Third Person's POV
The air in the hotel suite was thick enough to choke on. When the door finally clicked shut behind Harlow, Penelope didn't greet him with a drink or a witty remark. She met him in the center of the room, her eyes blazing with weeks of accumulated frustration.
Whack.
The sound of her palm connecting with his cheek echoed against the marble walls. Harlow's head snapped to the side, but he didn't flinch. He slowly turned his face back to her, a dark, primal light dancing in his eyes.
"That," Penelope hissed, her chest heaving, "is for the texts. For the set. For making me feel like I'm losing my mind in front of my own staff."
"I deserved that," Harlow rasped, his voice dropping an octave. "But you're not the only one losing your mind, Penelope."
He didn't wait for a second strike. He lunged forward, his hands locking around her waist with a grip that was as much a claim as it was a caress. Penelope gasped as her body was slammed against his, the friction of their clothes and the heat of their skin creating a sudden combustion. Her eyes widened, locked onto his, before the distance between them vanished in a jagged, desperate kiss.
It was a collision of teeth and tongues, a frantic testing of each other that they'd both been craving since that night.
Clothes were discarded in a trail of silk and cotton across the floor. Penelope's hands were everywhere—clutching his shoulders, tangling in his dark hair—as if she were trying to tear the truth out of him.
"I hate you," she whispered against his lips, her voice breaking. "I absolutely hate you."
Harlow pulled back just enough to look at her, a beautiful, bruised smile spreading across his face as he cast her lace undies aside. "I know," he murmured, his hands sliding down to the junction of her thighs. "I feel exactly the same way about you."
He moved with a sudden intensity, dropping to his knees. Penelope's head hit the headboard as he began to explore her with a lethal precision. Worshipping every inch of her.
I should be appalled by this, Penelope thought. I should be putting an end to this. But the way he's looking at me—the way he's touching me—it's like he's trying to memorize my soul through my skin. If this is what it feels like to burn, then let me turn to ash.
She let out a loud, uninhibited moan, her fingers digging into his scalp as he blew her mind away. She was on the edge, the world blurring, her breath coming in ragged hitches. But just as she was about to reach her peak, Harlow abruptly stopped.
He moved back up the bed, looming over her. He slowly wiped his lips with his thumb, his gaze never leaving hers.
"You taste divine, Penelope Moore," he whispered.
Penelope rolled her eyes, her face flushed a deep crimson, even as she reached up to pull him back down. "You are an infuriating egomaniac," she panted.
She didn't wait for him to take the lead again. With a surge of renewed energy, she swung him around, pinning him to the pillows and climbing on top. This time, she wasn't in the frantic hurry of their first encounter. She wanted to savor the weight of him, the sound of him.
She took him in slowly, her eyes locked on his, watching the way his pupils dilated. Harlow let out a low, gutteral growl, his hands flying to her waist to hold her in place. He let her set the pace, his fingers bruising her skin as she rode him into oblivion.
She pretends she doesn't want this, Harlow thought. But God, I've never seen anyone more beautiful than Penelope Moore when she stops pretending to be perfect and just be herself. I'd give up every camera I own just to keep her here like this. I am so far gone, and I don't ever want to find my way back.
His growls and the primal, husky sounds he made drove her even crazier, fueling a fire that didn't die down until they had both reached the end of their strength.
After two long rounds of raw sex, they dropped side-by-side on the tangled sheets. The silence in the room was finally peaceful, the yearning of the past few weeks finally sated. Harlow reached out, pulling the duvet over her and brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice soft, devoid of the usual bravado.
Penelope turned her head to look at him, her expression returning to its cool, calculated baseline, though her eyes were still soft.
"Listen to me, Harlow. We need to set ground rules. This—whatever this is—happens behind closed doors. Only. In the studio, in the office, on the street... you will act like I don't exist. You are my employee. I am your boss. Do you understand?"
Harlow looked at her, seeing the armor go back up, but he felt the heat still radiating from her body next to his. He was already too deep in his feelings to care about the conditions. He just wanted to be in her orbit, however she allowed it.
"I understand," he said, leaning over to seal the deal with a kiss that was surprisingly tender. "Boss's orders."