Page 71 of Oliver
"You okay?" he asked, voice rough. I could only nod. "Let’s get back to our room."
He took my hand. And I let him.
Because right now, this—this heat, this reckless pull between us—felt safer than anything else in the world.
The moment the elevator doors closed, trapping us in a space barely big enough to contain the tension between us, I found my voice again.
"What did you say to him?"
Oliver didn’t answer immediately. He exhaled slowly, rubbing his jaw as if debating how much to reveal.
"To Ryan.” My voice took on a firm tone, clarifying I wasn’t about to let him get away without answering. “I've never seen him back down like that."
Oliver’s thumb brushed over my wrist, tracing absent circles against my pulse that sent shivers up my arm. I kept my eyes on his face, waiting, until he realized he had no choice.
"Just what he needed to hear."
His voice was too calm.
"Oliver—"
The elevator doors opened, and instead of answering, he led me into the hallway, his grip firm but not tight, the warmth of his fingers enveloping mine.
I let him guide me. I let himpretendnothing was wrong. But something was, and I wasn’t about to let it slip away unnoticed.
Inside our room, Oliver locked the door behind us, but instead of releasing me, he turned—slow, deliberate—until my back was against the wood, until his arms caged me in.
"What did you say to Ryan?" I repeated, pulse hammering.
His body thrummed with something I couldn’t place—was it anger? Relief? Something darker?
"Why does it matter?” His voice was almost gentle, his breath feathering against my cheek.
"Because I've never seen him look afraid before."
Oliver smiled, sharp and satisfied. "Then I did my job."
Before I could push further, his fingers slid to my jaw, tilting my face up, and his mouth was on mine.
Nothing about it was gentle.
This wasn’t like the staged kisses in front of our audience, or even the heat of our shared night—this was something else entirely. Desperation, possession, a barely restrained madnessin the way he took my mouth, in the way his tongue stole the air from my lungs.
Like heneededthis.
I should have stopped him, but his grip on my waist tightened like he was afraid I’d disappear, and God help me, I understood the feeling.
He was unraveling in real time, and I could feel it in every touch, in every drag of his lips against mine, in every slight tremor where his control had cracked wide open.
And then—this isn’t about you.
The thought hit like a slap.
Oliver wasn’t just kissing me, he was reaching for something, trying to drown something else out.
I wrenched back, breathless, pressing my palms against his chest. "I'm not a toy to play with when you need a distraction, Oliver."
His face twisted with something like pain. "Zahra?—"
