Chapter 2: Designs and Desks

Harper Quinn's Brooklyn apartment felt like a shoebox after the sprawling excess of Zane Carver's penthouse. She kicked off her heels by the door, the ache in her feet a small price to pay for the day's battle of wills. The memory of his voice—low, commanding, and far too close—still echoed in her skull, refusing to let her unwind. She dropped her portfolio bag onto the thrift-store coffee table, its chipped edges a stark contrast to the polished marble she'd left behind, and headed straight for the kitchenette. A glass of cheap pinot noir was her reward, her armor against the way Zane's gray eyes had stripped her bare without even touching her.She sank onto her threadbare couch, wine in hand, and replayed the afternoon. That moment in the kitchen—his hands bracketing her, his breath hot against her cheek—had been a mistake. Not his, hers. She'd let him get too close, let her guard slip just enough to feel the pull of him, and that was dangerous. Zane Carver wasn't just a client. He was a force—arrogant, magnetic, and entirely too aware of the effect he had on her. She couldn't afford to blur the lines, not when this job could catapult her career into the stratosphere. She'd worked too hard, clawed her way up from nothing, to let a billionaire's smirk derail her.But God, that smirk. And those hands. She took a long sip of wine, trying to drown the heat that flared low in her belly at the thought of them.By Sunday night, she'd buried herself in work. Her tiny dining table was a chaos of sketches, fabric swatches, and coffee mugs, her tablet glowing with a 3D mockup of Zane's living room. She'd gone bold—deep charcoal walls, a sprawling sectional in midnight blue velvet, brass accents to warm the steel-and-glass sterility. It was a risk, but she wasn't here to play it safe. If Zane wanted the best, he'd get it, whether he liked it or not.Monday morning, she strode back into his penthouse, armed with her designs and a fresh coat of resolve. The elevator ride up felt like ascending to a battlefield, and when the doors slid open, she was ready—heels sharp, blazer crisp, and a scarlet blouse underneath that hugged her curves just enough to make a statement. He'd told her to wear something distracting. She'd give him distracting, but on her terms."Miss Quinn," Zane greeted, his voice drifting from the living room before she even saw him. "You're late."She checked her watch—9:02. "Two minutes isn't late. It's punctual with flair." She stepped into the room, portfolio under her arm, and froze. He was sprawled on the sectional, one arm draped over the back, the other holding a tumbler of amber liquid—whiskey, probably, because of course he'd be drinking at nine a.m. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his hair was mussed like he'd just rolled out of bed. Or someone else had run their hands through it. The thought made her jaw tighten."Flair," he repeated, his lips twitching as he took her in. His gaze lingered on the red blouse, the way it dipped at her neckline, then slid down to her skirt and back up. "I see you took my advice."She ignored the jab, setting her bag on the coffee table with a deliberate thud. "I brought the prelims. Let's get to it."He didn't move, just swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching her over the rim. "Eager. I like that. But first—" He gestured to the bar cart in the corner. "Drink?""It's nine in the morning.""And I'm a billionaire. Time's irrelevant." He rose, all fluid muscle and quiet menace, and crossed to the cart. "Humor me."She sighed, more for show than actual annoyance, and perched on the edge of the sectional. "Fine. Water."He arched a brow but poured her a glass from a crystal pitcher, adding a twist of lime without asking. When he handed it to her, their fingers brushed—deliberately, she was sure—and a jolt shot up her arm, sharp and electric. She pulled back too fast, nearly spilling the water, and his smirk widened."Careful," he said, settling beside her, closer than necessary. "Wouldn't want to ruin that blouse."She shot him a look, setting the glass down untouched. "Let's focus on the designs, Mr. Carver.""Zane," he corrected, his voice a low rumble. "And I'm all ears."She launched into her pitch, spreading sketches across the table and pulling up the 3D render on her tablet. She walked him through every detail—the charcoal accent wall to ground the space, the velvet sectional for texture, the brass sconces to catch the light. She kept her tone brisk, professional, but she couldn't ignore the weight of his stare, the way he leaned in just enough to make her hyperaware of his thigh inches from hers."It's bold," he said when she finished, his tone neutral but his eyes glinting. "Darker than I expected.""You said you wanted a sanctuary," she countered, tapping the tablet to zoom in on the bar area. "This is intimate. Powerful. It's you."He tilted his head, studying her instead of the screen. "Is it?"Her pulse quickened, but she held his gaze. "You tell me."For a moment, he said nothing, just let the silence stretch until it felt like a live wire humming between them. Then he stood, abrupt and decisive, and gestured toward a hallway. "Come with me.""Where?""My office. I want to see how this plays out on a bigger screen."She hesitated, then grabbed her tablet and followed, her heels sinking into the plush runner that lined the hall. His office was a surprise—less sterile than the rest of the penthouse, with dark wood paneling, a massive desk that looked like it could double as a fortress, and shelves lined with books she doubted