Chapter 5 Behind Close Doors

Alfreda didn't expect the car.

She'd planned to take a cab home after the board dinner-civilized, polite, predictable. But when she stepped outside, a sleek black Maserati waited at the curb, the windows tinted, the driver silent.

And when the back door opened, she saw him.

Nathaniel.

No suit. Just a fitted black turtleneck, dark jeans, and a gaze that stripped her bare with a single sweep.

"Get in," he said, his voice soft but commanding.

She hesitated-for a heartbeat. Then she slid in beside him, tension curling in her gut like smoke.

The door shut.

He didn't speak at first. The hum of the city passed by outside, quiet and slow. Her hands were clasped tight in her lap, pretending she wasn't hyperaware of his thigh brushing hers.

"Why am I here?" she asked, her voice calm but taut.

"I wanted to talk," he replied.

"In your car?"

He turned to her. "No. At my place."

She blinked. "Nathaniel-"

"No expectations," he cut in. "Just a drink. Just conversation. I need to see you... outside the glass and steel."

Her heart slammed. But she said nothing as the car turned a sharp corner and entered a private driveway that curved upward like a secret.

His home was everything she expected and nothing she was prepared for. Modern, expansive, built into the hillside like it had grown from the rock itself. Inside, warm lighting cast golden shadows on concrete and dark wood. Sleek, masculine, and yet quietly... intimate.

He led her through the open living space and out onto a terrace that overlooked the entire city-glittering like a sea of stars.

"Wine?" he asked, already pouring.

She nodded. "Red."

He handed her a glass and leaned against the railing beside her, eyes fixed on the horizon.

"I built this place when I thought I'd finally settle down," he said after a pause.

She sipped. "And?"

"I realized I wasn't the kind of man who gets to settle."

She turned to face him. "Why not?"

His eyes flicked to hers. "Because I ruin everything I touch."

It wasn't flirtation. It was a confession.

Alfreda stepped closer, wine forgotten. "You think you'd ruin me?"

He didn't answer. Just stared at her like she was the last good thing he wasn't allowed to have.

Slowly, she reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his brow. "Maybe I'm not so easy to ruin."

Nathaniel set his glass down and closed the distance between them in one breathless step.

This time, when he kissed her, it was slow. Reverent. Like he needed to memorize the taste of her mouth before he lost the chance forever.

He walked her backward into the house, never breaking the kiss, his hands cradling her face, her waist, then lower. The soft click of her heels on the wood floor echoed in her head until she felt the back of the couch press against her thighs.

"Nathaniel..."

"Tell me to stop," he whispered, his lips ghosting across her jaw, "and I will."

She didn't.

Instead, her hands tugged his sweater upward. His skin was warm, hard beneath her fingers-like temptation molded into flesh. When she touched him, he groaned low, deep in his throat, and it sent a shiver down her spine.

Clothes fell like petals to the floor.

He didn't rush.

He explored.

He watched every expression that crossed her face as if it were art, every sigh a symphony just for him. His touch was possessive, but never rough. Dominant, but patient. He didn't just want her-he wanted to break every wall she'd ever built.

And she let him.

Because in that moment, wrapped in the quiet hum of the night, pressed against fine leather and silk sheets, Alfreda realized something dangerous:

He wasn't just getting under her skin.

He was already inside her bones.