Chapter 10: Champagne Consequences
The pop of the cork was a gunshot in the quiet room. Elle flinched, the sound jolting through her oversensitive nerves. Cash whooped, a bright, careless sound, as the froth began to bubble over the lip of the bottle.
“To new beginnings,” he declared, aiming the neck towards the three elegant glasses Alistair had produced from a minibar.
He never got the chance to pour.
The champagne, over-shaken from his jaunt through the city, erupted. A geyser of pale gold shot out, soaking his hand, his sleeve, and splattering across Alistair’s immaculate desk. Drops hit Elle’s arm, startlingly cold. A few landed on Ronan’s chest, darkening his black t-shirt.
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Alistair looked at the bubbling puddle threatening his important-looking documents. Ronan stared at the wet patch on his shirt. Cash just grinned, utterly unrepentant.
Then Alistair spoke, his voice dangerously calm. “Caspian.”
That single word broke the spell. A laugh bubbled out of Elle, shaky and disbelieving. It was all too much—the intense claiming, the sudden shift, and now this absurdity. The laugh turned into a giggle, then into full-bodied laughter that made her sides ache.
Cash’s grin widened. “See? She gets it. It’s a celebration, not a wake.”
He shook his wet hand, flinging champagne droplets at her. She squealed, the sound echoing in the vast room. Ronan’s stern expression cracked, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as he watched her laugh. Even Alistair’s tight posture eased a fraction, a reluctant smile touching his lips.
“You’re a menace,” Alistair said, but the edge was gone from his voice.
Cash stepped around the desk, the bottle still fizzing in his hand. “You love it.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He tipped the bottle, not into a glass, but over Elle’s head.
She gasped as the cold, sweet liquid cascaded through her red hair, down her temples, soaking the collar of her shirt. It dripped onto her skin, tracing paths through the lingering sweat. The scent of it, crisp and yeasty, filled her nostrils.
“Cash!” she protested, but she was still laughing, swatting at his arm.
He caught her wrist easily, his grip firm. His eyes, dark and sparkling, held hers. “You needed cooling off, trouble. You were burning up.”
Before she could retort, Ronan was there. His large hands, warm and sure, framed her face, tilting it up. He leaned in and licked a slow, deliberate path from her collarbone up her neck, tasting the champagne on her skin. The contrast of his heat against the cold liquid made her shudder.
“Waste not,” he murmured, his voice a gravelly vibration against her throat.
The mood shifted again, the playful energy coalescing into something hotter, more intent. The laughter died in her throat, replaced by a sharp, wanting breath. Alistair moved behind her, his hands settling on her champagne-damp hips. His lips brushed the shell of her ear.
“The desk is already ruined,” he noted, his tone pragmatic, but the words were anything but. “Might as well make use of it.”
Cash was the one to guide her back, his hands on her shoulders, until the backs of her thighs hit the solid edge of the polished mahogany. Ronan’s hands went to the button of her jeans, his work-roughened fingers making quick work of it. Alistair’s hands slid her soaked shirt up her torso, his touch clinical and possessive all at once.
The city lights blurred into a watercolor painting of gold and white beyond the glass. The cold, sticky champagne on her skin was warmed by their hands, their mouths. Cash kissed her, his mouth tasting of laughter and expensive bubbles. Ronan’s hands spanned her waist, lifting her fully onto the desk, sending a stack of papers fluttering to the floor. Alistair’s voice was a steady, low command in her ear, guiding her, praising her.
It was a chaos of sensation. The smooth, hard wood beneath her. The scratch of Ronan’s denim-clad legs against hers. The slick slide of Cash’s skin against her own. The precise, demanding touch of Alistair’s fingers.
This was different from the claiming against the window. That had been about power, about boundaries. This was about consumption. They weren’t just marking her; they were devouring her, and she was letting them, her body arching into every touch, every bite, every whispered word.
Cash’s playful teasing turned into ragged breaths against her neck. Ronan’s quiet strength became a relentless, driving force. Alistair’s analytical control fractured into guttural, approving sounds.
When the world finally stilled, the only sounds were their harsh breaths and the distant hum of the city. Elle lay sprawled across the mahogany desk, sticky and spent and utterly unraveled. Ronan braced himself over her, his long hair tickling her shoulder. Cash was slumped in Alistair’s expensive leather chair, a look of satiated triumph on his face. Alistair stood by the window, straightening his cuffs, his composure seemingly restored, though his hair was disheveled.
He looked from the champagne bottle, now lying empty on its side on the carpet, to the wreckage of his desk, to the three of them in various states of undress.
“Well,” he said, his gray eyes meeting Elle’s dazed ones. “I suppose we’ll be having our meetings elsewhere for a while.”
A weak, breathless laugh escaped her. It was all she could manage. The marks on her skin tingled, a map of the evening’s journey. She was theirs. Truly, completely theirs. And for the first time since she’d arrived in this city, the weight of that thought didn’t feel like a chain. It felt like coming home.