Page 52 of The CEO

The bathroom door opens, and Eve emerges wearing my clothes. The sight of her in my T-shirt, the fabric hanging loose on her smaller frame, sends a surge of satisfaction through me that has nothing to do with strategic manipulation, and everything to do with primal claiming.

Her hair is damp, and she’s removed all traces of blood from her skin. She looks younger, more vulnerable, yet somehow stronger than before.

“Better?” I ask, offering her a fresh glass of whiskey.

She accepts the glass, our fingers brushing in the exchange. “Cleaner, at least.”

She moves to the sofa, curling her legs beneath her as she settles into the corner. I join her, maintaining enough distance to seem respectful while close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. We sit in silence for a moment, and the only sounds I hear are the crackling of the fire and the gentle clink of ice against crystal as she takes another sip.

“You knew who he was,” she says finally, her voice soft but steady. “Before tonight. You knew Kurt Ivy was the man I tried to bring to justice.”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been watching me, Damien?” She turns to face me fully, her eyes searching mine for truth.

The question deserves honesty, though not the full extent of it. Not yet. “Long enough to understand what drives you. What keeps you writing obituaries instead of pursuing what you really want.”

“And what’s that?” There’s a challenge in her voice—a need to know if I truly see her.

“Justice,” I say simply. “The kind that systems often fail to deliver.”

Her eyes widen slightly, a recognition that I’ve understood something fundamental about her that few others have bothered to see.

“You’ve been following my investigations.” It’s not a question.

“I find your persistence admirable.” I lean forward, reducing the space between us. “Most people accept the limitations of legal justice. You never have.”

She places her glass on the coffee table, her movements deliberate. “Is that why you didn’t stop me from investigating you? Because you saw something in me that you recognized?”

“Something like that.” I reach out, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. Again, she doesn’t retreat. Instead, she almost imperceptibly leans into it.

“I should be terrified of you,” she whispers.

“But you’re not.”

“No.” The admission seems to surprise her as much as it pleases me. “I’m terrified of myself. Of how I feel right now.”

My hand cups her cheek, my thumb tracing the delicate line of her jaw. “And how do you feel, Eve?”

Her breath catches, her pulse visibly quickening at the base of her throat. “Like I’m standing on the edge of something enormous, and instead of backing away, I want to jump.”

The naked honesty in her voice stirs something in me I’ve kept carefully controlled since the moment I first saw her through my camera lens eight years ago.

“Then jump,” I murmur, closing the remaining distance between us.

Her lips are soft beneath mine, yielding yet not submissive. The kiss begins gently—soft and tender. But when her hand rises to grip my shoulder, fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt, my restraint shatters.

I deepen the kiss, one hand sliding around to the nape of her neck, cradling her head as I explore the warm sweetness of her mouth. She tastes of whiskey and something uniquely her own—a flavor I instantly recognize I’ll never get enough of.

A small sound escapes her, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and it ignites something within me. My other hand finds her waist, drawing her closer until she’s in my lap, her body pressed against mine.

This was never part of the plan—not like this, not yet—but the feel of her in my arms, responding to me with equal hunger, makes me question why I waited so long.

When we finally break apart, her breathing is as ragged as my own. Her lips are flushed and slightly swollen, her eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. She doesn’t pull away, her hand still gripping my shoulder as if steadying herself.

“That wasn’t calculation,” she says softly, her perceptiveness cutting through my defenses.

“No,” I admit, my voice rougher than usual. “It wasn’t.”

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