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His breathing is ragged when he lowers his forehead to mine, his body heat surrounding me even as I try to hold myself rigid. I close my eyes, the hot press of tears pressing against my lashes.
“Melanie’s desperate, Sophia.” He cups my jaw, his thumb brushing roughly at the tear that escapes. “She’s grasping at anything because she sees the way I look at you and knows that she’s lost.”
His fingers slip beneath my chin, and he softly demands, “Look at me.”
I open my eyes to find his soft blue ones gazing down at me.
“She never had me. Not the way you do, sweetheart.”
I search his face for hesitation, guilt, or the smallest indication that he’s giving me another carefully constructed answer. But there’s none. There is nothing but my husband, standing inches from me, looking at me with an openness I’ve rarely seen coming from him.
Suddenly, I remember everything he told me at the diner. That he wanted me before he ever needed a wife. That choosing me was an opportunity, not an obligation. And maybe that’s why I believe him now, because I know the difference between Vance lying to control a situation and Vance telling me something he has no idea how to say.
I lift my hand and touch his cheek. “I love you, too.” He turns his face into my palm, his eyes closing for a second before he leans forward and kisses me.
There is no urgency or demand, just a soft press of his lips on mine. He moves slowly, savoring the contact, his lips parting slightly. I meet him halfway, my own lips softening under his. The tip of his tongue traces the seam of my mouth, a silent request. I open for him, and he slides in, not with the force I’m used to, but with a slow, deliberate exploration that makes my toes curl. It’s a give-and-take that’s both tender and deeply intimate. When he pulls back, his forehead rests on mine again, both of us breathing a little heavier.
“I fucking hate to do this,” he says quietly, his hand dropping from my face to find mine, threading our fingers together, “but I have to deal with something. A situation with the South Side project that can’t wait.”
I look up at him, my vision still tear-blurred.
“Just work,” he insists softly. “I swear. But I’ll be home by eleven. I promise.”
He brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles, his touch warm, gentle and devastating.
“Trust me,” he whispers against my skin. “Please, Sophia. Just… trust me.”
I stare at him, at this man who owns me completely—body, heart, and soul—and in my gut, I know that I can trust him. He loves me, even if he still struggles to say the words. And I can see the difference between the man he was and the man he is becoming for me.
I walk Sophia to the elevator with my hand pressed against the small of her back, but the lingering tension still radiates through her spine. The doors open, and I guide her inside, turning her to face me, caging her against the mirrored wall.
I cup her face in both hands, tilting her chin, forcing her to hold my gaze. “When I get home tonight, I’m going to show you again. I’m going to spend hours reminding you exactly who you belong to. Who I belong to. Until you can’t doubt it anymore, until it’s written so deep in your skin that you feel it in your dreams.”
Her lips part, her breath hitching, and I lean in to capture her mouth again with mine. I plunder her mouth, needing her to understand the terrifying depths of what I feel when I look at her. She softens into me, her hands fisting in the front of my shirt to pull me closer.
Though I am reluctant to let her go, when the elevator reaches the lobby, I walk her through the revolving doors to where the black Mercedes waits at the curb, my driver standing at attention by the rear door.
“Home,” I tell him, and he nods.
I open the door for her, my hand lingering on the frame as she slides into the backseat. “I’ll be home by eleven,” I remind her. “Maybe sooner, if I can manage it.”
She looks up at me, her expression still shadowed with uncertainty, but she nods. “Be careful.”
I close the door and wait for the car to pull away before reaching for my phone to text my brothers to let them know I’m on my way. Finding it empty, I pat my jacket pocket, but it’s not there, either.
“Fuck,” I grumble, turning toward the building, realizing I left it on my desk.
I take the elevator alone, watching the numbers climb, my jaw tight with irritation. I don’t have time for this. The warehouse is across town, and the union bosses—if those mobbed-up thugs running a protection racket disguised as labor representation can be called that—don’t appreciate tardiness. Especially not when they’re already blocking our construction, threatening my workers, and demanding cuts that would make the project unviable.
The elevator opens on my floor, and I stride down the hallway toward my office, my mind already shifting to the problem at hand.
I push open my office door and freeze. Melanie is sitting on my leather sofa with her skirt hiked up to her waist, legs spread wide, and heels digging into the cushions. “I thought you’d never get her to go home,” she purrs, her eyes locked on mine as she parts the lips of her cunt, revealing the arousal-coated pink flesh.
She licks the fingers of her free hand and slides them between her thighs with a loud, theatrical moan, one designed to hold my attention. Making a show of it, she spreads the saliva over her clit with the familiarity of a woman who knows how to pleasure herself.
“I’ve fucking missed working late with you,” she breathes, her chest heaving and head falling back against the sofa.
I’m not proud of it, but with my body rooted to where I stand, I watch as my brain tries to catch up to reality. With her eyes half-lidded and fixed on me, she presses her fingers inside herself with a filthy groan, before pumping them in and out as her hips lift to meet her own hand.
