Chapter 6: Negotiations, Nightfall, and No Return
The skyline of Chicago sprawled beneath them like a circuit board, all sharp angles and glittering lights, and Blake pressed her forehead to the cold glass of the hotel window and tried to remember what her life had looked like before.
Three days. Three days of boardrooms and client dinners and the particular torture of watching Jack Linden command a room—his voice low and deliberate, his gray eyes cutting through bullshit like a scalpel. Three days of keeping her distance, of sitting at the opposite end of conference tables, of excusing herself early from dinners with the excuse of a headache.
Three days of pretending she wasn't counting the hours until she could lock herself in her hotel room and press her thighs together and remember.
The trip was supposed to end tonight.
It didn't.
"Flight's cancelled," Jack said, stepping out of the bathroom with his phone in hand. Steam curled around him, clinging to the cotton of his undershirt, and Blake hated the way her eyes tracked the water droplets sliding down his forearms. "Weather in Denver. They're saying tomorrow morning at the earliest."
Blake's stomach dropped.
"I'll call the front desk," she said, already reaching for the room phone. "See if they have another room."
She didn't look at him. Didn't need to. She could feel his gaze on her back like a physical weight, could feel the heat radiating off him even from across the suite.
The call took four minutes.
She spent the first three on hold, listening to the same looping jazz arrangement, her fingernails digging crescent moons into her palm.
The fourth minute was the concierge apologizing—profusely, sincerely, with the particular brand of sympathy that only made it worse.
"I'm so sorry, ma'am. There's a conference in town. We're completely booked. The suite you're in is the last available room."
Blake hung up.
She turned around.
Jack was standing in the bedroom doorway.
His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his dark hair still damp and curling at the temples. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a magazine spread—the kind of effortless, careless beauty that made Blake want to break something.
"I'll take the couch," he said.
"What?"
"The couch." He gestured vaguely toward the living area. "It pulls out. I'll take it. You take the bed."
Blake blinked. "You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." His voice was even, unreadable. "I'm offering."
She should have said thank you.
She should have said goodnight.
Instead, she stood there like an idiot, frozen in place, watching him cross to the couch and start pulling cushions off.
"Blake."
"What?"
"You're staring."
She looked away. Too late. Heat flooded her cheeks, her neck, the tips of her ears.
"I need to call Craig," she said.
She didn't wait for a response. Just grabbed her phone and retreated to the bedroom, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
The bedroom was a glass-walled sanctuary, the curtains drawn halfway to let in the neon glow of the river below. The bed was a fortress of black silk and polished mahogany, the sheets still warm from the maid's last touch, and the whole room smelled like rain and something else—something that made her pulse stutter in her throat.
She dialed Craig's number.
He answered on the second ring.
"Hey, babe. You on your way home?"
Blake closed her eyes.
"Flight got cancelled," she said. "Weather. I'm stuck here until tomorrow."
"Shit. That sucks. You okay?"
"I'm fine. Just tired."
"You want me to drive up? I could—"
"No." The word came out too fast, too sharp. She softened her voice. "No, it's late. I'll just get some sleep and catch the first flight out. I'll be home before you know it."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
There was a pause.
"You sound weird," Craig said.
"I'm just tired, honey."
Another pause.
"Okay. Love you."
"Love you too."
She hung up.
She stood there for a long moment, phone clutched in her hand, staring at the city lights through the window. The lie sat in her chest like a stone, heavy and cold, and she could feel it pressing against her ribs with every breath.
Then she heard the floor creak behind her.
She turned.
Jack was standing in the doorway.
He'd taken off his shirt completely. It hung from his fingers, dangling at his side, and the dim light from the living room painted his chest in gold and shadow—the defined planes of muscle, the dark hair trailing down his stomach, the sharp V of his hips disappearing into the waistband of his slacks.
He didn't say anything.
He just looked at her.
And Blake knew.
She knew in the way he crossed the room, slow and deliberate, like a man approaching something he'd been hunting for years. She knew in the way his hands found her waist, warm and sure, pulling her toward him like she weighed nothing. She knew in the way his mouth found hers, desperate and devastating, and she didn't have the strength to resist anymore.
She didn't want to.
The kiss was bruising.
It was the kiss of a man who had been holding his breath for days, who had been watching her across conference tables and from across the room and from the corner of his eye, who had been dying by inches every time she looked away.
His tongue slid against hers, hot and demanding, and she melted into him—fingers threading through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, body molding itself to his like she'd been carved to fit.
"God, I missed you," he muttered against her mouth. "You have no idea how hard it was. Watching you. Being near you. Not touching you."
"I know." Her voice cracked. "I know."
Jack pulled back just far enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, stormy, searching her face for something she didn't know how to name.
"Tell me to stop," he said.
She didn't.
"Tell me this is wrong."
She couldn't.
"Tell me you don't want this."
The words wouldn't come. They stuck in her throat like bones, like prayers, like confessions she was too much of a coward to make.
So instead, she reached for the button of his pants.
Jack caught her wrist.
"Wait."
She looked up at him.
"I need to hear it," he said. "I need to hear you say it."
Blake swallowed.
"I want this."
"Say my name."