he'd ever read. A sleek monitor dominated one wall, and he motioned for her to sync her tablet to it.She did, pulling up the render as he settled into the leather chair behind the desk, watching her with that same unnerving intensity. The room filled with the muted glow of her design, the charcoal and blue tones casting shadows across his face. She walked him through it again, pacing as she talked, pointing out the flow from the living room to the dining area, the way the lighting would shift at night.He interrupted her mid-sentence. "Stop."She froze, turning to him. "What?"He stood, rounding the desk with slow, deliberate steps, his eyes locked on hers. "You're good at this. Damn good. But you're missing something."Her brows knit. "And what's that?"He didn't answer with words. Instead, he closed the distance, stopping just shy of her, his presence overwhelming in the confined space. "You're designing for me," he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. "But you don't know me. Not yet."Her breath caught, but she squared her shoulders. "I know enough. You're a control freak who likes expensive things and hates change."He chuckled, low and dark, and before she could react, he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her shoulder. His fingers lingered, tracing the line of her neck, feather-light but searing. "You think you've got me figured out," he said, his thumb grazing her collarbone, sending a shiver down her spine. "But you're only scratching the surface."She should've pulled away. Should've slapped his hand off and stormed out. But her body betrayed her, leaning into the touch, her skin prickling with heat. "Then enlighten me," she said, her voice huskier than she intended.His eyes darkened, a storm brewing in their depths. He stepped closer, his chest brushing hers, and dipped his head until his lips hovered near her ear. "I don't just like control," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "I crave it. And right now, Harper, I'm wondering how much you'd let me take."Her knees weakened, a rush of desire pooling low in her belly. His hand slid to the nape of her neck, firm but not forcing, his fingers threading through her hair. She could smell him now—whiskey and cedar, sharp and intoxicating—and it drowned out every rational thought screaming at her to stop this."Zane," she managed, half warning, half plea."Tell me to stop," he said, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, sending a jolt straight to her core. "Or don't."She didn't. Couldn't. Instead, she tilted her head, just enough to give him access, and that was all the invitation he needed. His mouth found the sensitive spot below her ear, a slow, deliberate kiss that made her gasp. His hand tightened in her hair, pulling her head back as he trailed his lips down her neck, each press of his mouth a spark igniting her skin. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he growled—a low, primal sound that vibrated through her.He backed her against the desk, the edge biting into her thighs, and his hands slid to her hips, lifting her onto it with effortless strength. Papers scattered, her tablet clattered to the floor, but she didn't care. His mouth was on hers now, hungry and unrelenting, tasting of whiskey and sin. She kissed him back just as fiercely, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her legs parting to let him step between them. His hands roamed, one sliding up her thigh, pushing her skirt higher, the other gripping her waist like he owned her."Fuck, Harper," he muttered against her lips, his voice rough with need. "You're driving me insane.""Good," she shot back, nipping his lower lip, her own control slipping as his hand found the bare skin above her stocking. His fingers teased the edge, dipping just under, and she arched into him, a moan escaping before she could stop it.He pulled back, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to hers. "We should stop," he said, but his hand didn't move, his thumb stroking circles that made her squirm."Probably," she agreed, her voice a wreck, but she hooked her legs around his hips, pulling him tighter. "But I don't want to."His laugh was ragged, and then he was kissing her again, deeper, dirtier, his tongue claiming hers as his hand slid higher, brushing the lace of her panties. She gasped into his mouth, her nails raking down his back, and he groaned, pressing himself against her so she could feel exactly how much he wanted this.But then—damn it—the intercom on his desk buzzed, a sharp, insistent sound that shattered the haze. He froze, cursing under his breath, and pulled back, his hand slipping from her thigh. She slid off the desk, smoothing her skirt with trembling hands, her face burning as reality crashed in."Mr. Carver," a clipped voice crackled through the speaker. "Your ten o'clock is here."He raked a hand through his hair, his chest heaving. "Tell them to wait," he snapped, then muted the intercom. His eyes found hers, still dark with hunger. "This isn't over."She swallowed, trying to steady her pulse. "It shouldn't have started.""But it did." He stepped closer, brushing his thumb across her swollen lips. "And I'm not done with you yet."She grabbed her tablet from the floor, her legs shaky as she headed for the door. "Monday's designs are approved?""More than approved," he said, his voice a promise. "Bring me more tomorrow."She didn't trust herself to reply, just nodded and fled to the elevator, her body still humming with the memory of his touch. Tomorrow. She'd have to face him again tomorrow. And God help her, she couldn't wait.