The kiss turned into something wild and desperate.
Liam's hands were everywhere—rough, possessive, claiming. He kissed her like a man drowning, like she was air and he'd been suffocating for two years. Isabella kissed him back just as fiercely, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to erase every inch of distance that had existed between them.
"Isabella," he groaned against her mouth, and the sound of her name—raw and wanting—sent heat flooding through her body.
She gasped as his hands gripped her waist, lifting her slightly, pressing her harder against the bookshelf. Books tumbled to the floor, forgotten. Nothing mattered except the feeling of his body against hers, his mouth on hers, his hands finally touching her the way she'd dreamed about for two years.
"Liam," she breathed, and he made a sound low in his throat—something between a growl and a groan.
"Say it again," he demanded against her lips.
"Liam."
His control snapped completely.
He pulled her away from the bookshelf and toward the desk, his mouth never leaving hers, his hands already working at the buttons of her blouse with shaking fingers. Not carefully. Not gently. With desperate urgency that bordered on violence.
A button popped off, skittering across the floor.
"Sorry," Liam muttered, not sounding sorry at all as he pushed the fabric off her shoulders.
"Don't be," Isabella gasped, her own hands pulling at his tie, his shirt, needing to feel his skin against hers.
They crashed against the desk, papers scattering, files falling to the floor. The Morrison analysis. The Chen report. All the work she'd slaved over, now scattered and forgotten as Liam lifted her onto the desk, his body pressing between her thighs.
"Two years," he said roughly, his hands sliding up her sides, his thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts through her bra. "Two years of watching you. Wanting you. Going insane from wanting you."
"Then stop talking," Isabella said breathlessly, pulling him down for another kiss.
This kiss was different—deeper, darker, more consuming. His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming, possessing, and Isabella met him with equal intensity. This wasn't gentle romance. This wasn't tender lovemaking.
This was war.
A release of two years of fury and longing and denial. Every harsh word, every cold dismissal, every moment of pretending—all of it channeled into raw, desperate passion.
Liam's hand slid up her thigh, pushing her skirt higher, and Isabella arched into his touch, gasping. His fingers traced patterns on her skin—possessive, claiming, burning.
"Tell me you want this," he demanded, his voice rough and desperate against her neck. "Tell me this isn't just me losing my mind."
"I want this," Isabella gasped as his teeth scraped her collarbone. "I've wanted this. I've wanted YOU."
The confession unleashed something in him.
His hands were rougher now, more demanding. He pulled her closer, eliminating every inch of space between them, and Isabella felt the evidence of his desire pressing against her. The knowledge that he wanted her this badly—that he was as desperate and lost as she was—made her head spin.
"You're mine," Liam growled against her skin, and the possessive claim should have scared her but instead made heat pool low in her belly. "Say it."
"Yours," Isabella breathed, her nails digging into his shoulders.
More fabric tore. Her blouse, already damaged, was pulled off completely. His shirt followed, buttons scattering. They were destroying each other's clothes, their professional armor, everything that separated them.
Liam's mouth moved down her throat, her collarbone, lower. Isabella's head fell back, her eyes closing, lost in sensation. His hands were everywhere—possessive, demanding, claiming every inch of her like he was memorizing her by touch.
"Look at me," he commanded, and Isabella's eyes opened to find him staring at her with an intensity that stole her breath. "I want you to see who's touching you. Who's making you feel this way."
"Liam," she whispered, her voice breaking.
"That's right," he said roughly. "Me. Not some fantasy. Not some contract arrangement. Me."
He kissed her again, and this time there was something almost violent about it—two years of suppressed emotion exploding into raw physicality. It wasn't making love. It was a conquest. A claiming. A breaking of every rule and boundary they'd built between them.
The desk was uncomfortable, papers crumpling beneath her, but Isabella didn't care. Nothing mattered except Liam's hands on her skin, his mouth on hers, the feeling of finally, finally being wanted by the man she loved.
"Tell me to stop," Liam said roughly, even as his hands continued their exploration. "Tell me this is a mistake and I'll—"
"Don't stop," Isabella interrupted, pulling him closer. "Don't you dare stop."
"Isabella—"
"I love you," she gasped out, the words escaping before she could stop them. "I love you, and I don't care about the contract or the rules or anything except—"
Liam's mouth crashed down on hers, swallowing the rest of her confession. The kiss was desperate, almost punishing, and Isabella kissed him back with equal intensity.
