Chapter Six: Awakening

The emergency meeting took seventeen minutes—I counted every single one.

I'd waited in his office, a space of glass and steel and understated luxury that screamed power with every carefully chosen detail, trying not to touch anything, trying not to think about the fact that I was standing in Liam Hawthorne's private domain. Through the window, the city sprawled beneath us like a conquered kingdom, and I wondered if this was how he saw the world—from above, untouchable, in control of everything.

When he finally returned, closing the door behind him with a decisive click, something had shifted in his demeanor. The emergency had been handled, whatever crisis averted, and now his full attention landed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"Alone at last," he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made heat pool low in my belly. "No more interruptions. No more delays."

"Your meeting—"

"Is handled." He crossed the space between us in three strides, his hands coming up to frame my face. "And I've waited long enough."

His kiss was different this time—not the desperate, consuming passion from before, but something slower, more deliberate. Like he was savoring me, memorizing the taste of my lips, the shape of my mouth against his. I melted into him, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured against my lips, his fingers threading through my hair. "Tell me what you've fantasized about but never dared to ask for."

I should have been embarrassed by the question, should have deflected with some coy response. But standing in his arms, protected by the anonymity of our arrangement, I found a courage I didn't know I possessed.

"Everything," I whispered. "I want to know what it feels like to be wanted. To be touched like I'm precious. To be seen as more than just a pretty doll meant to sit quietly and look appropriate."

His eyes darkened, and I felt the shudder that ran through him. "Then let me show you."

He took me back to his penthouse, and this time there were no interruptions, no emergency phone calls, nothing but the two of us and the city lights glittering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Come here," he said, leading me to the bedroom, and I followed, my heart hammering so hard I was certain he could hear it.

The room was minimalist and masculine—all dark wood and clean lines, dominated by a massive bed that suddenly seemed both inviting and terrifying. He must have sensed my nervousness because he stopped, turning to face me fully.

"We can stop anytime," he said, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. "Just say the word, and we'll stop. No questions, no judgment."

"I don't want to stop," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm just—I've never—"

Understanding dawned in his eyes. "You're a virgin."

Heat flooded my face. "Is that a problem?"

"No." He stepped closer, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "But it changes things. I need to take care of you properly." His expression softened into something almost tender. "Your first time should be special, E. It should be with someone who worships you."

"It is," I said, and meant it. Because even though I'd only known him for hours, even though this was temporary and finite, he'd already shown me more genuine care than anyone in my carefully controlled life.

He kissed me then, slow and deep, his hands moving to the hem of my shirt with deliberate patience. "Tell me if anything hurts. Tell me if you want me to slow down. Tell me what feels good."

"Okay," I breathed, and let him undress me with a reverence that made my chest ache.

When I stood before him in just my underwear, I fought the instinct to cover myself, to hide from his intense scrutiny. But the way he looked at me—like I was art, like I was precious, like I was the only thing that existed in his world—made me feel beautiful for the first time in my life.

"Perfect," he murmured, his fingers tracing the curve of my waist. "You're absolutely perfect."

"I'm not—"

"You are." He silenced my protest with another kiss, his hands mapping my body with patient exploration. "Every curve, every freckle, every inch of you—perfect."

He undressed himself with less ceremony, and I couldn't help but stare at the revealed expanse of his body—all lean muscle and masculine beauty. He was gorgeous in a way that seemed almost unfair, and when he pulled me against him, skin against skin for the first time, I gasped at the sensation.

"Breathe," he whispered against my ear, his hands stroking down my back. "We have all night. No rushing."

He laid me on his bed, the sheets cool against my overheated skin, and then he was above me, his weight welcome and grounding. His mouth found mine again, but this time the kiss was accompanied by his hands—touching, exploring, discovering what made me gasp, what made me arch into him, what made me moan his name.

"That's it," he encouraged when his fingers found the heat between my thighs, stroking through the dampness there. "Let me hear you. Let me know what you like."

I'd never been touched like this—never known my body could feel this way, respond this way. Every nerve ending felt alive, awakened, attuned to his every touch. When he slid one finger inside me, I cried out at the foreign sensation.

"Okay?" he asked, his eyes searching mine for any sign of discomfort.

"Yes," I gasped. "More. Please, more."

He worked me with patient skill, adding another finger, stretching me, preparing me, all while his mouth traced patterns across my skin—my neck, my collarbone, my breasts. The pleasure built slowly, a tide rising within me, and I found myself moving against his hand, chasing something I couldn't name.

"That's it, beautiful," he praised, his voice rough with barely restrained desire. "Take what you need. Use me."

The permission to be selfish, to chase my own pleasure, was more intoxicating than any alcohol. I gripped his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin as the sensation crested, building to something huge and overwhelming.

"L," I gasped, "I think—I'm going to—"

"Let go," he commanded, his thumb finding that sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs. "Come for me, E. Let me see you fall apart."

And I did. The orgasm crashed over me like a wave, drowning me in sensation, making me cry out his name as my body convulsed around his fingers. He worked me through it, prolonging the pleasure until I was boneless and trembling beneath him.

"Beautiful," he murmured, withdrawing his hand and bringing his fingers to his lips, tasting me with a groan that sent aftershocks through my sensitized body. "You taste like heaven."

