Chapter 22: Concrete Confessions

Monday night. Mason Towers Parking Garage. 9:03 PM.

The echo of her heels struck the silence like a dare. Confident, relaxed, radiant in her own post-chaos glow, Katherine strutted toward the elevator of the Mason Towers, keys jingling in her hand, unaware — or pretending not to notice — that someone had been watching.

Sebastian sat frozen in the driver’s seat of his Audi, hands clenched on the wheel. His jaw tightened. His entire body screamed one thing.

Move. Now.

He pushed open the car door so hard it bounced back. The sound made her pause mid-step and glance over her shoulder, one brow raised. She smirked.

“Changed your mind, Mr. Mason?”

But she barely had time to blink.

One moment she was walking toward the elevator.

The next — her back was pressed against the concrete wall, her purse slipping from her shoulder with a thud, and Sebastian Mason’s mouth was a breath away from hers.

“You drive me insane,” he growled, one hand braced against the wall near her head, the other low on her waist. “You walk away like nothing happened between us. Like you didn’t just ruin every ounce of control I’ve ever had.”

Katherine blinked. Once. Twice. Then…

“Well,” she whispered, tilting her head with a grin, “maybe I like watching you fall apart a little.”

That did it.

He kissed her.

Hot, urgent, desperate. Like every suppressed impulse from the past weeks had detonated at once. And she matched it, her hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer with a gasp that bounced off the cold garage walls.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered against her lips, dragging her harder into him.

“You’re overdressed,” she countered, already tugging at the button of his collar. “Again.”

He huffed a laugh, but it broke when she bit his lower lip — not hard, just enough to make him forget where they were. A very public, camera-monitored, absolutely not-soundproof garage.

He pulled back, just a breath.

“We need to get inside.”

Katherine smirked again, brushed her thumb across his bottom lip, and stepped past him toward the elevator.

“Oh, now you care about the elevator?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Just sashayed in with the grace of a chaos goddess, pressing the button to the top floor.

He followed. Of course he did.

Because tonight, Sebastian Mason wasn’t running away anymore.

---

The elevator door slid closed behind them with a soft ding.

They stood side by side in the muted gold light, surrounded by polished steel walls and silence so thick it vibrated. Sebastian lifted a hand and pressed the button to the top floor — his floor.

He didn’t say a word.

Neither did she.

Katherine opened her mouth once, maybe to break the tension, maybe to tease him — but the look he gave her stopped her cold. There was something dark and barely restrained behind his eyes.

A warning.

Or a promise.

The elevator jolted softly as it began to rise. Floor six. Seven. Eight.

He didn’t look at her.

But he could see her reflection in the brushed steel — the flush on her cheeks, the curve of her lips fighting back a smirk, the way she ever so slightly bit her nail in mock-innocence.

Oh, she knew what she was doing.

By floor ten, Sebastian had already unclenched and clenched his fists three times.

Floor eleven.

He shifted. Cleared his throat.

Her perfume was everywhere.

“Sebastian…” she started, playful and breathy.

Ding.

The elevator opened on the top floor.

He stepped out.

Then turned.

"Come."

Not a question. Not a suggestion.

Katherine raised a brow. “Bossy.”

He arched an eyebrow in return. “You’ve seen nothing yet.”

Her heels clicked as she followed, slow and deliberate. The corridor was silent. The world was holding its breath. And every step toward his penthouse door felt like stepping out of reality and into something far more dangerous.

She caught up to him just as he slid the keycard into the lock. And leaned closer, whispering:

“Just so you know... the cameras don’t record sound.”

Sebastian froze.

Then turned his head slowly toward her.

"You’re trouble, Miss Brown."

She grinned. “You already knew that.”

The door opened with a soft click. He stepped aside to let her in.

And as she passed him, her shoulder brushed his chest — intentionally, casually, sinfully. Her voice, low and teasing, trailed behind:

“You going to show me the view, Mr. Mason? Or are we skipping straight to dessert?”

He shut the door.

Hard.

