Chapter 6: Power Plays

Harper spent Wednesday in a fog, her apartment a cluttered war zone of sketches, coffee mugs, and unresolved tension. The memory of Zane Carver—naked, dripping, and daring her to react—had haunted her all night, infiltrating her dreams with flashes of wet skin and gray eyes that saw too much. She'd woken tangled in her sheets, her body thrumming with a restless ache she couldn't ignore. His text—Penthouse tomorrow. 8 p.m. Bring your fire—sat unanswered on her phone, a taunt she hadn't figured out how to counter. Ignoring him wasn't an option; this job demanded her presence, and some reckless part of her craved his orbit, no matter how dangerous it was.By evening, she'd armored up—black leather pants, a fitted white blouse with a deep V-neck, and ankle boots that clicked with purpose. She told herself it was for confidence, not for him, but the lie felt thin as she packed her tablet and headed for Manhattan. The rain had cleared, leaving the city sharp and electric, a perfect mirror for the current buzzing under her skin. She'd face him, deliver her next design phase, and keep it professional. No more towels. No more kisses. Just work.The penthouse elevator felt like a countdown, each floor ratcheting her pulse higher. When the doors opened at 8:03 p.m., the space was alive—soft jazz drifting from hidden speakers, the city skyline glittering beyond the windows, and Zane sprawled on the sectional, a glass of whiskey in hand. He'd traded yesterday's casual vibe for a charcoal button-down and dark slacks, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms that flexed as he set the glass down. His hair was tamed tonight, but his eyes—those damn gray eyes—tracked her entrance with a hunger that made her stomach flip."Late again," he said, his voice a low tease, rising as he crossed the room. "Starting to think it's personal.""It's three minutes," she shot back, dropping her bag onto the island with a thud. "And I'm here, aren't I?""You are." He stopped too close, his gaze flicking over her outfit—lingering on the leather, the neckline—before settling on her face. "Looking like trouble."She arched a brow, refusing to flinch. "I brought the next phase. Dining room and master suite. Let's skip the games and get to it."His smirk widened, but he gestured toward the dining room. "Lead the way."She strode past him, her boots echoing on the marble, and spread her sketches across the obsidian table. The dining room pitch was bold—replacing the cold slab with a live-edge walnut table, warm pendant lights to soften the space, and a built-in wine wall for his overpriced bottles. She walked him through it, her voice crisp, her focus on the work, but his silence unnerved her. He stood too near, arms crossed, watching her with an intensity that felt like a physical touch."It's warmer," she finished, tapping the sketch of the wine wall. "Less war room, more home. Thoughts?"He tilted his head, studying the drawings, then her. "It's... soft.""Soft?" She bristled, hands on hips. "It's inviting. You said you wanted a sanctuary.""I said I wanted my sanctuary," he countered, stepping closer, his voice sharpening. "This looks like a damn farmhouse. I don't do cozy, Harper."Her jaw tightened, irritation flaring hot. "You hired me to fix this place, not stroke your ego. Cozy doesn't mean weak—it means livable. Unless you plan to eat alone forever, glaring at your reflection in this slab."His eyes narrowed, a spark of challenge igniting. "I like the slab. It's functional. Your wood thing's impractical—spills, stains, maintenance.""It's walnut," she snapped, leaning over the table to jab at the sketch. "Sealed, durable, and a hell of a lot classier than this funeral parlor vibe. You want function? Keep living like a robot. I'm giving you style."He moved fast, rounding the table to loom over her, his hands bracing on either side of the sketch, caging her against the edge. "Style's fine," he said, his voice dropping to a growl, "but I don't need you turning my place into a Pinterest board. I call the shots here."Her pulse spiked, his proximity flooding her senses—cedar, whiskey, the heat rolling off him. She straightened, refusing to back down, her chest brushing his as she glared up at him. "You hired me to design, not nod and smile. If you want a yes-man, hire Julian Reese. I'm not here to kiss your ass."His laugh was sharp, edged with something darker. "Good. I'd rather you fight me." He leaned in, his face inches from hers, his breath warm against her lips. "But don't forget who's in charge."Her hands fisted, nails digging into her palms as she fought the urge to shove him—or pull him closer. "You're not in charge of me, Zane. This is my work. My vision.""Your vision," he murmured, his eyes dropping to her mouth, "works for me. Not the other way around."The air thickened, charged with their standoff, and she felt the table's edge bite into her hips as he pressed closer, his body a wall of muscle and intent. "Then fire me," she challenged, her voice husky despite her anger. "If you can't handle someone pushing back.""Oh, I can handle you." His hand shot out, gripping the countertop beside her, trapping her fully as he loomed over her. "Question is, can you handle me?"Her breath hitched, the space between them shrinking to nothing. His chest brushed hers, his lips hovering so close she could taste the whiskey on his breath, and her resolve cracked under the weight of him. "Try me," she whispered, a dare she didn't mean to voice.He growled—a low, primal sound that vibrated through her—and his free hand slid to her waist, fingers digging into the leather as he yanked her against him. Her hands flew to his chest, meant to push, but they lingered, feeling the thud of his heart under her palms. His mouth brushed hers—not a kiss, not yet, just a tease of contact that sent a jolt straight to her core. "You're playing with fire, Harper," he rasped, his lips grazing hers again, deliberate and torturous."Then burn me," she shot back, her voice trembling with defiance and need, and that snapped something in him.He surged forward, pinning her to the counter with his hips, his mouth crashing down—but stopping a heartbeat shy of full contact, hovering there, testing her. His hand tightened on her waist, the other sliding up to cup her jaw, tilting her face to his. Their lips brushed again, a fleeting spark that made her gasp, and she felt him shudder, his control fraying as badly as hers."Tell me to stop," he growled, echoing every time he'd pushed her to this edge, his breath ragged against her mouth. "Or I won't."She didn't. Couldn't. Instead, she arched into him, her nails digging into his shirt, and his growl deepened, his lips pressing harder—not a kiss, but a claim, a promise of what he'd do if she let him. Her body responded, hips rocking against his, and he groaned, his hand sliding down to grip her thigh, hitching it up as the counter dug into her back.But then—damn it—his phone buzzed on the table, a shrill intrusion that broke the spell. He froze, cursing under his breath, and pulled back, his chest heaving as he glared at the screen. "Fucking timing," he muttered, swiping it up to silence it, but the moment was gone.She slipped out from under him, smoothing her blouse with shaky hands, her face burning. "Dining room's settled?" she asked, forcing her voice to steady, though her legs felt like jelly.He raked a hand through his hair, his eyes still dark with hunger. "Walnut's fine. Wine wall too. But this—" He gestured between them, his voice rough. "We're not done."She grabbed her tablet, retreating to the island to pack her bag. "We should be," she said, more to herself than him. "This is a mistake.""Feels pretty damn right to me." He followed, leaning against the counter, watching her with that predatory intensity. "You're scared, Harper. Why?""I'm not scared," she lied, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "I'm smart. This doesn't end well.""Or it ends too well." He stepped closer, brushing her arm as she turned for the elevator. "Tomorrow. 7 p.m. Master suite."She nodded, not trusting her voice, and hit the button. The doors slid shut on his silhouette—shirt rumpled, eyes blazing—and she slumped against the wall, her body a live wire of frustration and want. He was right. She was scared—not of him, but of how much she craved this, how easily he unraveled her. Tomorrow, she'd face him again, and God help her, she wasn't sure she'd walk away next time.