Everything blurred together after that—sensation and emotion and two years of denial finally breaking free. The cool surface of the desk against her back. The heat of Liam's body above her. The sound of their ragged breathing filling the quiet office. Papers scattered everywhere, documents destroyed, professional boundaries obliterated.
It was furious and desperate and raw. Not gentle. Not romantic. A physical manifestation of their broken communication, their suppressed desire, their inability to be honest with words so they spoke with touch instead.
Isabella's nails raked down his back, leaving marks, claiming him as much as he was claiming her. Liam groaned against her mouth, his control completely shattered, giving himself over to this moment with an abandon Isabella had never seen from him.
"Mine," he kept saying, the word punctuating every touch, every kiss. "Mine. Mine. Mine."
And Isabella, lost in sensation and emotion and the overwhelming feeling of finally being wanted, could only gasp "Yours" in response.
When it was over, they lay tangled together on the desk, amid the wreckage of files and reports and professional pretense. Their breathing gradually slowed. Reality began to creep back in.
Isabella felt vulnerable in a way she'd never experienced before—physically, emotionally, completely exposed. She'd just given herself to the man she loved, had confessed her feelings, had broken every rule they'd agreed to.
And she had no idea what happened next.
Liam was the first to move.
He pulled away, standing, his back to her as he reached for his discarded shirt. The movement was abrupt, almost violent in its suddenness.
Isabella sat up slowly, suddenly aware of her state of undress, of the papers scattered around her, of the vulnerability of her position.
"Liam?" she said softly.
He didn't turn around. Just pulled on his shirt with sharp, precise movements. Rebuilding his armor.
"This changes nothing," he said, his voice flat and cold—the businessman voice, the one he used to fire people and destroy competitors.
Isabella's blood turned to ice. "What?"
"This." Liam gestured vaguely, still not looking at her. "What just happened. It changes nothing."
"How can you say that?" Isabella's voice was barely a whisper. "After everything we just—"
"It was stress relief," Liam interrupted, his voice hard. "Two years of tension finally released. Don't read into it."
Each word was a knife to Isabella's chest.
"Stress relief," she repeated numbly. "That's what you're calling this?"
"That's what it was." Liam finally turned, and his face was a mask—cold, controlled, completely shut down. "We both needed an outlet. We used each other. That's all."
"I told you I loved you," Isabella said, her voice breaking.
"You were caught up in the moment," Liam said dismissively, pulling on his jacket. "People say things during sex. It doesn't mean anything."
Isabella felt like she'd been slapped. Worse than slapped. Destroyed.
She'd just given him everything—her body, her heart, her confession—and he was reducing it to stress relief. To nothing.
"How can you—" Isabella started, but Liam cut her off.
"The contract still stands," he said coldly. "Two years. Professional boundaries. This was a lapse in judgment that won't be repeated." His eyes finally met hers, and they were arctic. "Get dressed, Ms. Hart. Go to bed. We'll discuss this professionally in the morning."
Ms. Hart. Not Isabella. Back to formality. Back to distance.
Back to lies.
"You're a coward," Isabella whispered, her eyes burning with tears she refused to shed. "You're so terrified of feeling something real that you'd rather destroy it—destroy ME—than admit you care."
Liam's jaw clenched, but his expression didn't change. "Believe what you want. The contract stands. That's final."
He walked out, leaving her sitting on his desk, surrounded by scattered papers and destroyed clothing and the wreckage of her heart.
Isabella heard his bedroom door close. The lock click.
And she sat there, naked and shattered and utterly destroyed, realizing with crushing certainty that she'd just made the biggest mistake of her life.
She'd given Liam Black everything.
And he'd taken it, used it, and thrown her away like she was nothing.
Just stress relief.
Just a mistake.
Just another business transaction to be filed away and forgotten.
Isabella finally moved, gathering her destroyed clothes with shaking hands, her body aching in ways that had nothing to do with the physical. She dressed in torn fabric and shattered dignity, her mind numb, her heart broken beyond repair.
She'd told him she loved him.
And he'd called it meaningless.
As she left the office and walked to her bedroom on unsteady legs, one thought echoed in her mind:
This wasn't the breaking point.
This was the fall.
And Isabella had no idea how to survive the landing.