CROSSING THE LINE
369 Words
The charity rooftop was still buzzing when they left, laughter and clinking glasses fading into the night behind them.
Jubril’s driver was waiting, but instead of heading straight for the car, he led her down a side street lit only by the soft glow of a vintage lamppost.
“I needed air,” he said when she glanced at him.
Ciara could still feel the press of his hand from earlier, the way his gaze had darkened after she’d pulled that stunt with the woman in red.
“You’re quiet,” she said, her heels clicking against the pavement.
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
He stopped walking, turning to face her. “About how I don’t know if you were acting back there.”
Her pulse skipped. “Does it matter?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice low, almost rough. “It matters.”
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The city noise was distant, the lamplight soft on his face, the air charged with something that felt too big for their careful arrangement.
She told herself to step back, to say something clever, to laugh it off. Instead, she found herself tilting her chin up, her breath catching as his hand came to rest at her jaw.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispered.
“Probably,” he murmured. “But I’m tired of pretending.”
And then he kissed her.
It wasn’t the polite, staged brush of lips for cameras. It was deep, unhurried, and devastatingly real. His other hand slid to her waist, pulling her against him until she could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat.
Ciara’s fingers curled into the lapel of his jacket, not to pull him closer—he was already there—but to anchor herself in the storm he’d just unleashed.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she couldn’t bring herself to step away.
“That,” he said, eyes still on hers, “was not in the contract.”
“Neither,” she managed, “was this.”
But her voice was soft, almost reluctant—because some part of her already knew there was no going back.
- Writer
