Spent The Night Together
1459 Words
I barely registered the moment my feet left the pool floor.
One second, cold water clung to my skin, the night air heavy with tension and unsaid words. The next, I felt his arms wrap around me, firm and sure, lifting me as though I weighed nothing at all.
“Zane,” I gasped, instinctively clutching his shoulders. “What are you doing?”
He did not answer immediately.
Water dripped from both of us, trailing down his arms, soaking into his shirt as he stepped out of the pool with long, steady strides. The lights reflected off the wet stone, everything shimmering, unreal. My heart was pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
“Put me down,” I whispered, though my voice lacked the strength my words demanded.
Instead of responding, he tightened his hold slightly, his grip secure but not rough. I could feel the solid strength of him beneath my palms, the heat of his body contrasting sharply with the chill of the night and the water clinging to my clothes.
“You are shaking,” he said quietly.
That was when I realized I was.
Not from the cold.
From him.
“I am fine,” I said quickly. “You have had too much to drink. Please, put me down.”
He glanced at me then, really looked at me, and something unreadable crossed his face. His jaw tightened, his eyes darkened, and without another word, he turned and headed toward the mansion.
My mind screamed at me to protest, to demand, to fight.
But my body betrayed me.
I stayed still in his arms.
Every step he took brought us closer to the house, closer to something I should not allow. My heart raced with panic and something else I refused to name. I had survived too much, sacrificed too much, to lose control now.
This was wrong.
This was dangerous.
This was Zane Harrison.
The doors opened, and the warmth of the mansion enveloped us. The silence inside felt heavier than the night outside. Servants were nowhere in sight, and I silently thanked whatever luck still watched over me for that.
Zane moved with purpose, his footsteps echoing softly as he carried me upstairs.
“Zane,” I said again, more firmly this time. “This is not appropriate. Please stop.”
He paused briefly at the door to his room.
“You can walk?” he asked.
The question caught me off guard.
“Yes,” I replied immediately. “Of course I can.”
He lowered me gently until my feet touched the floor, but his hands remained on my arms for a moment longer than necessary. I felt the warmth of his palms through the thin fabric of my clothes, and it sent an unwanted shiver through me.
The door closed behind us.
The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing across the walls, the curtains swaying slightly from the night breeze. It smelled faintly of him, something clean and masculine, something familiar enough to make my chest ache.
“This should not have happened,” I said softly, more to myself than to him.
He did not deny it.
Instead, he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming the space between us. “You were crying,” he said.
“I was not,” I replied quickly.
“You were,” he insisted calmly. “Your eyes.”
I turned my face away. “That is none of your concern.”
He said nothing for a long moment.
Then, quietly, “Everything about you feels like my concern.”
My heart skipped painfully.
I looked back at him, startled. “You do not mean that.”
“Maybe I do,” he replied.
I shook my head, stepping back. “You are drunk.”
“Not enough to imagine you,” he said.
Those words should have scared me.
They did.
But they also did something else entirely.
I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to ground my thoughts. This was a mistake. Whatever had happened by the pool, whatever pull existed between us, it was a memory, not a promise. I had a child. I had a life that could not afford this kind of complication.
“I should go,” I said.
He blocked my path without touching me.
“Stay,” he said quietly. Not as a command. Not as an order. As a request.
My resolve wavered.
I hated myself for it.
“I cannot,” I whispered.
“Why?” he asked.
Because if I stay, I might forget everything I am fighting for.
Because if I stay, I might remember too much.
“I just cannot,” I repeated.
His hand lifted slowly, hesitating midair before brushing a strand of hair away from my face. His touch was light, careful, as if he feared I might vanish.
“You do not look at me like the others do,” he said softly.
I swallowed hard. “How do they look at you?”
“Like I am something to gain,” he replied. “Power. Protection. A name.”
“And how do I look at you?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“Like you are trying not to remember something,” he said.
My breath caught.
I stepped back again, my back hitting the edge of the bed. My thoughts spiraled, my heart racing as he moved closer. I knew I should stop this. I knew I should say his name sharply, remind him who he was and who I was supposed to be.
But when his hands rested on either side of me, trapping me without force, my body betrayed me again.
My mind screamed no.
My body whispered yes.
I closed my eyes.
“Zane,” I breathed, my voice barely audible. “This is a mistake.”
“Then tell me to stop,” he said quietly.
I opened my eyes.
I did not tell him to stop.
The night blurred after that. Not in clarity, but in emotion. In warmth. In the strange sense of familiarity that wrapped around me like a memory I could not place. He spoke to me softly, words I barely registered, his voice grounding and dangerous all at once.
When sleep finally claimed me, it was not restless. It was heavy and deep, dragging me under before I could think too much.
The next thing I knew, light filtered through the curtains.
Morning.
I stirred slowly, confusion washing over me as I became aware of my surroundings. The bed was too large. The sheets too unfamiliar. The scent in the air not my own.
And then I felt it.
An arm around my waist.
I froze.
His arm tightened slightly, pulling me closer, his chest warm against my back. His breathing was slow and steady, and for a moment, I lay there, trapped between panic and something dangerously close to peace.
“Zane,” I said softly. “Release me.”
He did not.
“Where are you going?” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep. “Today is not work.”
That was when reality crashed back into me.
Today was not work.
My heart lurched. “I need to go,” I said urgently.
He hugged me tighter, his chin resting briefly against my shoulder. “Stay.”
Why was he like this?
This was not the man who barely tolerated women. This was not the cold, distant CEO who barked orders and dismissed emotions as weaknesses.
“Please,” I said, pushing against him. “I have somewhere important to be.”
His body stiffened.
“Your lover?” he asked suddenly.
I turned to look at him, disbelief written across my face. “What lover?”
His eyes were sharp now, awake and guarded, his expression closing off as quickly as it had opened.
He said nothing.
I sighed, shaking my head. “You are unbelievable.”
He released me abruptly, his demeanor shifting like a switch had been flipped. The warmth vanished, replaced by the familiar cold distance.
“Leave,” he said.
I did not argue.
I dressed quickly, my hands shaking slightly as I gathered myself. Before leaving the estate, I requested permission, keeping my voice professional, controlled. No one questioned me.
When I finally stepped outside, the morning air felt sharper, colder.
As the cab pulled away toward the hospital, my thoughts refused to settle.
My mind replayed the night over and over, every word, every look, every touch.
I pressed my palm to my chest, trying to steady my heartbeat.
This changes nothing, I told myself.
Nothing at all.
But deep down, I knew that was a lie.
- Writer
