Chapter 6
1048 Words
The scent of him still clung to her skin.
Sophia stood under the scalding spray of her shower, scrubbing at the memory of his hands, the phantom pressure of his lips, the possessive grip on her hips. But it was no use. The steam rising around her didn’t smell like her vanilla body wash; it smelled like him. Like expensive cologne, clean linen, and the intoxicating, musky scent of their shared passion. Her body, traitorous and alive, hummed with the ghost of his touch, every nerve ending recalling the scrape of his stubble, the warmth of his mouth, the way he…
No.
She shut off the water with a hard twist, wrapping herself in a towel. The chill of her apartment was a shock, a slap of mundane reality. This is your life, it seemed to say. Orderly. Controlled. Predictable. Not a penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows and a man who looked at her like she was a puzzle he was dying to solve.
Dressing in her most severe, professional black dress and pulling her damp hair into a tight knot, she tried to armour herself. She powered up her laptop at her small kitchen table, the screen glowing with a dozen emails about table linens and floral arrangements. But the words blurred. All she could see was the predatory grace in his stride as he’d crossed the penthouse, the raw hunger in his stormy eyes when he’d turned her to face the glass.
“Tell me to stop.”
Her breath hitched. She hadn’t. The consequences of that single defiant choice were a constant, throbbing echo in her blood.
A notification chimed—a calendar reminder for a venue walk-through. Work. Her sanctuary. She clung to it. This was who she was. Sophia Bennett, owner of Bennett Events. Not some… conquest for a bored billionaire. He’d had his unforgettable night. She’d had hers. It was over.
So why did every silent moment between tasks fill with the memory of his low groan against her neck?
---
Across the city, in a glass-walled office that overlooked the financial district, Adrian Cole wasn’t looking at the stock tickers flashing on his monitor.
He was staring at a single, empty chair.
His assistant had just left after delivering his morning coffee and the day’s brutal schedule. The silence she left behind was profound. And in that silence, Adrian wasn’t the titan of industry, the man who commanded boardrooms with a glance. He was just a man replaying a filmstrip in his mind.
The feel of her spine under his palm as he unzipped her dress. The shock of her bare skin. The sharp, startled gasp she’d made when he’d first entered her, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that had gone straight to his core. The way her eyes, those warm whiskey pools, had held his with such fierce intensity, even in surrender.
He’d had women. Beautiful women. Willing women. But none who looked at him like that. Like he was just a man, and she was weighing the worth of his soul in that single moment. None who had the sheer audacity to slip out before dawn, leaving nothing behind but a rumpled indentation on his pillow and a scent that still, infuriatingly, haunted his sheets.
He took a sip of coffee, the rich blend tasting like ash. The controlled, ruthless part of him, the part that built an empire from nothing, was… intrigued. Piqued. She was a deal that hadn’t closed. A variable he hadn’t accounted for.
A slow smile, devoid of any warmth, touched his lips. He’d find her. It wasn’t a question. The city was his chessboard, and people were his pawns. Sophia Bennett had just made herself the most interesting piece on the board.
He picked up his phone, his thumb hovering over his assistant’s contact. A simple command. Find her. But he paused. A direct approach felt… crude." This required finesse. She’d bolted from a direct confrontation of the morning after. He needed a different strategy. A reason to be in her world, on her terms. He needed to be unavoidable.
---
Back in her office, Sophia was losing the battle for focus.
“So, for the Cavanaugh wedding, we’re thinking peonies, not roses,” her intern, Chloe, chirped, scrolling through a tablet.
“Mmm,” Sophia murmured, staring at a rack of fabric swatches. The deep emerald velvet reminded her of her dress. His fingers are on the zip. His whispered words in the dark.
“Sophia? Peonies? Are you okay? You seem a million miles away.”
She blinked, forcing a professional smile. “Sorry, Chloe. Long night. Peonies are perfect. More romantic.” Unlike a no-strings-attached encounter that leaves you feeling utterly unmoored.
Her phone buzzed on the desk. A number she didn’t recognize. Her heart did a foolish, frantic leap before she ruthlessly squashed it. It’s a vendor. A client. It’s not him.
She declined the call. But the sudden, jarring ring had broken her fragile concentration for good. The images rushed back in a tidal wave. The cool glass against her feverish skin. The heat of his chest pressed against her back. The feeling of…
God.
She stood up abruptly. “I need some air, Chloe. Hold down the fort?”
Out on the busy sidewalk, she breathed in the exhaust-filled city air, hoping it would cleanse her lungs of him. It didn’t. She felt marked. Changed. And the worst part was the nagging, whispering thought that she wanted to see him again. That the most alive she’d felt in years was in the arms of a man who was clearly dangerous.
Her phone buzzed again in her purse. The same unknown number. This time, a text followed immediately after.
Unknown: Miss Bennett. It’s Liam, Mr. Cole’s assistant. Mr. Cole has a proposition for you regarding the Ascendancy Gala. He’d like to discuss it with you personally.
The world narrowed to the screen. Her blood, which had been humming with memory, now turned to ice. Then fire.
He’d found her. Of course he had.
Her thumb trembled as she typed out a reply, her professional instincts warring with the part of her that was already imagining his voice, his proximity, the intensity of his gaze.
Sophia: What kind of proposition?
- Writer
