Semua Bab Her Father’s Billionaire Best Friend : Bab 31 - Bab 40

The world narrowed to that: the curve of his collarbone, the small scrape of stubble against my lower lip, the way his breath caught when I moved closer. Our bodies spoke easy truths; the touch of his hand at my nape said more than a thousand promises. We let ourselves be selfish in a way that felt holy. The house could wait. The war could wait. He guided me to the couch and we fell together, limbs tangled, time compressing. The kiss deepened. My fingers tangled in his hair and he laughed against my mouth — a raw, half-broken sound I hadn’t heard from him before. We kissed and kissed, each movement an apology and a demand. When his hands slid under my shirt, the miniature gasp I made was involuntary, a small animal sound that meant everything had moved to a new place. Skin on skin, the press of bodies, the rapid intake of breath when he brushed a place only he seemed to know made my heart pound like a drum. He kissed the place between my shoulder and the neck where my pulse fluttere

We slipped out of Graham’s office like something furtive and small, the woman’s warning still cooling the inside of my skull. The city swallowed us—glass facades blurring into gray; the air smelled like rain and exhaust and a hundred people who had no idea they were standing on the edges of our fight.Adrian’s car idled a block away, windows dark. Juliette moved like an outline, all elbows and efficiency, already scanning the perimeters as if the world were a place to be measured and the measures memorized. Elena’s heels clicked behind us, softer than before but not soft enough to convince me she’d ever been anything other than a weapon in plain clothes. Marcus walked with a long, controlled stride, the kind that made people give him space without knowing why. He kept his hand at my back the whole way—warm, steady, an anchor.“Home’s under movement,” Adrian said through the earpiece when we piled in. His voice was low, controlled. “Multiple entries. We’re seeing activity on the home n

The conference room where my father had been taken was a little too shallow for the drama we brought. Tom sat like a man who’d been wrung out—white at the temples, his cufflinks reflecting fluorescent lights like tiny verdicts. Two men sat across from him—official-looking, with the bland authority of those who deal in bureaucracy. A thicker man in the corner watched, unblinking, like a judge who loved the sound of gavels.My father looked up when I entered. Time diluted for a second and he looked like he had the weight of a thousand small disappointments and love in equal measure. He smiled with an attempt at ease that didn’t reach the eyes. “Claire,” he said. “You made it.”“Dad,” I said, and my voice broke. I wanted to run forward, to throw myself into him, to have everything be the same as before. But the room was full of ears. The lawyer’s hand rested on mine like a station to the rest of the world.“You okay?” I whispered.“Fine,” he answered, the word clumsy but true enough. He

The kiss started like it always did with him — intent and fierce — and then softened into something patient. He had a way of tasting like reassurance, like the knowledge that someone had your name memorized. He kissed me slow enough that the world dissolved into him and me and the sound of our breath. Hands roamed, learning and relearning, mapping the familiar places with reverence as if he were reading braille. Clothes shed like small concessions; the rhythm of our bodies grew like a language.I’ll keep the moments hot and honest without turning them graphic. We made love in a way that felt like a reclaiming — not raw, furious, anonymous sex, but a charged and protective union. The lights were low; city lights bled through the window like a hush. He moved over me with a focus that was both worship and plan. My world narrowed to his mouth at my collarbone, to the press of his hands, to the slow, steady cadence of two people consenting to the same dangerous thing.Afterward, we lay ent

The bank of PO boxes was a wall of metal with small brass doors numbered like teeth. The box we’d been told to watch was in row three. Juliette had set up a tablet in the café with a loop of a security camera; it showed a wide-angle feed of the lobby and the bank of boxes. The footage was grainy but competent. Every ten minutes a postal worker made a loop—patrol-check, deposit, a stamp. We’d noticed the hooded man in the footage the night before; tonight we watched for that figure again.When the postal worker came down the aisles, the tablet’s audio feed piped in a faint shuffle, a soft clink of keys. The worker—an older woman in a blue uniform—moved with the kind of careful rhythm that comes from repetition. She checked boxes, logged numbers, slid envelopes in with the practiced disinterest of people who keep other people’s secrets.“He’s not here yet,” Juliette murmured, not taking her eyes off the screen.“Wait,” Elena said. “He could be pancaking the drop to a later time. Some pe