The silence in the hallway was absolute, yet it roared in Ariyah's ears. The ghost of his kiss still burned in the center of her palm, a brand of tenderness that promised a coming storm. He had walked away, but he had left the door unlocked. The message was as clear as the beat of her own heart: The choice is yours. The consequence is mine.
She did not hesitate.
She walked back into her bedroom, the plush carpet muffling her steps. The ivory lace nightgown lay across the duvet, a discarded suggestion. She went to the full-length mirror, its gilded frame catching the ambient city light.
Her hands went to the buttons of the grey silk shirt his shirt. One by one, she undid them, the slide of silk against her skin a whisper of finality. She let the shirt fall from her shoulders, pooling on the floor at her feet like a shed skin. She stood before the glass, clad only in a scant pair of ivory lace panties.
The woman who looked back was not the nervous law student, nor the rebellious heiress, nor the performative bride. This woman's eyes held a deep, calm fire. Her skin glowed. Her body, with its generous curves and strong lines, was no longer a secret to be yearned for from afar. It was a statement. A promise. Her weapon, her offering.
She turned from her reflection. The only thing she took with her was the scent of his sandalwood on her skin and the weight of the diamond on her finger, its W/A script a cold, hard truth against her flesh.
The connecting door's handle was cool and heavy in her grasp. She turned it. The mechanism gave way with a soft, definitive click that sounded like destiny.
Wayne's POV
He stood at the mantel, his knuckles white where they gripped the cold marble, head bowed as if in penance. Every nerve was a live wire, strung taut from the feel of her palm, the scent of her, the defiant challenge in her whisper. Who's asking you to be?
He heard it. The faint, almost imperceptible sound of the handle turning.
His entire world narrowed to that sound.
He didn't move. Couldn't. He was a predator frozen at the moment the trap springs, every muscle coiled, breath trapped in his lungs.
The door opened. Light from her room spilled in, outlining her in a silhouette of pure, devastating temptation. The cascade of her curls, the narrow dip of her waist, the generous swell of her hips. She was a vision carved from shadow and desire.
She stepped into his darkness. The door closed behind her, plunging them into a deeper intimacy, lit only by the distant glow of the Eiffel Tower through the windows.
As his eyes adjusted, the details resolved, and the air left his body in a silent, shattered rush.
She was bare but for a wisp of lace at her hips. The diamond on her hand caught a sliver of light and flashed a tiny, defiant star in the dark. This was not a seduction planned with lingerie. This was braver. This was vulnerability offered like a blade. This was her, stripped of every defense, walking into the lion's den and daring him to devour her.
"Ariyah."
Her name was torn from him, a raw scrape of sound that held a lifetime of want and a final, desperate warning.
She didn't speak. She closed the distance between them, each step a silent drumbeat. He could feel the heat of her before she touched him. She stopped, so close the scent of her jasmine, vanilla, warm woman wrapped around him like a chain.
Her hand lifted. He watched it move as if in a dream. It came to rest on his chest again, over the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart. Then it slid up, her palm rasping against the stubble of his jaw. The touch was electrifying, possessive. It was the final, gentle pull on the pin of the grenade.
Something inside Wayne Collins, the last vestige of the cold, controlled businessman, shattered .
A guttural, animal sound erupted from deep in his chest a groan of pure, agonizing need mixed with a growl of surrender. He moved.
One arm banded around her waist like an iron bar, crushing the softness of her stomach and the curve of her back against the unyielding hardness of his body. A whimper escaped her, not of fear, but of shocked pleasure. His other hand fisted in the mass of her curls, tilting her head back with a firm, deliberate pressure that brooked no resistance.
His eyes, black and burning in the dim light, locked on her parted, glossy lips for one searing second. Then he claimed them.
Ariyah's POV
The kiss was not a kiss. It was a claiming. It was a conflagration.
His mouth was hot, demanding, desperate. There was no gentle exploration, no soft question. This was the answer to every challenge she'd ever thrown at him. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting her, conquering her. It was raw, primal, and utterly intoxicating. The hand in her hair held her still for his taking, a delicious, dominant pressure that sent a bolt of pure lightning straight to her core. She moaned into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his hunger.
Her own restraint vaporized. Her arms locked around his neck, her fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders. She kissed him back with equal fervor, meeting his desperation with her own, arching her body into his so she could feel every hard, straining line of him. The evidence of his desire, thick and pressing against her lower belly, made her shudder with a want so deep it was an ache.
He broke the kiss only to rasp her name against her lips, "Ariyah...", a broken litany. Then his mouth was everywhere scorching a path down her jaw, nipping at the sensitive cord of her neck, sucking a mark at the base of her throat that she knew would brand her. His hands were frantic, mapping the generous swell of her hips, the dip of her waist, skimming up her ribs until his thumbs brushed the undersides of her full breasts.
A gasp ripped from her. He didn't pause. He palmed her, his touch reverent and rough all at once, his thumbs circling her peaked nipples until she cried out, her knees buckling. He caught her, his arm tightening around her waist, holding her up as he continued his devastating assault.
"Wayne... please..." she begged, the word a breathless sob. She didn't know what she was begging for. For more. For everything.
He answered by lifting her off her feet. Her legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, her center pressed flush against the hard ridge of his arousal. The friction, even through the layers of their clothing his trousers, her flimsy lace was exquisite torment. He carried her the few strides to the massive bed and followed her down, his weight a welcome anchor.
