Zara walked fast.
Too fast.
Her heels clicked sharply against the marble floors of The Savoy lobby as she practically fled the hotel, heart pounding so hard she thought the entire building would hear it.
Rain had started again outside thin, icy drops that misted her skin the moment she stepped onto the pavement.
Her breath came out unsteady.
She pressed a hand to her lips.
They still tingled.
Still ached.
Still carried the burn of Damon Huxley's mouth on hers.
"God," she whispered, voice trembling. "What have I done?"
A taxi pulled up beside her, the headlights streaking across the wet pavement. She climbed in without thinking.
The door shut.
Silence wrapped around her like an accusation.
She closed her eyes.
But all she could see was him.
His hands.
His breath.
His voice breaking softly when he whispered:
"I wanted to kiss you… and I still do."
Her chest tightened painfully.
This wasn't lust.
Not only lust.
It was something deeper, more dangerous.
Something that felt like gravity.
And she hated it.
Hated him.
Hated herself for wanting him despite every lesson her life had taught her.
The taxi began to move.
But the further she got from him, the worse she felt.
Inside the hotel bar, Damon remained exactly where she left him.
Elbows on the bar.
Head bowed.
Breath unsteady.
His jacket was undone, his shirt collar slightly crooked from where Zara's fingers had held him.
He didn't fix it.
He couldn't move.
His lips felt swollen.
His pulse was still racing.
His fingertips tingled from gripping her waist.
He replayed every second of the kiss the softness of her mouth, the sound she made, the way she pressed into him like she'd been fighting herself for far too long.
He had kissed women before.
Many, many women.
Models.
Actresses.
Heiresses.
Women who wanted his money, his name, his attention.
But Zara…
Zara kissed like she was starving and terrified at the same time.
She kissed like a woman who'd built walls so high she never imagined letting anyone touch them and now he'd found a crack.
He dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply.
He should have walked away.
He should have stopped himself.
He should have pretended she was just another opponent.
But Damon Huxley had never been a liar not to himself.
He wanted her.
Wanted her like need, not preference.
Wanted her like obsession, not temptation.
He stood abruptly, grabbing his jacket.
He needed to see her.
No he needed air.
No he needed her.
He walked out into the rain.
Her apartment was dark when she entered.
She didn't turn on the lights.
She dropped her coat on the floor, kicked off her heels, and pressed her forehead against her front door.
Her breathing was uneven.
She whispered to herself: "Get it together."
But her fingers shook.
Every time she closed her eyes, she felt his breath on her lips again.
Every time she inhaled, she smelled him expensive cologne, warm skin, something masculine and intoxicating.
Every time she swallowed, she remembered the sound he made when she kissed him back.
She pushed away from the door.
She needed water.
Or a shower.
Or prayer.
She didn't know which.
She walked to her living room.
Her phone buzzed.
Her body froze.
It buzzed again.
No.
No.
She shouldn't…
She looked.
Unknown number: I shouldn't have kissed you.
Her stomach flipped violently.
Her breath caught.
Another message.
DH: I should have walked away.
She squeezed her phone.
DH: But I don't regret it.
Her knees weakened.
No response.
A third message came.
DH: Open the door.
She gasped.
Her phone slipped from her hands.
She spun around toward the entryway.
A shadow stood behind the fogged glass of her apartment door.
Tall.
Still.
Waiting.
Rain shifted outside.
Thunder rolled distantly.
Zara's heart slammed.
He came.
He actually came.
She walked slowly to the door.
Every step measured.
Terrified.
Drawn.
Helpless.
She unlocked it.
Opened it.
And there he was.
Damon Huxley.
Raindrops on his hair.
Dark suit soaked at the shoulders.
Shirt clinging to the lines of his body.
Eyes burning.
He looked like every forbidden thing a woman should never want.
"Zara," he murmured her name a quiet plea.
She swallowed.
"What are you doing here?" she whispered.
He took one step forward.
She didn't step back.
"I tried to go home," he said.
Rain fell harder behind him, blurring the city lights.
"But I couldn't."
Her chest tightened.
"I kept seeing you walk out of that bar," he continued. "And I couldn't breathe."
Her lips parted.
"I shouldn't be here. I know that."
He stepped closer.
"I'm not asking to come in," he said softly.
Her heartbeat quickened.
"I just needed to see you. To know that you…"
He trailed off.
She whispered, "That I what?"
Damon's jaw tightened.
"That you wanted me as much as I want you."
Her breath shook violently.
She stepped into the doorway, closer than she should.
"Damon," she whispered, "you're going to ruin everything."
His eyes softened.
"No," he murmured. "I'm going to ruin myself first."
She exhaled shakily.
His fingers lifted slowly, gently and brushed a raindrop from her cheek.
Her entire body jolted.
He dropped his hand instantly, breathing harder.
