Semua Bab Shared Desires: Bab 1 - Bab 10

The first day I saw him, I thought he must have been some kind of casting mistake. Too perfect to be standing in that café where I used to waste time trying to write a chapter of my novel. And there he was, standing like the world revolved around his flawless figure. John Blackwell. The John Blackwell. Billionaire, arrogant, and owner of a smile that could easily be registered as a lethal weapon. He had the kind of presence that hurt to look at. Tall, elegant, wearing a suit that probably cost more than my bank debt. The watch on his wrist didn’t tell the time—it told of power. His dark hair slicked back without a single strand out of place, his grey eyes glinting like metal. Like a secret on the verge of exploding. And still, what pissed me off the most was how easily he sat at my table. Without asking. Without permission. As if the air, the space, and even my coffee belonged to him. “Do you always sit alone, or is it just because of me?” he said, smiling like he knew exactly which

“Not think about me?” he said, letting out a low laugh. “Sounds like that’s going to take a lot of effort.” I gave him a fake smile and turned toward the door, ready to go inside and put an end to this conversation. But just as I was about to slip the key into the lock, his hand brushed along my arm, stopping me. It wasn’t forceful, it wasn’t possessive. Just a soft touch, one that sent a shiver from my fingertips all the way up the back of my neck. The man knew exactly what he was doing. And the worst part was, my body responded before my brain could stop it. As if his touch switched off all my defenses, one by one. “Catherine,” he whispered, and it felt almost like a caress. “Why are you so afraid?” I froze. I hate when men try to be deep. This isn’t a movie, I thought. This isn’t a romance novel. This is real life, and in real life, guys like him don’t end up with girls like me. But his words disarmed me in a way I hadn’t expected... There was something in his voice, that low

When I got home, the idea of dinner with Javier settled into my mind like a ticking time bomb. I couldn’t focus on anything. I’d open my laptop, write a single sentence, then delete five. I tried reading, but every word reminded me of his voice, his smile, the feel of his hand brushing mine. By seven-thirty, I was standing in front of my closet, staring at my clothes like I was about to make the most important decision of my life. What the hell do you wear to dinner with Javier Aranda? Nothing in there said I’m not interested, but I also don’t want you to think I’m a mess. I tried on three different outfits, cursing under my breath. Why did it even matter what I wore? He’d show up in one of his custom-made suits, smelling of success and power, while I debated whether I looked too casual or like I was trying too hard. In the end, I chose something simple: a fitted black dress that wasn’t too revealing, and ankle boots. I left my hair down—because I knew he preferred it that way, thou

I spent the rest of the night turning our conversation over and over in my head. John Blackwell wasn’t looking for a game. He wanted something real. And no matter how loudly my mind screamed at me to keep my distance, my heart had already begun writing a different story. In the days that followed, I tried to drown myself in work, in anything that might keep me from thinking about John. But it was useless. Every time I sat down to write, the words that spilled onto the page weren’t the ones I wanted. They came out heavy with tension, with unspoken emotions, with desire. As if my subconscious had decided to process everything I refused to face through ink and paper. And, of course, John wasn’t about to let me find peace. Three days after our dinner, a message appeared on my phone—simple, direct, impossible to ignore: “Dinner tomorrow. Eight. No excuses.” I smiled in spite of myself. Damn charming bastard. I answered: “Fine, but I pick the place.” I wasn’t about to let him drag me int

I woke up with the light of the city pouring through the windows, still wrapped in his arms, his breathing slow and deep against the back of my neck. I didn’t move. I didn’t want to break that moment. His body was pressed against mine—warm, solid, real. And for a moment, everything else just disappeared.John didn’t say anything when he woke. He just brushed his lips across my bare shoulder, as if that was his way of saying good morning. As if that was all he needed.And it was enough.We had breakfast in silence. Not out of awkwardness, but because of that quiet kind of understanding that settles in when there’s no longer a need to pretend. He read something on his tablet, I sipped coffee and watched him, wondering when I became so addicted to his presence. To that way he filled a room without even trying.“You okay?” he asked, without lifting his eyes from the screen, though the smirk on his lips told me he was definitely watching me.“I haven’t slept like that in years,” I said, sh