My Burning Desire by RK

Chapter 6

Oliver's POV

I know she is going to have questions. A hundred of them, spinning in that quiet, analytical mind of hers, waiting to burst the moment we are behind closed doors.

The truth is, I didn't even know I was going to do it. The words weren't scripted or planned out. But then I saw the way the crowd stared at us as we walked into that ballroom—the judgment, the whispers, the sheer audacity of people looking at a woman who is entirely my world as if she were just a temporary fixture. Something snapped into place.

I wanted her to feel secure in herself. I wanted her to stop carrying the weight of being hidden, to never again feel an ounce of shame about us or the way we fit together.

And the second the words left my mouth, echoing off those crystal chandeliers, I knew the terrifying truth: I meant every single syllable. It wasn't a tactical play. It wasn't a panicked reaction to Chris's miserable presence. It was something I wanted more than life itself.

For me, it wasn't a sacrifice. It was a new beginning.

The twenty-minute drive back to her place is suffocatingly silent.

John, my regular driver—and the only soul who actually knew about our relationship before tonight—normally fills these late-night rides with easy, lively chatter. But John has always been highly observant. Sensing the heavy, electric tension hanging in the air, he keeps his eyes glued to the road and his mouth shut, sealing us in absolute quiet.

In the dim light of the backseat, I glance over at Janelle. She is sitting rigidly against the leather, her hands resting in her lap, her fingers twisting and turning over one another in a frantic, nervous loop.

I can't stand seeing her so anxious, especially when I am the one who put that fear there. Reaching out, I firmly but gently engulf both of her trembling hands in mine, anchoring her. I want to siphon off some of that raw panic, to remind her that I am right here.

She instantly stills. For a fleeting second, she looks up at me—her eyes wide, guarded, and completely overwhelmed—before pulling her gaze away and turning to stare blindly out the tinted window.

As the car finally glides to a stop in front of my building, the towering security gates parting automatically for the vehicle, the dark, heavy clouds overhead seem to mirror the heavy silence between us. A storm is definitely brewing—both in the midnight sky above, and the absolute second we walk through those front doors.

I lead the way into the private elevator, my keycard instantly engaging the mechanism that whisks us straight up to my penthouse. But the moment the glass doors slide shut, she steps away from me, putting as much physical distance inside the car as the walls will allow.

I snap my eyes directly to her, my jaw tightening. I don't like that. I don't like the instinctive retreat, the way she's trying to put up a wall the second we are away from prying eyes.

The heavy glass doors of the private elevator slide open directly into the foyer of my penthouse, and the pent-up frustration of the entire evening finally snaps.

As we step inside, I yank the keycard and my wallet from my pocket, throwing them onto the side table with enough force that the ceramic base hits the surface with a sharp crack, making the decorative vase rattle violently.

Janelle startles, whipping around at the sudden commotion, her lips parting as if she's finally ready to let loose every question and complaint she's been holding in all night.

I don't give her the chance.

Before she can utter a single word, my anger boils over—not at her, but at the distance she's trying to put between us, at the fear in her eyes, at the entire suffocating world that keeps trying to pull her away from me. I step in, haul her flush against my chest, and crash my mouth down onto hers.

She stiffens instantly, her hands coming up to push against my shoulders, fighting me with a sudden, panicked resistance. But I don't care about the fight. I refuse to let her push me away in the quiet dark the way she did in the car. I keep my grip iron-clad, deepening the kiss, taking over until her frantic struggle slowly begins to soften, the resistance melting into shock.

I press the advantage, sliding my tongue past her lips to taste her, demanding a response, forcing her to participate. And slowly, inevitably, she gives in. A soft breath catches in her throat, her hands slide up from my chest, and her fingers tangle deep into my hair, pulling me harder, dragging me even further into her until we are breathing the exact same air.