And that was the end of pretending.

---

Katherine didn’t speak right away.

She walked in as if it were her place. As if she’d crossed this threshold not once, not twice, but a hundred times before. And honestly? The way she moved — she could’ve fooled a security system.

Her dress swayed with every step. It twirled slightly when she spun toward the kitchen, the hem brushing mid-thigh, and then…

Oops.

It rose just a little too high.

She didn’t stop to check. She knew.

Behind her, Sebastian exhaled — a slow, sharp breath as he slowly peeled off his blazer, letting it drop onto the velvet arm of the sofa. Then his fingers moved to his tie. He didn’t rush. No — he never rushed. But his knuckles were white.

This woman…

She opened his fridge like it belonged to her. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Well,” she purred, half over her shoulder, “this explains a lot…”

She plucked a strawberry from the top shelf and bit into it. Slowly. Deliberately.

His voice was low, slightly hoarse. “Explains what, exactly?”

She turned around, leaned on the fridge door like a scene from a damn fantasy.

“That beneath all the Armani suits, there’s a man who likes berries… and whipped cream.”

She held up the can, shaking it teasingly. Chhhh-click.

Sebastian’s tie slid free from his neck. He tossed it onto the counter and stepped forward — just once, measured. Predatory.

Katherine didn’t move.

Instead, she grabbed a raspberry and popped it into her mouth. “So…” she licked her lips slowly, eyes locked on his, “tell me, Mr. Mason. Is this for your Saturday night indulgence or were you expecting company?”

He was right in front of her now.

Her back against the cool stainless steel.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” he said, voice like thunder before a storm.

She leaned in closer, her voice barely a whisper. “Shame. I’m very good company.”

Then she raised the can, tipped it slightly — a soft spritz of cream landed on her index finger.

And she sucked it clean.

Sebastian flinched. Just slightly.

But his hand slammed onto the fridge door above her head.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he murmured.

“Not yet,” she whispered, leaning up on tiptoes, brushing her lips close to his jawline. “But I could. Gently.”

His hands gripped the steel handle. Then loosened. His next breath came through gritted teeth.

“I’m warning you…”

“I know,” she smiled. “I’m ignoring it.”

---

Katherine leaned her head back against the fridge, her finger now lazily tracing the rim of the whipped cream can. She wasn’t in a rush — that wasn’t her style. No, she was chaos in slow motion.

He didn’t touch her.

Not yet.

But the space between them? Charged. Dangerous.

She tilted her head, her tone teasing. “I think I like this version of you. The one without the tie. A little… undone.”

Sebastian’s jaw flexed.

He stepped in closer — not touching — just enough so that the heat from his chest kissed the air around her. Katherine raised her eyes and grinned.

Then she did it again.

She sprayed a puff of whipped cream, this time on the curve of her collarbone, just beneath the strap of her dress.

She didn’t even need to say a word.

His control snapped like a bone in a fistfight.

One hand slid behind her neck, pulling her toward him, and his mouth replaced hers on that exact spot — licking, biting, devouring the sweet trail she left like a goddamn invitation. His other hand gripped her waist, pressing her into the fridge door.

She gasped — and he drank it like wine.

“You want to play games?” he growled against her skin. “Fine. But I don’t play fair.”

“I never asked you to,” she breathed.

The next second was a blur.

A flurry of fingers. Of heat. Of desperation.

He turned her around — gently but firmly — her back against the fridge, her breath shallow, and his eyes storm-dark. And then —

Rip.

The sound of fabric tearing echoed like a drumbeat.

Her dress. Gone. Torn straight down the back like parchment between flames.

She barely had time to react before he scooped her into his arms, bridal-style — like she weighed nothing, like she belonged there — and carried her down the hall toward his bedroom, his lips never far from her neck, her shoulder, her mouth.

She giggled. Because of course she did.

“Sebastian?”

“What?” he muttered, voice low, steps determined.

“I liked that dress.”

He kicked the door open.

“You’ll like what comes next more.”

---