Chapter 47
Aria’s POV
He turned, his expression unreadable in the streetlight. "Aria."
"That's all you have to say?" I demanded, marching up to him. "I saw you up there. You saw what was happening and you just... turned away."
"This isn't the place for this conversation," he said, his voice low. "Go back inside."
"No," I insisted as his sleek black car pulled up to the curb. "I'm not going anywhere until you explain why you pretended not to see me."
The driver stepped out and opened the door for Devon. Without another word, Devon got in, clearly expecting me to stay behind.
I didn't.
I slid into the backseat beside him before the driver could close the door, my anger fueling my boldness.
"Get out," Devon ordered, his voice cold.
"No," I repeated, crossing my arms. "We had an agreement, Devon. A contract. I thought that included at least a basic level of human decency."
"I told you to leave," he said, not looking at me.
"And I refused," I shot back. "What's wrong with you? You saw that guy harassing me. You did nothing."
Devon finally turned to me, his gray eyes glacial. "I don't intervene in public scenes. It draws unnecessary attention."
"Attention?" I repeated incredulously. "You were worried about attention while I was being manhandled by that creep?"
"Our arrangement is private," he stated flatly. "I don't want paparazzi catching us together and creating speculation that could complicate both our business interests."
His cold reasoning infuriated me. The alcohol in my system, combined with the emotional rollercoaster of the past few days, broke through my last shred of self-control. I leaned forward and kissed him hard on the mouth.
Devon stiffened in surprise, his hands coming up to push me away. But instead of shoving me back, his fingers curled into my hair, and he pulled me closer, deepening the kiss with unexpected hunger.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Devon's eyes had darkened to storm clouds. "Remember," he said, his voice rough, "you initiated this."
"I know," I whispered.
Then his mouth was on mine again, more demanding this time. His hands roamed over my body, pushing up the hem of my dress as I straddled him in the backseat. The privacy partition hummed closed as Devon's driver discreetly gave us privacy.
Time blurred as we lost ourselves in each other. The windows fogged with our heated breaths as we moved together in the confined space, my dress bunched around my waist, his shirt half-unbuttoned. There was a desperation in our touches that hadn't been there before—something raw and honest that transcended our contractual arrangement.
"Aria," he growled against my neck, and it was the first time I'd heard him say my name with genuine emotion.
---
I woke to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and the unfamiliar sensation of high-thread-count sheets against my bare skin. Blinking away sleep, I took in my surroundings: minimalist furniture, a large abstract painting on the wall, and a view of the Manhattan skyline that could only come from a penthouse apartment.
Devon's bedroom.
Memories of the previous night flooded back—the club, the confrontation, the heated encounter in the back of his car, and then... being carried half-asleep into his apartment, his strong arms cradling me against his chest. We'd continued what we started in the car, ending up tangled in his sheets until exhaustion claimed us both.
I turned to find Devon already awake, watching me with those intense gray eyes. For once, they weren't cold or calculating but relaxed, almost... content.
"Morning," he said, his voice gravelly with sleep.
I pulled the sheet higher, suddenly self-conscious in the daylight. "Morning."
A hint of amusement crossed his face. "Shy now? After last night?"
Heat crept into my cheeks. "Last night was... unexpected."
"Indeed," he agreed, stretching languidly beside me. "I didn't anticipate you being so... forward. It was a pleasant surprise."
"Don't flatter yourself," I muttered, though there was no real bite to my words. "I was drunk and angry."
"And remarkably enthusiastic," he countered, a rare smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Who knew you had such passion beneath that professional exterior?"
I threw a pillow at him, which he caught easily. "Shut up."
Devon chuckled, a sound I'd rarely heard from him. "I didn't say I didn't enjoy it. You have quite a flavor when you take charge, Ms. Harper."
The casual intimacy of the moment struck me as surreal. This wasn't the cold, business-like Devon I'd come to expect. This was someone different—still confident and slightly arrogant, but also relaxed and almost playful.
I glanced around for my dress, but didn't see it anywhere. "Where are my clothes?"
"Probably still in the car," Devon replied. "You weren't exactly concerned about gathering them when we arrived."
Embarrassment flooded me again. "I need something to wear."
Devon rose from the bed without a hint of modesty, giving me a full view of his impressive physique before pulling on a pair of boxer briefs and disappearing into what I assumed was his closet. He returned with a crisp white shirt and a gray suit jacket.
"These should do for now," he said, laying them on the bed.
I waited until he turned away before slipping out from under the sheets and pulling on his shirt. It fell to mid-thigh, leaving my legs mostly bare. I added the suit jacket, which was comically large on my frame but provided more coverage. Catching my reflection in the full-length mirror across the room, I had to admit I looked like the quintessential morning-after cliché: tousled hair, smudged makeup, drowning in a man's clothes.
When I turned around, Devon was watching me with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. His jaw tightened as his eyes traveled from my bare legs up to my face.
"Take those off," he ordered, his voice suddenly hard. His eyes darkened, his voice carrying an undertone of finality, "Go put on the clothes I prepared for you."
"Excuse me?" I bristled at his tone.
"Those clothes. Take them off." He strode to the door. "There are more appropriate options waiting for you in the living room."
With that, he left the bedroom, leaving me confused and slightly offended. The shift in his demeanor was so abrupt it gave me emotional whiplash. One minute he was almost warm, the next he was back to issuing cold commands.
I followed him out to the living room, where I stopped short in surprise. Laid out on the sofa was not one but several complete outfits—designer dresses, skirts, tops, and even shoes in what appeared to be exactly my size. Each ensemble was carefully coordinated with accessories.
"What is this?" I asked, approaching the display.
Devon stood by the window, already dressed in fresh clothes, a cup of coffee in hand. "You need something to wear home. Choose whatever you like."
I examined the options more closely, noticing with surprise that they were all in styles I would have chosen for myself—elegant but not overstated, with clean lines and subtle sophistication. Even the colors were my preferences: deep burgundies, forest greens, navy blues.
"How did you know what I'd like?" I asked, selecting a simple emerald green wrap dress.
Devon shrugged, his face impassive. "I pay attention."
As I changed in his bathroom (there was no way I was giving him another show), I realized I'd misjudged him again. Behind the cold exterior and business-like approach to our arrangement, Devon had been observing me, learning my preferences, perhaps caring in his own detached way.
When I emerged, fully dressed and considerably more composed, Devon was waiting by the elevator doors. The dark circles under his eyes, which had been a constant feature since I'd known him, seemed lighter this morning. I wondered if it had anything to do with me staying the night.
"Your car is waiting downstairs," he informed me. "The driver will take you wherever you need to go."
"Thank you," I said, suddenly unsure how to end this encounter. Were we back to being strictly business now? Should I mention last night again? The uncertainty was frustrating after the intimacy we'd shared.
Devon solved the dilemma by stepping forward and placing a light kiss on my forehead—not passionate like last night, but not entirely impersonal either.
"We'll talk soon," he promised, his voice low.
The elevator doors opened, and I stepped inside, turning to face him as they began to close. Just before the doors shut completely, I caught the ping of Devon's phone and saw him check the screen. His expression remained neutral, but as the elevator descended, my phone chimed with a new message.
From Devon: [Next time, you're not allowed to drink that much in public.]