Late Hours

CHAPTER 3

Thursday arrived under a heavy sky that had spent the afternoon threatening to break. By four-thirty, the sky over the city had turned the color of bruised slate, and by five, the rain was coming down in thick, steady sheets, drumming relentlessly against the bay windows of the ground-floor library.

I sat at the mahogany dining table we had repurposed into a workspace, staring at the front entrance of the house.

My mother had left an hour ago for a dinner with her firm's equity partners, leaving behind a half-empty glass of sparkling water and a list of instructions taped to the refrigerator. Make sure he signs the logbook. Do not waste his time.

The front door opened with a quiet click, followed by the heavy thud of the brass knocker settling back into place.

Adrian stepped into the foyer. He was dripping water.

His dark navy coat was soaked across the shoulders, the fabric clinging to his frame, and dark droplets rained off the hem onto the hardwood. He didn't look flustered, but as he unbuttoned the coat, his movements held a slight, sharp tension. His dark hair was damp, plastered slightly against his forehead, softening the severe lines of his face.

"The storm has turned the ring road into a river," he said by way of greeting. His voice was lower than usual, carrying the gravelly edge of someone who had been shouting over traffic or caught in the cold air for too long.

"You could have canceled," I said, leaning back in my chair.

"I don't cancel," Adrian replied flatly.

He slid his coat off, hanging it over the brass hook near the umbrella stand before picking up his leather briefcase. When he walked into the library, the scent of fresh rain and cold ozone came with him, instantly cutting through the stale dust and old paper of the room.

He didn't take his usual seat across from me. Instead, he pulled out the chair directly to my left, setting his briefcase down on the floor with a heavy thud.

"Page ninety-four," he instructed, pulling a dry handkerchief from his inner jacket pocket and wiping a stray droplet of rain from the back of his hand. "The second-order differential equations. Did you complete the prep work I left?"

"Most of it," I murmured, sliding my notebook toward him.

Adrian’s eyes narrowed slightly as he pulled the notebook into his line of sight. "Most of it?"

"I got stuck on the seventh problem."

"Show me where."

I reached for my pen, but instead of handing it to me, Adrian reached out at the same time. Our fingers brushed—not a fleeting, accidental touch like the first session, but a full, deliberate alignment of skin. His hand was freezing from the rain outside, a stark, shocking contrast to the heat pulsing beneath my skin.

Neither of us pulled back immediately.

I looked up from the page. He was already looking at me.

Without the bright overhead LEDs of the kitchen, the soft yellow light of the library lamp carved dramatic shadows across his features—the high ridge of his cheekbones, the stern line of his jaw, the dark, unreadable depth of his grey eyes.

"You're distracted, Maya," he said softly. The coldness in his hand was fading, rapidly absorbing the heat of my palm.

"I'm not distracted," I lied, my voice barely above a whisper. The sound of the rain lashing against the glass behind us seemed to grow louder, wrapping the room in a false sense of isolation. "I just don't see why this matters so much to you. You're getting paid regardless of whether I pass or fail."

Adrian’s expression hardened, a brief, dangerous flicker of irritation passing through his eyes. He let go of the pen, but he didn't move his hand away from mine. He shifted his weight, leaning closer, his shadow falling completely over my lap.

"It matters because I don't waste my time," he said, his voice dropping into a register that vibrated straight through my chest. "And I certainly don't stand in the freezing rain for an hour just to watch you pretend you don't care."

"I do care," I snapped, the frustration I'd been holding onto all week finally spilling over. "I care so much it makes me sick! I sit here every week feeling like an idiot while you sit there looking like you have every single detail of your life under control!"

"You think I have this under control?"

The question hit the air between us like a physical blow.

Adrian stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the rug. He took two steps away, pacing toward the dark window, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets. He stared out at the torrential downpour, his shoulders broad and tight beneath his jacket.

"You think coming here three nights a week, sitting inches away from you, watching you tear yourself apart over a page of numbers, is easy for me?" he asked, his voice rough, stripped clean of its usual academic polish. He turned back around, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch in my throat. "You think I don't notice the way you look at me? The way you deliberately push every boundary just to see how far I'll let you go?"