"Tell me to leave," he said shakily. "Tell me to walk away."
She opened her mouth.
But no sound came.
His voice broke.
"Zara… please."
She whispered, trembling:
"I can't."
The look on his face was devastating.
Relief.
Need.
Pain.
Want.
Respect.
Hunger.
He leaned in so slowly, giving her every second to stop him.
Their breaths collided.
Her hand lifted touched his chest.
His breath stuttered.
She whispered: "We can't do this inside."
He nodded once.
"Then let's go somewhere else."
They walked in silence through the rain, their steps syncopated, their hands brushing occasionally.
Each touch felt like fire.
Each second felt like a descent.
The Savoy concierge didn't blink when Damon requested the key to a private suite.
He didn't touch Zara.
Didn't rush her.
Didn't pressure her.
But every inch of him radiated restraint stretched to breaking.
The elevator ride was silent.
Too silent.
Her pulse roared.
His breathing shook.
Their reflections in the mirrored walls looked like people on the edge of something irreversible.
When the suite door shut behind them
Everything changed.
They stood facing each other.
Not touching.
Just breathing.
Zara's chest lifted and fell rapidly.
Damon's jaw clenched hard enough to crack.
"You can still walk away," he said hoarsely.
"No," she whispered.
He exhaled harshly.
"You don't understand," he said.
"I'm not good at slow. I'm not good at gentle. I'm not good at"
She stepped closer.
"You've been gentle every time it mattered," she whispered.
His breath caught.
Her fingers touched the collar of his rain-soaked shirt.
A curse slipped from his lips.
He reached for her
Then stopped.
"Zara," he whispered, "if I touch you, I won't stop."
She trembled.
"I'm not asking you to stop."
That was the breaking point.
He lifted a hand slowly and cupped her jaw.
Her eyes fluttered closed on instinct.
His thumb brushed her cheekbone.
Her lips parted.
Her breath caught.
He leaned in.
His nose grazed hers.
His forehead touched hers.
But he didn't kiss her.
He whispered: "Look at me."
She did.
And his world cracked.
Her eyes were soft.
Terrified.
Wanting.
Strong.
Fragile.
He lowered his forehead to hers again, voice trembling.
"You're not mine," he whispered.
"And I'm trying… God, I'm trying… to respect that."
Her fingers slid up his chest.
He inhaled sharply.
Shuddered.
"Damon…"
He pulled her closer by the waist slow, strong, controlled until her body met his.
She gasped softly.
He groaned.
And that sound nearly destroyed them both.
He lowered his mouth to her neck.
Didn't kiss.
Just breathed.
Her knees weakened.
He moved his lips…
barely…
along her jaw.
She whimpered a soft, broken thing that snapped every thread of restraint he had left.
He reached her lips…
And froze.
"No," he whispered, voice breaking. "If I kiss you again tonight, you won't leave."
Her body pressed into his.
She swallowed.
"Maybe I don't want to leave."
His eyes closed.
His head tilted back.
He cursed under his breath.
"Zara, I swear to you if you stay, I will not be able to pretend this is nothing."
Her heart slammed.
Her voice whispered:
"It isn't nothing."
His eyes snapped to hers.
And he kissed her.
Hard.
Slow.
Deep.
This kiss wasn't like the bar.
This was hunger and reverence, restraint and desperation, punishment and prayer.
He kissed her like he wanted her soul.
She kissed him like she'd been waiting years to breathe.
Her hands slid into his wet hair.
He groaned into her mouth.
His palms gripped her waist.
She arched into him.
Heat engulfed them.
Need consumed them.
Logic died.
He kissed her until she trembled.
She kissed him until he shuddered.
He dragged his lips from hers with effort that looked painful.
"We need rules," he panted.
She nodded against his mouth.
"Yes."
"Then say them," he whispered.
Zara swallowed.
"No feelings."
His eyes burned.
"No attachments."
He moved his mouth to her ear.
"No getting caught."
He kissed her neck.
She gasped.
"No getting hurt."
His forehead dropped to her shoulder.
"Impossible," he whispered.
Her knees buckled.
He caught her instantly, lifting her slightly, pressing her to the door.
She felt the strength of him.
The heat.
The wanting.
He whispered against her lips:
"These rules won't save us."
"I know."
He kissed her again.
Long.
Slow.
Devastating.
And then…
He pulled away.
Actually pulled away.
Breathing hard.
Chest rising.
Hands shaking.
"Go," he whispered.
"Before I make both of us cross a line we can't return from."
She stared at him.
Torn.
Hungry.
Hurting.
Wanting.
She touched his cheek softly.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
He exhaled like she'd just stabbed him.
"Yes," he whispered.
"You will."
She stepped out.
He didn't follow.
When the door closed
He leaned back against the wall, breathing like a man who'd survived something catastrophic.
And lost something he didn't know he was fighting to keep.