I should have been embarrassed by the intimate act, but I was too overwhelmed, too lost in the haze of pleasure to care.

"Now," he said, positioning himself between my thighs, his hardness pressing against my entrance, "I'm going to make you mine. Just for tonight, you belong to me. Say it."

"I'm yours," I whispered, meaning it more than I should. "Just for tonight."

He entered me slowly, carefully, giving me time to adjust to the intrusion. There was pain—a sharp, burning sensation that made me gasp—but he stopped immediately, his forehead pressed against mine.

"Breathe through it," he instructed, his body tense with the effort of holding still. "Tell me when you're ready."

I focused on breathing, on the feeling of him inside me, stretching me, filling me in a way that felt impossibly intimate. And slowly, the pain faded, replaced by something else—a fullness, a rightness, a connection that transcended the physical.

"Okay," I breathed. "You can move."

He did, withdrawing slightly before pressing back in, establishing a gentle rhythm that gradually built in intensity. His hands were everywhere—stroking my hair, cupping my face, intertwining with my fingers—grounding me, connecting us beyond just our bodies.

"Look at me," he demanded when I closed my eyes against the overwhelming sensation. "I want to see you. I want to watch you come apart on my cock."

The crude words should have shocked me, but instead they inflamed me, pushing me higher. I locked eyes with him, holding his gaze as he moved inside me, as pleasure built again, different this time—deeper, more intense, more consuming.

"That's it," he groaned, his rhythm faltering. "God, E, you feel incredible. So tight, so perfect. Made for me."

"L," I gasped, feeling that familiar tightening, that building pressure. "I'm close. I'm so close."

"Come with me," he commanded, his hand sliding between our bodies to stroke that sensitive spot. "Right now. Come with me."

And I did. We shattered together, his name on my lips as my body clenched around him, pulling him deeper as he found his own release with a guttural groan. He collapsed against me, both of us trembling and gasping, joined in the most intimate way possible.

For a long moment, we just breathed together, our hearts racing in sync, the magnitude of what we'd just shared settling over us like a blanket.

"Are you okay?" he asked finally, lifting his head to look at me with genuine concern. "Did I hurt you?"

"No." I touched his face, tracing the strong line of his jaw. "That was—you were—perfect."

He smiled then, soft and genuine, and kissed me with a tenderness that made my chest ache. "You were perfect. You are perfect."

He withdrew carefully, and I felt the loss immediately, my body already missing his presence. He disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a warm cloth to clean me gently, caring for me with a consideration that brought tears to my eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked, catching sight of my glistening eyes.

"Nothing." I shook my head, accepting the oversized t-shirt he offered. "Everything's right. That's the problem."

Understanding flickered in his expression. Because he felt it too—this connection that shouldn't exist, this intimacy that transcended our arrangement, this dangerous feeling that one night would never be enough.

He pulled me against him, tucking me into his side, and we lay there in the darkness, the city lights painting patterns across the ceiling.

"Tell me something true," he said quietly. "Something you've never told anyone else."

"We said no personal details," I reminded him, even as I snuggled closer to his warmth.

"Not about your identity. Just—something true. Something real."

I was quiet for a long moment, then heard myself whisper, "I'm terrified that this is it. That this is the best night of my life, and tomorrow I have to wake up and pretend it never happened. That I'll spend the rest of my life married to a man I don't love, remembering one perfect night with a stranger whose name I'm not allowed to know."

His arms tightened around me. "Your turn."

"I'm terrified that after tonight, I'll never feel this way again. That you've ruined me for anything else. That every woman after you will be a pale comparison, and I'll spend my life chasing the ghost of someone I knew for one night."

We lay there in the darkness, holding each other, mourning something we'd never really had while simultaneously clinging to every remaining second.

"We still have hours," he said finally. "Let's not waste them on tomorrow."

"What do you want to do with them?"

He rolled over, bracing himself above me, and the look in his eyes made heat pool low in my belly again. "Everything. I want to do everything with you while we still can."

And he did. We made love again, slower this time, learning each other's bodies with patient exploration. We talked about nothing and everything—childhood dreams, favorite books, whether the city or the ocean was more beautiful. We laughed and touched and connected in ways that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with genuine affection.

By the time exhaustion finally claimed us, wrapped in each other's arms as dawn threatened on the horizon, I knew with absolute certainty that I'd broken every rule we'd set.

I'd fallen completely and irrevocably for a man whose real name I barely knew.

A man I would never see again after tonight.

A man who'd shown me what it meant to be truly alive, only to have to learn to live without him.

I fell asleep with his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, memorizing the sound of it, trying to capture this feeling in amber so I could carry it with me into my predetermined future.

When I woke, I'd be Evelyn Ashford again—dutiful daughter, future wife to Richard Pemberton III, prisoner of expectations.

But for these last few hours of darkness, I was just E.

And I was loved by L.

Even if neither of us was allowed to say it out loud.

Even if tomorrow would tear us apart.

Even if this one perfect night was all we'd ever have.

I just didn't know that when morning came, everything would change in ways neither of us could have predicted.

That the consequences of our night together would bind us far more permanently than any rules or agreements.

That walking away would become impossible, no matter how much we'd promised it would be easy.

But that revelation would have to wait for sunrise.

For now, I slept in his arms, dreaming of futures that could never be, while the city outside whispered secrets neither of us was ready to hear.