Page 74 of The Boss

Like this. He didn’t need to explain. I knew what he meant. The way the world narrowed when we were in the same room. The way logic ceased to matter. The way we existed in this strange, fragile space between defiance and inevitability.

I pressed my forehead against the back of his neck, my hands gripping his hips. “Ican’tgive you up,” I admitted, my voice wrecked, broken. “I don’t know how.”

Chris blew out a shaky breath. And then he pushed back against me, rocking his hips, wordlessly telling meit’s okay.

That was all I needed. I pulled back and thrust into him, hard, deep, my hands sliding up his chest, gripping him like I couldkeephim. Like if I fucked him deep enough,claimedhim completely, he wouldn’t slip away.

He moaned, his body trembling, his hands fisting the tablecloth. “Love isn’t supposed to feel like this.”

“Like what?” I asked, rocking into him faster and faster.

“Like it’s killing me. But I’m willing to die anyway.”

There it was. The truth, laid bare. No confessions. No grand declarations. Just this—the quiet devastation of knowing we were way past the point of no return.

A sharp ache bloomed in my chest. I swallowed it down, tilting his chin up so he had to look at me. “Then why does it feel like coming alive?”

I bent over him, pressing my mouth to his neck, biting down, marking him. My thrusts turned frantic, desperate, my hips slamming into him, my breath ragged in his ear.

He was mine.Mine.

And yet, deep down, I knew—I was the one who was his.

And when I came, shuddering inside him, burying myself as deep as I could go, flooding his insides with my cum, I felt it—something breaking apart in me, something irreversible. As I slumped over him, my breath still mingling with his, I knew I’d already lost.

Because this wasn’t just fucking. This was surrender.

33. Chris

I staggered into the corridor, the cool stone walls pressing in around me as I tried to steady my breathing. My hands shook as I fumbled to straighten my suit jacket, hoping it was long enough to cover the damage in my pants. When my fingers moved lower, the torn fabric was a sharp, undeniable proof of what had just happened. Of the way Zac had taken me, claimed me, whispered my name like a vow even as his mouth moved over my skin.

His load was still fresh inside me. The heat of him lingered, seared into my body like a brand.

I swiped a hand over my face, took a deep breath, and forced myself to gather some semblance of composure. But it was impossible. I felt wrecked, ruined, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might break through my ribs. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to collapse or run straight back into that room, grab Zac by the lapels, and demand to know what the hell came next.

The sound of voices up ahead snapped me back to reality. The others were waiting.

As I stepped into the main area of Grace Church, heads turned. There weren’t many, thank God—the bride’s parents, her maid of honor, the priest, and me. No bridal or groom party. The priest frowned, confusion etched into his features. Chantelle’s father checked his watch. The maid of honor raised an eyebrow.

“Where’s Isaac?” Chantelle’s mother asked.

“He’s… coming,” I mumbled, feeling my cheeks burn under their stares. I felt exposed, like my dirty secret was visible to all, like they could tell what Zac and I had just done behind that closed door.

Before anyone could question me further, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the church, and Zac strode into the cathedral, his bowtie loosened, his pants slightly mussed. Hisgaze skipped over me like I wasn’t even there. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, what he planned to do, but the air around him crackled with tension, still charged from the way he claimed me.

He walked past me, toward the altar, his posture sharp with purpose.

“We’re ready!” Chantelle’s father called.

And then, with a rustle of white silk and lace, she emerged from the entrance, radiant and smiling, a snow queen coming for her prize. The light caught the delicate sheen of her gown as she glided down the aisle, every step graceful and deliberate. She took her place across from Zac, effortlessly glamorous, impeccable. The sheer veil trailed behind her like a mist, and the bridal bouquet was cradled in her hands, white roses matching the softness of her dress. “You may begin now,” she said to the priest, her voice clear as a bell, ringing with authority and poise.

“All right,” the priest said. “Thanks for the permission.”

He started talking, but I barely heard a word of it. His voice seemed muffled, an indistinct murmur rising to the vaulted ceiling, drifting past me like the distant hum of a storm I couldn’t escape. I couldn’t focus on his words, couldn’t grasp their meaning. All I could do was stare at Zac, standing there so damn sure, his eyes locked on the woman in front of him. My stomach twisted, like it was being wound tighter with every passing second.

The rest of us stood beside the bride and groom in reverent silence, the air thick with the weight of unspoken vows. Candlelight flickered against stained glass, casting delicate shadows that seemed to dance in mocking synchrony with the ache gnawing at my chest. Everything felt surreal, dreamlike, as if I were drifting outside my own body, unable to feel anything but the crushing realization that the man I loved was slipping further away from me with every word the priest spoke.

It was happening. It was real. And I had to watch it unfold. My heart broke a little with each breath I took, and I was helpless to stop it.

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