My heart slammed against my ribs like a caged animal. I stood up, too, the legs of my chair screeching against the floorboards. "Then why don't you stop me?"

"Because I'm trying to be the adult in this room," he snarled, taking a long, swift stride back toward the table.

"I *am* an adult!" I threw back at him, taking a step forward until there was barely a foot of space left between us. "I'm twenty years old, Adrian. Stop hiding behind your title and your stupid briefcase."

The air between us snapped.

Adrian closed the remaining distance before I could draw another breath. His hands came up, his long, warm fingers wrapping around my jaw, tilting my face up with a grip that was firm, unyielding, and entirely devoid of hesitation.

"You have no idea what you're asking for," he breathed, his thumb pressing into the soft skin beneath my chin.

"Show me," I whispered against his lips.

He cracked.

His mouth came down on mine with a sudden, bruising force that knocked the air straight out of my lungs.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was an explosion of suppressed restraint—a collision of teeth, pressure, and the hot, desperate taste of coffee and rain. I let out a low gasp, and the moment my lips parted, Adrian took complete advantage, pulling me flush against his chest until I could feel the hard, rigid line of his body through my clothes.

My hands flew to his lapels, gripping the heavy wool of his jacket as if I were falling off the edge of a cliff. He dragged me backward until my spine hit the edge of the heavy mahogany desk. Papers scattered, pens rolled across the wood and clattered onto the floor, but neither of us cared.

He lifted me easily, setting me onto the edge of the desk, his body stepping between my knees. His hands moved from my jaw down to my throat, then lower, tracing the curve of my waist with a feverish, possessing urgency that made my skin burn wherever he touched.

"Maya," he groaned against my mouth, his lips trailing down my jawline, burying his face into the sensitive hollow of my neck. His breath was scorching hot against my skin. "We can't... this is a mistake..."

"Don't stop," I begged, my fingers tangling into the damp, thick strands of his dark hair, pulling him closer. "Please, Adrian. Don't stop."

His hands slid under the hem of my sweater, his palm rough and hot against the bare skin of my waist. I arched into his touch, a sharp gasping sound escaping my lips as his thumb stroked up my ribcage. The sensation was overwhelming, an electric current that erased the rain, the house, the math papers, and the entire world outside this room.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his grey eyes blown wide, dark, and utterly wrecked with desire. The calm, composed tutor was completely gone; in his place was a man entirely undone by the woman in his arms.

His hand moved higher, his fingers hooking into the lace of my bra—

*Clack.*

The sharp, echoing sound of a heavy metal garage door opening down the driveway cut through the room like a gunshot.

Adrian froze instantly.

The headlights of my mother's sedan swept through the tall library windows, throwing long, stark shadows across the ceiling.

For a second, neither of us breathed. Adrian's hand remained pinned under my sweater, his chest heaving against mine in ragged, shallow gasps.

Then, reality crashed back into the room like a bucket of ice water.

Adrian pulled his hand back as if he had been burned. He took two fast steps away from the desk, smoothing his tie with trembling hands, his face flushed, his breath coming in heavy, ragged hitches.

I scrambled off the desk, my hands shaking so violently I could barely pull the hem of my sweater back down. I reached out, blindly gathering the papers that had fallen to the floor, my heart pounding so hard against my ears I could barely hear the sound of the front door unlocking down the hall.

"Maya?" my mother's voice called out from the foyer, accompanied by the clicking of her heels against the tile. "Is Mr. Cole still here? The rain is dreadful out there."

Adrian closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, swallowing hard, forcing his posture back into a rigid, upright line. When he opened his eyes, the grey was cold again, but deep down, beneath the surface, the embers were still burning.

He looked at me—at my bruised lips, my disheveled hair, my flushed cheeks—and turned toward the library doorway.

"Yes, Mrs. Lin," Adrian called back, his voice remarkably steady, though his hands remained clenched into tight fists at his sides.

"We were just finishing up."