Chapter 44 44
Few hours later.
The city twinkled beneath my windows like crushed diamonds, scattered under a velvet sky. I sat curled into the corner of my cream leather chaise lounge, draped in a robe that whispered luxury in every thread—white, thick, and sinfully soft. My fingers curled around a flute of champagne, the bubbles rising lazily, defiant and delicate.
Across from me, Darren was the picture of dangerous calm. His shirt was unbuttoned—half on, half rebellion—his toned chest on full display like a sculpted answer to prayers I hadn’t even dared whisper. He had just closed the McLaren legal file and placed it down with a satisfying thud on my marble coffee table.
“That clause won the game,” he said, his voice low and smug, that half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—the one that made rational women irrational.
I took a slow sip, let the cold champagne kiss my lips before swallowing. “Game?” I repeated, swirling the glass. “Oh, Darren. This isn’t a game.”
He arched a brow.
I smiled.
“This,” I whispered, pressing send on my phone—a single emoji sent to Illana: a black queen chess piece.
Checkmate.
Before I could even set my phone down, he was beside me, his body heat radiating like a second fire in the room. He leaned close, one hand curling around the back of my neck, the other taking my glass and placing it on the side table like it offended him by standing between us.
“I hate games,” Darren murmured, brushing his lips near my jaw. “But I’d play every one if it meant I got to watch you win like that.”
I felt the ache in my chest bloom with something almost too soft. Almost dangerous.
“You’re being charming again,” I breathed, even as my fingers crept up to trace the line of his abs. His body was solid under my touch, muscles flexing, warm and tense. My robe slipped open slightly, but he didn’t glance down—his eyes were on me like I was the only thing in this penthouse worth staring at.
“And you’re wearing the softest thing in the world,” he whispered, brushing his fingers against the fabric at my waist. “Which is deeply unfair.”
“Life’s unfair,” I murmured.
“So am I,” he said—and kissed me.
God, he kissed me.
His mouth was firm and hungry, his hands cradling my face like he needed to be sure I was real. I melted into him, gasped into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair as the kiss deepened, stole air from my lungs and gave it back in dizzy heat.
He lifted me effortlessly, robe and all, and carried me to the wide sofa, laying me down like I was the treasure and he the pirate who found me. Our mouths met again, hot and fast and consuming. His hand skimmed along my thigh, leaving fire in its wake, his breath ragged against my ear.
“This isn't about revenge anymore,” he said hoarsely. “This is about you. And me.”
I arched into him, lips parted with another kiss, tasting salt and champagne and something that tasted like safety wrapped in sin. He pulled his shirt the rest of the way off, abs gleaming faintly in the soft gold light of the chandelier above. My palm flattened over his chest, feeling every heartbeat, every silent promise.
We barely came up for air, tangled in desire, until—
Knock. Knock.
I blinked.
He froze.
Then a quiet, polite voice floated from the door. “Miss Hunter, your ten o’clock massage has arrived.”
For a moment, neither of us moved. I exhaled a laugh, breathless, flushed, and wrecked in the best way.
Darren groaned, burying his face in my neck. “I hate your butler.”
“He’s punctual,” I said, running a hand through his hair. “And armed with essential oils.”
Darren pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. “Can I request... a rescheduling?”
“You can request,” I purred, tracing the edge of his lower lip with my thumb.
“Do I have to wait until after the massage?”
I tilted my head with a smirk. “That depends on how good your next move is, Mr. Johnson.”
He grinned, hands still wrapped around me. “I just played the long game for your throne, Krystal. But I’ll fight for the queen’s bed, too.”
I kissed him again, slow and deliberate, then finally whispered against his lips—
“Checkmate.”
DARREN POV
An hour later.
The massage oil still glistened on her skin, catching the soft amber glow of the chandelier overhead. She was stretched out on the plush velvet couch, robe halfway open, her expression drowsy and satisfied. Her lips were kiss-bitten, eyes heavy, hair a halo of wild luxury that screamed, "Touch me again."
And how could I not?
I set the phone down with more control than I felt. Her back arched slightly as I leaned over her, the robe parting like silk petals, teasing me with the sight of bare skin that I already knew like the curve of my own breath.
“You’re staring,” she murmured.
I smirked. “You make it impossible not to.”
Krystal gave a sleepy, amused sound, almost a purr. “Well, I’m spoiled now. You’ll have to massage me daily. Doctor’s orders.”
I chuckled and bent down to kiss her bare shoulder, tasting lavender oil and skin that felt like sin. “Doctor Darren, reporting for duty.”
Her eyes snapped open at that, mischievous. “Oh? Doctor now?”
I trailed a hand down her side, then slipped it under her thigh and pulled her onto my lap. She landed with a breathy laugh, hands bracing on my bare chest, the heat between us reigniting instantly. My abs tensed under her touch. She knew exactly what she was doing.
“No shirt again?” she teased, tapping her fingers down the lines of my torso like she was playing a piano built from heat.
“I figured I'd give your couch the full six-pack experience,” I said, my voice dropping low. “It told me it was feeling neglected.”
Her laugh was rich and slow, the kind that made my chest swell. “Oh, my poor couch. How dare I deprive it.”
I leaned in close, lips brushing hers, but not quite kissing. “You know,” I murmured, “I think we both need some... post-massage therapy.”
She tilted her chin, teasing. “Mm. You prescribing something specific, doctor?”
I didn’t answer with words. I kissed her.
Hard. Deep.