Chapter 4

Iris’s POV

We ate slowly, trading bites back and forth while our conversation drifted over nothing particularly important, the kind of lazy morning talk that felt like an extension of sleep itself. Every so often he leaned across the small space between us and kissed the corner of my mouth, his tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop of syrup before it could slide down my chin. I leaned into him each time, opening my lips so he could feed me another soft date, feeling the gentle pressure of his thumb as it brushed across my lower lip, lingering just long enough to send a quiet shiver through me.

When the plates were finally empty he gathered them without a word, stacked them neatly on the nightstand, and pulled me firmly against his chest. I rested my head there and listened to the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear, letting it anchor me for a few more peaceful minutes.

“I should probably get dressed,” he murmured after a while, his voice low and reluctant against the top of my head. “Dad’s back in town, which means the office is going to start remembering that I actually exist and have responsibilities.”

I tilted my head up so I could look into his eyes. “You sure you cannot stay a little longer?”

He pressed a soft kiss to my forehead and let his lips rest there for a moment. “I wish I could, more than anything. But there is a meeting at three that I absolutely cannot skip. I will be home by seven though. We can order Thai food, put our feet up, and finally watch that documentary you have been nagging me about for weeks.”

“Deal,” I agreed immediately, already picturing the evening ahead.

He rolled out of bed with a quiet groan, stretched his arms overhead until his spine popped, then padded barefoot toward the bathroom. I stayed propped on one elbow and listened to the familiar sequence of sounds that followed: the faucet turning on, the shower curtain sliding along its rod, water hitting tile, the faint scent of his cedarwood body wash drifting out when he opened the door again later.

When he finally emerged he was dressed in dark tailored slacks and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, every detail polished and deliberate. He looked exactly like what he was: the confident heir apparent, ready to walk into any boardroom his father had already cleared the path for, carrying the quiet authority that came with knowing exactly how the game was played.

He leaned down over the bed, captured my mouth in a slow deep kiss, his tongue brushing mine one last time in a way that felt like a promise he intended to keep later. “Love you,” he said against my lips, the words soft but certain.

“Love you too,” I whispered back.

He straightened, grabbed his keys, phone, and wallet from the dresser in one practiced motion. At the bedroom door he paused, turned back, and let his gaze linger on me where I remained tangled in the sheets, hair mussed and skin still flushed from the morning. “You look incredible like that. I am going to be thinking about this view all afternoon.”

I smiled teasingly up at him. “I will make sure to give you something even better to look forward to when you get home.”

He groaned dramatically, adjusted himself with exaggerated discomfort as though the mere thought was torture, then disappeared down the hallway with one last lingering glance over his shoulder.

A moment later the front door clicked shut behind him.

Silence settled over the apartment like a heavy blanket.

I stayed in bed for another few minutes, deliberately letting the warmth of his body fade from the sheets around me, reluctant to move until the last trace of him had vanished. My skin still tingled everywhere he had touched me, nipples still peaked and sensitive beneath the thin fabric of my tank top, core still slick and swollen with lingering arousal.

Eventually I sat up, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and padded barefoot across the cool hardwood floor to my office. I had to put this passion to good use.

I sat at my seat staring at my manuscript the cursor was blinking on the last sentence I'd written three days ago.

Before the brunch.

Before Victor.

I read the line: "He looked at her with gentle eyes, the kind of eyes that promised forever, and she knew she was home."

I stared at the words. They were fine, they would have been perfect days ago but now, they seemed dead.

What had I been thinking? This hero, this sweet dependable hero named Daniel, was basically Marcus in fictional form. A man who would never hurt anyone, never want anyone too much and never look at a woman like she was the only meal in a starving world.

I had written twelve books with heroes like Daniel. They had sold well, readers loved them, my editor Linda loved them and I had enjoyed writing them.

But now, staring at those words, I felt nothing. I felt like I was reading a foreign language, a story written by someone I used to be.

My phone buzzed with a message from V(Emergency Only):

"Writing something dangerous today?"

My heart skipped a beat. It was Victor, I had deleted his text yesterday and the day before and the day before that, but I had read every single one first.

The first day he’d sent: "Hope you slept well. I didn't. Couldn't stop thinking about our conversation. —V"

This was the fourth. Four days, four messages but I hadn't responded to any of them.

I shouldn't respond to this one either.

My fingers typed before my brain could stop them: "Who is this?"

Delete. Obviously delete. I knew who it was.

I typed again: "How did you get my number?"

Delete. I don’t know how he got my number but I don’t want to keep this going.

I typed: "Stop texting me."

My thumb hovered over send. That was the right response but I deleted that too.

Instead, I stared at his message. "Writing something dangerous today?"

He remembered I was a writer. He remembered I wrote romance. He had asked me about it at brunch, leaning close, his voice low, asking if I had ever actually felt the kind of desire I wrote about.

My phone buzzed again.

"I'll take your silence as a yes. Write something dangerous today, Iris."

I deleted it.

Then I opened my laptop, deleted the last three pages of my manuscript, and started over. Work will keep me grounded.

I am definitely not letting Victor ruin what I have with his son.