"Jack."
"Say you want me."
"I want you." Her voice was a whisper, raw and broken. "I want you so much I can't breathe."
Something shifted in his expression. Something dark and possessive and utterly unguarded. He let go of her wrist, and together—without a word—they undressed each other.
Her blouse first, buttons slipping free one by one. His lips found her collarbone, her shoulder, the hollow of her throat, and each kiss left a trail of fire in its wake.
Her skirt next, pooling around her ankles. He knelt to slide her panties down her legs, pressing a kiss to each knee, each ankle, the arch of each foot. Reverent. Worshipping.
Then she reached for his belt.
His slacks fell. His boxers followed. And then he was standing before her, naked and hard and utterly unashamed, and Blake felt her mouth go dry.
"Lie down," he said.
She obeyed.
The silk sheets were cool against her back, a stark contrast to the heat of his body as he lowered himself over her. He propped himself on his elbows, one knee between her thighs, his cock resting heavy and hot against her stomach.
"Look at me," he said.
She looked.
He reached between them, guiding himself to her entrance. The head of his cock pressed against her, slick with pre-cum, and Blake's hips bucked instinctively—a desperate, involuntary bid for more.
"Wait," he said again.
"I can't—"
"Look at me."
She met his eyes.
"Do you want this?"
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I want this."
"Who do you want?"
"You. Only you."
He pushed inside her.
Just the tip at first—enough to make her gasp, enough to make her cunt clench around the intrusion. He held there, barely inside, his jaw tight, his breathing ragged.
"More," she begged. "Please, Jack, more—"
He gave her more.
Inch by inch. So slow it was torture. She could feel every centimeter as he stretched her open, could feel the thick heat of him filling her, could feel her walls struggling to accommodate his size.
"Fuck," he groaned. "Fuck, you're so tight."
She couldn't answer. Couldn't speak. Could only hold onto his shoulders and take it.
Another inch. Another. His forehead dropped to hers, their breath mingling, their eyes locked.
"Almost there," he whispered. "Almost—"
He bottomed out.
The weight of him settled deep inside her, impossibly deep, and Blake felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. Not from pain. From something else. Something she didn't have a name for.
"Okay?" he asked.
She nodded.
He started to move.
Slow. Deliberate. Each thrust was a revelation—a study in patience and restraint, in the art of making her feel every second of him. He ground his pelvis against hers on every stroke, dragging the base of his cock against her clit, and Blake dissolved beneath him.
"Jack—oh god, Jack—"
"Shh." He pressed a finger to her lips. "You'll wake the whole floor."
She bit down on his finger instead.
He laughed—low and dark and achingly beautiful—and fucked her harder.
The rhythm shifted. No longer slow. No longer patient. He drove into her with a purpose now, his hips slamming against hers, the slap of their bodies echoing off the glass walls. His thumb found her clit, rubbing tight circles, and Blake's vision went white.
"I'm close," she gasped. "I'm so close—"
"Not yet."
"Please—"
"Beg for it."
"Daddy—" The word slipped out before she could stop it. "Daddy, please. Please let me come."
Jack's eyes darkened.
"Again."
"Daddy. Please. I need it. I need you."
He groaned—a deep, guttural sound torn from somewhere in his chest—and buried his face in her neck.
"Come for me," he said. "Come on my cock."
She did.
The orgasm ripped through her like a tidal wave, crashing over her in waves, and she dug her nails into his back and screamed his name and shattered into a million pieces.
Jack followed seconds later.
"Fuck—" His hips stuttered. His back bowed. And then he was coming inside her—hot, thick pulses of release pumping into her cunt, filling her in a way that made her feel claimed and branded and devastatingly complete.
He collapsed on top of her.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the hum of the city below and the ragged rhythm of their breathing, slowly syncing, slowly calming.
Then Jack shifted his weight.
He didn't pull out.
Instead, he stayed inside her—softening, but still present, still claiming—and let his hand drift downward.
His fingers found her clit first, slick and sensitive, and Blake whimpered at the overstimulation.
"Shh," he murmured. "I'm not going to hurt you."
His hand moved lower.
Lower.
His fingertips brushed against her ass, feather-light and teasing, and Blake's breath caught in her throat.
"Has Craig ever been here?" he asked.
Her face burned. "No."
"Never?"
"No."
Jack smiled against her throat.
"I'm going to be the first," he said. "And the only."
His finger pressed against the tight ring of muscle—just a tease, just a promise—and Blake's hips jerked involuntarily.
"Jack—"
"I'm not going to do it tonight." He kissed her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. "Tonight, I just want you to know it's going to happen. That I'm going to take this. That I'm going to own every part of you."
She should have said no.
She should have pushed him away.
She should have told him this was already too much, that she was already drowning, that she couldn't afford to lose any more of herself to a man who was never going to be hers.
Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer.
"I know," she whispered.
And she did.
She knew he was going to take her apart piece by piece. She knew he was going to leave marks she couldn't hide. She knew she was going to walk out of this hotel tomorrow and get on a plane and go home to her husband and pretend none of this had happened.
But that was tomorrow.
Tonight, she was his.
And she let herself believe—just for a moment—that it was enough.