Behind Closed Doors

Emily’s POV

"The driver is downstairs, Daniel," my mother said, not looking up from her phone. "Make sure Emily’s junior year transfers for Bellmont are finalized tomorrow. I don’t want any administrative hiccups while I’m in Florence."

"It’s already handled, Victoria," Daniel said.

His deep voice sent a familiar, strange flutter straight to my chest.

Daniel Walker stepped into the penthouse living room, filling out a dark Tom Ford suit. He was forty-one, six-foot-two, with silver dusting his temples and gray eyes that looked like they could break a corporate board in half. He had married my mother when I was ten. For eleven years, he was my stable anchor. The man who taught me how to drive. The man who bought this penthouse so I wouldn't have to live in dirty college dorms.

My mother walked over, placing a delicate hand on his lapel. She kissed his cheek—a brief, cold gesture that looked more like two executives sealing a deal than a couple saying goodbye for six months.

"Don't work yourself to death with the takeover, darling," she said. "I'll call when I land in Paris."

"Have a safe flight, Victoria," Daniel replied, his tone calm and completely flat.

The elevator chimed, the doors slid shut, and just like that, my mother was gone.

I took a sip of white wine and smiled. Freedom. Six months of total independence in the heart of Uptown Charlotte.

"Well," I said, leaning against the glass wall. "I guess I should let you get back to the estate. It's a long drive back to the mansion."

Clack.

The sharp sound of heavy luggage hitting the marble floor made me freeze.

I turned around. Daniel wasn't walking toward the elevator. He was standing in the center of the room, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling his white dress sleeves up his dark forearms. He reached up, tugged his silk tie loose, and pulled it free from his collar.

"I'm not going back to the mansion, Emily," he said.

I blinked, tightening my grip on my glass. "What?"

"Walker International finalized the acquisition of Reed Global this afternoon," Daniel said smoothly. He walked over to the kitchen island, pulled a tumbler from the cabinet, and poured two fingers of scotch. "Merger operations are based out of the Charlotte headquarters. I'll be working sixteen-hour days for the next six months."

My pulse hit an erratic beat. "Okay... so you're staying at the Ritz-Carlton downtown?"

Daniel took a slow sip, his gray eyes locking onto mine over the rim of the glass. "The master suite in this penthouse is sitting empty. It makes zero financial sense to stay in a hotel when my own property is ten minutes from the corporate tower."

The air in the room suddenly felt thin.

"You're... moving in?" I squeaked. "Here? With me?"

"I bought this penthouse, Emily," he reminded me softly. He set his glass down with a soft clink. "We have three bedrooms, separate bathrooms, and two thousand square feet. You have your university life, and I have my boardrooms. We won't be in each other's way."

He walked toward me—slow, measured steps until he stopped two feet away. The scent of cedarwood, amber, and pure male power flooded my senses.

"I know you wanted complete freedom for your junior year," Daniel rumbled. His eyes dipped—just for a split second—down to my lips before rising back to mine. "I won't intrude on your life. Separate rooms. Separate routines. You bring your friends over whenever you like. I'm just a roommate who happens to pay the mortgage."

"A roommate," I whispered, my chest rising fast.

"A roommate," he repeated softly.

He reached out. His warm, rough fingers lightly brushed my shoulder to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. An electric shock shot down my spine, pooling low in my belly. My nipples hardened instantly under my silk camisole.

Daniel’s hand paused near my neck. I heard his breath catch—a tiny, raw crack in his perfect composure. His eyes turned dark as he stared down at my flushed face.

For one terrifying second, I thought he was going to lean down.

Then the mask snapped back into place. Daniel pulled his hand away and stepped back.

"Get some sleep, Emily," he said, his voice instantly turning stiff and formal. "You have classes tomorrow."

He turned and walked into the master bedroom, closing the door behind him.

I stood alone in the quiet living room, my heart hammering like a trapped bird.

Six months alone with my stepfather. We weren't going to last a week.

---

I slept terribly.

Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his rough fingers against my neck. By seven in the morning, sunlight was pouring through my bedroom windows. I couldn't stay in bed anymore.

I threw off the covers, wearing just my dark silk camisole and matching shorts. No bra. I was in my own home.

I opened my door and padded barefoot down the hallway toward the kitchen, expecting an empty apartment.

Instead, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Daniel was standing at the marble kitchen island.

He was freshly showered, dark hair damp and pushed back. He was wearing low-slung dark gray sweatpants that hung off his hips, showing off the cut of his waist. He had no shirt on.

My mouth went completely dry.

His broad, tanned shoulders tapered into a ripped torso mapped with lean muscle and a light dusting of dark hair. Every move he made—lifting his mug, pouring espresso—made his back and biceps flex with raw power.

He looked broad. Dangerous. Undeniably male.

He’s forty-one, I panicked internally. He’s your stepfather.

Daniel turned around with his coffee mug. He froze the second he saw me.

His eyes locked onto mine, dropping slowly down my bare shoulders, tracking my waist, lingering on my bare legs before snapping back to my face.

"Good morning," he said, his voice lower and grainier than usual.

"Morning," I managed, forcing my feet to move into the kitchen toward the fridge.

Every inch of my skin prickled. As I passed behind him, the heat radiating off his bare skin was like standing next to a furnace.

I grabbed a bottle of cold water from the fridge and shut the door.

Daniel was standing right there on the other side.

He hadn't stepped back. He was towering over me, blocking out the morning sun, tiny water droplets still clinging to his collarbone.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, his gaze dropping to my mouth.

"Not really," I admitted, clutching the cold bottle. "It's... weird being here without Mom."

Daniel’s jaw tightened. "She called ten minutes ago from her layover in Munich. She wanted to make sure I gave you the spare keycard for the private elevator."

"Oh," I whispered. "Is she okay?"

"She’s fine. She was talking about her gallery schedule."

Daniel reached past me toward the upper cabinet where the extra keycards were kept. Because of how close we were standing, his bare chest dragged directly against my shoulder.

The friction of his warm skin sent a jolt straight down my body. I let out a sharp gasp.

Daniel froze mid-reach.

He didn't pull back. His arm stayed extended above me, trapping me against the edge of the counter. His face was inches from mine. I could see the dark silver flecks in his gray eyes and the heavy, deliberate rise and fall of his chest.

"Emily," he rumbled, his voice dropping into a dangerous register.

"What?" I breathed, my pulse racing.

His gaze flicked down to my chest. Through the thin, braless silk of my top, the hard outline of my nipples was impossible to miss. He swallowed hard, his throat working as he fought for control.

"You can't walk around the penthouse like this," he said, his voice tight, almost a growl.

My stubbornness flared through the fog of my heat. I lifted my chin. "Why not? It’s my home. You said it yourself—we’re just roommates."

"I am a man, Emily," Daniel said, lowering his voice until it vibrated in my ribs.

He brought his large hand down onto the marble counter right beside my hip, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of my ear.

"And if you keep testing those boundaries," he whispered, his hot breath giving me goosebumps, "you are going to find out very quickly that I am not as patient as you think I am."

He pulled back before I could speak. He snatched the silver keycard off the counter and tossed it in front of me.

Without another word, he picked up his espresso and walked down the hallway into his suite, shutting the heavy oak door.

I sank back against the cold counter, my knees shaking so hard I could barely stand.

He wasn't acting like my stepfather anymore. He was acting like a predator trying not to bite.

And as I stared at his closed door, the scariest realization of all hit me:

I wanted him to break