There was no more patience. The civilized world was gone. Buttons on his linen shirt gave way with sharp pings , torn by her frantic hands. He shrugged it off, and the sight of him the broad, sculpted chest dusted with dark hair, the powerful shoulders, the flat planes of his stomach stole her breath. He was magnificent, a study in masculine power held in terrifying check for too long.
He made quick, ruthless work of the rest of their barriers. His trousers and her lace were discarded in a tangle on the floor. And then there was nothing. Just skin on skin, heat on heat, the slide of her body against his, the pounding of two hearts in sync.
He braced himself above her, his arms trembling with the force of his restraint. The moonlight caught the sheen of sweat on his brow, the wild, desperate hunger in his eyes. He was a man on the edge of a precipice.
"Tell me this is real," he demanded, his voice a ragged, broken thing that scraped against her soul. He searched her face, his gaze piercing through the dark. "Tell me this is for us . Not the deal. Not the fucking clause."
Her heart cracked open. She reached up, framing his beloved, tortured face in her hands. She held his gaze, letting him see every ounce of truth she'd hidden for two years.
"It was always for you, Wayne," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Since the moment I saw you across that room. It was always real for me."
A shudder wracked his powerful frame. The last vestige of ice in his eyes melted, leaving only a blazing, vulnerable heat. A low sound, almost a sob, escaped him. He dipped his head, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath coming in harsh gusts.
"Mine," he growled, the word a vow, a prayer, a primal truth.
Then he began.
The world dissolved into sensation. His touch was everywhere, possessive and worshipful. His mouth traced a path of fire from her lips to her breasts, where he lavished attention that made her arch off the bed, her fingers clutching at the sheets. He moved lower, his hands spreading her thighs with a firm, undeniable intent.
When his mouth found her core, she shattered.
A scream was torn from her, her back bowing off the mattress. It was an intimacy more profound than anything she'd imagined the feel of his tongue, clever and relentless, his beard a rough counterpoint to the devastating softness of his kiss. He didn't stop until she was sobbing his name, trembling on the edge of a second, even more violent peak.
He rose over her then, his body a dark shadow against the moonlit room. His eyes were molten, fixed on hers as he positioned himself at her entrance. She felt the thick, blunt pressure of him, a promise of pleasure and pain.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice gravel.
She did. She held his searing gaze as he pushed forward, slowly, inexorably, breaching her body. There was a sharp, swift burn of resistance, a tear, a fullness that stole her breath. A single, pained cry escaped her lips.
He froze instantly, his entire body going rigid with the effort. A muscle ticked furiously in his jaw. "Ariyah..."
"Don't stop," she breathed, wrapping her legs around his hips, pulling him closer, deeper. "Don't you dare stop."
It was all the permission he needed.
He began to move. Slowly at first, a deep, careful rhythm that allowed her body to adjust, to accept him. The pain receded, replaced by a feeling of such profound rightness it brought tears to her eyes. With each stroke, he went deeper, harder, until he was sheathed fully within her, claiming her in the most fundamental way possible.
His control, already threadbare, began to fray. His thrusts became more powerful, less measured. The bed rocked with the force of them. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his breath hot against her skin, his groans vibrating through her.
"So perfect... so tight... mine," he chanted, the words raw and guttural against her throat.
She was lost in a whirlwind of sensation the slap of skin, the scent of their coupling, the overwhelming fullness, the possessive grip of his hands on her hips. The coil of pleasure he'd wound so tightly with his mouth began to tighten again, deeper, more insistent. She clutched at his back, her nails scoring his skin, her cries becoming desperate, pleading.
"Wayne... I can't... I'm going to..."
He lifted his head, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss. "Let go," he growled against her lips. "Come for me. Now."
His command, the frantic pace of his hips, the feel of him everywhere it was too much. The world detonated into white-hot light. A scream was torn from her, muffled by his kiss, as her body convulsed around his in waves of violent, shattering ecstasy.
Her climax triggered his own. With a final, deep thrust that seemed to touch her soul, he stilled, a roar tearing from his throat as he poured himself into her, his big body shuddering with the force of his release. He collapsed atop her, his weight a crushing, perfect comfort, his face buried in her hair, his breathing ragged.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their panting breaths and the distant hum of Paris.
Slowly, gently, he withdrew and rolled to his side, but he didn't let her go. He pulled her against him, her back to his chest, wrapping his arms around her so tightly she could barely breathe. His face pressed into the nape of her neck, his lips moving against her damp skin.
"I have wanted you," he whispered, his voice hoarse with spent passion and raw emotion, "for so long. I thought... I thought my wanting had ruined any chance of you ever wanting me back. That you'd never look at me like this."
Tears, hot and sudden, welled in her eyes. She turned in the circle of his arms, facing him. In the soft grey light of dawn creeping through the windows, she saw it-the fear, the awe, the vulnerable, staggering love in the depths of his blue eyes, now stripped bare of all their icy guards.
She reached up, touching the gold band on his finger, then tracing the tense, beautiful line of his jaw.
"You have me," she whispered, her own voice thick. She brought his hand to her chest, pressing his palm over her heart, which was still racing for him. "All of me."
A shuddering breath escaped him. He pulled her closer, tucking her head under his chin, his arms becoming a fortress around her. They lay tangled in the wreckage of the sheets and their former lives, the first rays of Parisian sun painting the room in gold.
The transaction was dead. Incinerated in the fire they'd just set.
In its place, something fragile, real, and fiercely, irrevocably possessed began to breathe.