Chapter 7 THE PENTHOUSE.

The elevator closed immediately she pressed the button.

Sasha stood with her arms tight around the folder, watching the numbers climb. Her reflection stared back at her in the mirrored walls - nervous, too dressed up, pretending not to care.

But her heart had been pounding since she stepped into the building.

The penthouse.

It sounded sterile, professional. But her body didn't feel professional.

Not when she could still remember the press of his mouth. The way he'd handled her like something breakable - and broken her anyway.

Triple pay, she reminded herself. Nothing will happen. He promised.

The elevator opened with a soft ding.

And there it was.

The penthouse.

She stepped out into silence.

Marble floors stretched beneath her heels. The place was massive - black, silver, and steel. Every surface gleamed, polished to perfection. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, lights like scattered fire below.

It didn't feel like a home.

It felt like him.

Cold. Expensive. Untouchable.

She walked slowly toward the open space where a dark table sat near the windows. A sleek laptop was waiting, beside two glasses of untouched water and a single chair.

Then she heard him.

"You're late."

She turned.

Xavier stood at the far end of the room, sleeves rolled, a black shirt fitting his body like sin. His jacket was gone. His hair perfectly in place. But his eyes - those cold obsidian eyes - pinned her like a knife.

"By three minutes," he added.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "The driver-"

"No excuses," he said, crossing the room toward her. "Come. Sit. We're behind."

She obeyed immediately.

Her knees brushed the edge of the chair as she lowered herself. The silence between them pulsed like a slow drumbeat.

"I need you to sort the Milan contracts," he said, voice sharp and clipped. "Flag anything that needs legal review. I'll handle the rest."

She nodded.

He leaned over her - just barely - to set a second file beside her elbow. His arm grazed her shoulder.

Her breath caught.

She couldn't help it.

His scent was the same: spice, dark wood, danger.

"You okay?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

She nodded without looking at him. "Yes. Fine."

"You don't look fine."

"I'm fine," she said again, sharper.

He paused.

Then stepped away without another word.

For the next half hour, the only sound was the soft click of keyboards, the occasional rustle of paper. But Sasha could barely focus. Her thoughts spiraled every time he walked past her, too close. Every time his hand brushed the table, or his chair creaked behind her.

You'll speak when I ask you to.

Nothing unprofessional will happen again.

She'd been holding herself together all day - but now?

Now, her body was betraying her again.

Her thighs pressed tighter beneath the table. Her breath grew uneven. She reached up absently to adjust her collar, and her fingers brushed the side of her breast.

The one he had touched.

Heat rushed between her legs so fast it made her dizzy.

God, stop it, Sasha.

But she couldn't.

Not with him so close.

Not with her skin still humming from memory.

And then-his voice again.

"Stand up."

She froze.

Slowly turned.

He was staring at her.

Expression unreadable.

"Sir?"

"Stand up," he said again, low and sharp.

She obeyed, heart thudding.

He walked toward her with silent steps.

When he reached her, he didn't touch her.

Didn't even move.

Just stared.

"I'm going to make something clear," he said. "So you don't misunderstand tonight."

Sasha swallowed.

"This is work," he continued. "Nothing more. I won't touch you again. No matter how badly I..."

He stopped.

A flicker. Barely.

"...no matter how you look at me."

Her lips parted. "I wasn't-"

"You were," he said.

His eyes dropped to her mouth. Then lower.

She didn't breathe.

"Finish the files," he said suddenly. "Don't test me."

And then he turned.

Walked back to his desk.

Like nothing had happened.

But her hands were trembling.

And the ache between her thighs hadn't gone away.

★★★★★★★

They didn't speak after that.

For the next two hours, Sasha worked quietly under the dim glow of pendant lights. Xavier barely looked her way again, except to correct a mistake or pass a note across the table. No more near touches. No more slips. Just... silence.

It was worse than before.

When they finally wrapped up, he stood and rolled his sleeves back down without looking at her.

"You'll spend the night here," he said curtly, collecting the files. "It's late. The maid will show you the guest room."

Sasha blinked. "I-I can get a cab-"

"I didn't ask what you can do," he cut in, still not facing her. "You're staying. It's not a request."

A soft knock came at the door, and the maid entered, polite and wordless, gesturing for Sasha to follow.

She did.

The guest room was nothing like she expected - not soft or feminine, but sleek and cool, with black linen sheets, silk curtains, and lighting so dim it made the air feel heavier.

There were folded clothes laid neatly at the foot of the bed. A robe. A nightgown. Underwear that looked... expensive.

Sasha stood in front of the mirror, unzipping her dress with shaky hands.

Her reflection made her freeze.

She didn't look like the Sasha she knew.

Not anymore.

Her lips were flushed. Her cheeks too warm. Her breasts still ached from where he'd touched them. Even now, her thighs clenched at the memory.

She stepped out of the dress.

The cool air hit her skin, but it didn't cool the fire.

She wrapped herself in a towel and walked into the adjoining bathroom. She washed her face, trying to collect herself, but the ache wouldn't leave.

The kiss.

The way he had pressed her to the desk.

The way her body had responded - not with fear, but hunger.

She exhaled shakily.

She needed to sleep. Forget. Breathe.

But as she returned to the room, her gaze caught on the nightstand.

A bottle of cologne.

His.

His scent.

The same one that clung to his unbuttoned shirt when he leaned too close. That scent that seemed to live in her blood now.

Her towel slipped slightly as she sat on the edge of the bed, legs still damp and trembling.

And still - that ache.

Low. Deep.

Like a pressure building and begging to be released.

She closed her eyes.

Then... slowly, she leaned back on the bed, legs parting without thought. Her fingers slid up her thighs, unsure, hesitant-until her hand pressed down between them and she gasped.

One touch.

That was all it took.

Heat bloomed under her skin like a forbidden fire.

She bit her lip, arched slightly, and tried to be quiet.

Tried.

But his name slipped from her lips - soft at first.

"Xavier..."

She shouldn't.

She knew she shouldn't.

But her hand moved again. Slower this time. More pressure. Her hips lifted as her breath hitched, her head falling back into the pillows.

"Xavier..."

This time louder. A whisper soaked in shame and sin.

She thought of his voice. His eyes. His hand on her chest. His mouth on her neck.

Her towel fell open.

She didn't care.

The room swam around her as the heat rose, and her voice broke, sharp and breathless-

"Xavier-oh my God..."

She didn't see the door ease open.

Didn't hear the footsteps pause.

Didn't realize she was being watched.

Until the pressure behind her eyes lifted for just one second-

And she looked up.

To find Xavier standing at the door.

Frozen.

Staring.

His expression unreadable.

And his eyes - dark and locked on her hand - were burning.