was humiliating how easily he unraveled me.
He groaned back, low in his throat, and that sound shot straight through me. I fisted the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer, as if that could quench the ache. It only made it worse.
Adrien walked me backward until my hips bumped the edge of his sleek marble counter. His body pressed flush to mine, all hard muscle and impossible restraint—restraint I was determined to shatter. My legs trembled. When he parted them with his thigh, my breath broke on a gasp.
"Adrien…" His name was a plea, a warning, a prayer.
He dragged his mouth down my jaw to the corner of my throat, nipping, tasting, devouring. My head tipped back, hands tangled in his hair, and then—God help me—my hips rocked forward on instinct.
The friction was devastating.
He cursed softly, almost guttural, as his hand locked around my waist. "You don't know what you're doing to me."
But I did. Because he was doing the same to me.
Every shift of his hips against mine stoked the fire higher. His erection was hot and insistent through his tailored slacks, grinding against the ache building inside me until I could hardly think. I was wet, embarrassingly so, and the fabric between us only made it worse—sharper, needier.
"Adrien…" I gasped again, voice breaking as he caught my mouth in another bruising kiss. His hand slid lower, cupping the curve of me through my dress, pressing me into him until I was sure he felt it. The damp heat seeping through the barrier. My shame and desire tangled into one unbearable knot.
A ragged groan ripped from his chest, muffled against my neck. His control cracked, just for a moment, and he rolled his hips against me in a slow, obscene grind that had me whimpering. My nails dug into his shoulders. The counter bit into my spine. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except him, here, now.
We were a fraction away from something I couldn't take back. I wanted it. God, I wanted it so badly my body ached with it.
And then—
His phone rang. Loud. Jarring. Shattering the spell.
Adrien stilled, forehead pressed against mine, his breath harsh and uneven. Neither of us moved. The sound cut through the haze, insistent, merciless.
He swore under his breath and pulled back just enough to glance at the screen still buzzing on the counter. Daniel.
Of course.
Adrien's jaw clenched, torn between answering and throwing the phone across the room. His chest heaved against mine, his eyes blazing with something raw, dangerous.
"Don't," I whispered, my voice shaking for all the wrong reasons. "Don't answer it."
But the phone kept ringing, and reality crept in with every vibration. Daniel would keep calling. Marcus would call. The headlines would multiply. Our fragile bubble was cracking.
Adrien dragged a hand over his face, then stepped back as if distance could undo what had just happened. The sudden absence of his body left me cold, trembling, my pulse still thundering in my ears.
He answered finally, voice clipped. "What."
I couldn't make out Daniel's reply, but it was frantic, fast, pulling Adrien further from me with every second. His posture stiffened. Mask sliding back on. The man I had just kissed—desperate, hungry, undone—was vanishing before my eyes.
When he hung up, silence returned. Only now it wasn't charged with heat but something far heavier.
Adrien's gaze swept over me—my swollen lips, the flush on my skin, the unsteady rise and fall of my chest. His own hands flexed at his sides like he was fighting the urge to reach for me again.
"We shouldn't have—" He cut himself off, jaw locking. "Not like this. Not now."
The words should have hurt. Should have made me feel used. But the wrecked look in his eyes said otherwise. He wasn't dismissing me. He was terrified—of himself, of us, of the world already watching too closely.
I swallowed hard, nodding, though my body screamed in protest. My lips still throbbed, my thighs still ached from the press of him.
His breath was still ragged when he pulled back, palms braced against the counter like it was the only thing holding him upright. My chest rose and fell in sync with his, the air between us thick, charged, unbearable.
He dragged a hand over his mouth, eyes squeezed shut for a beat. When he opened them again, the storm was still there—but caged. Contained by sheer will.
"You should go, Nora," he said finally, voice low, strained. Not cruel, not dismissive—just a man forcing distance before he lost every last shred of control.
The words sliced, even though I knew he was right. My lips still throbbed, my body still hummed with everything unfinished, but all I could do was nod.
He lingered a moment longer, gaze burning into me like he wanted to memorize this exact version of me—flushed, trembling, unraveled—before I slipped past him toward the door.
When it closed behind me, the silence in his penthouse was deafening.