Chapter 7: The First Taste

Harper paced her Brooklyn apartment Thursday afternoon, the hardwood creaking under her restless steps. Her nerves were a live wire, sparking with every replay of last night—Zane pinning her to the countertop, his lips brushing hers in that maddening almost-kiss, his growl vibrating through her bones. She'd barely slept, her body a traitor that refused to cool down, her mind a battlefield of shoulds and wants. Tonight, 7 p.m., the penthouse again—master suite designs this time—and she knew it wasn't just about furniture. It was about them, this thing between them, teetering on a razor's edge she wasn't sure she could balance anymore.She dressed with intent: a burgundy wrap dress that tied at the waist, clinging to her curves in a way that felt like a weapon, paired with black stilettos that clicked like a war drum. Her hair fell in loose waves, a deliberate mess, and she swiped on lipstick to match the dress—bold, unapologetic. If they were going to crash, she'd go down fighting, not fleeing. She packed her tablet, sketches for the suite—a sleek platform bed, moody navy walls, a luxe ensuite with a glass shower—and headed for Manhattan, her pulse a steady thrum of anticipation.The elevator ride up was a slow burn, each floor stoking the fire in her chest. When the doors opened, the penthouse was alive with twilight—golden light spilling through the windows, jazz humming low, and the faint clink of glass from the kitchen. Zane stood at the island, pouring red wine into two glasses, his dark button-down untucked, sleeves rolled up, barefoot again like he owned the earth itself. He looked up as she entered, his gray eyes catching the light, and a slow, dangerous smile curved his lips."Harper," he said, his voice a velvet rasp, setting the bottle down. "Right on time.""Shocking, I know," she replied, dropping her bag beside his with a deliberate thud. Her heels echoed as she crossed to him, taking the glass he offered, their fingers brushing in a spark that made her skin prickle. "Master suite tonight. Ready?""Always." He leaned against the island, sipping his wine, watching her over the rim. "But first—drink. You look like you need it."She arched a brow but took a sip, the rich, velvety taste coating her tongue—some exorbitant vintage, no doubt. "I'm fine. Let's get to work."He smirked, gesturing toward the hallway. "After you."The master suite was a cavern of potential—sprawling, stark, with a massive bed frame that screamed bachelor and windows framing the city like a painting. She spread her sketches on the bed, launching into her pitch: navy walls to anchor the space, a custom headboard in tufted leather, a sitting area with a low chaise. The ensuite would be a showpiece—black marble, a double shower with glass walls, a soaking tub for the decadence he'd never admit he craved. She kept her tone crisp, professional, but his presence loomed, his silence heavier than usual as he stood too close, wine glass dangling from his fingers."It's bold," he said when she finished, his voice low, setting the glass on the nightstand. "Dark. I like it."She blinked, caught off guard by the lack of pushback. "No arguments? No 'too soft' this time?"He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her sketches. "Not soft. Intense. Fits me." His eyes flicked to hers, holding them. "Fits you, too."Her throat tightened, the air shifting, thickening with that familiar charge. "Good. Then we're set.""Not quite." He moved again, cutting off her retreat to the bed's edge, his hand brushing her arm as he picked up a sketch. "This chaise—where's it going?"She pointed, leaning past him to tap the drawing, her shoulder grazing his chest. "Here, by the window. View's too good to waste."He didn't look at the sketch. His gaze stayed on her, dark and unreadable. "You're too good to waste."Her breath hitched, the wine glass trembling in her hand. "Zane—""You've been dodging me," he cut in, his voice dropping to a growl, taking the glass from her and setting it aside. "All week. Running after every time I get close. Why?""I'm not running," she lied, stepping back, but the bed hit her thighs, trapping her. "I'm working. This—" She gestured between them, her voice sharper. "It's a distraction.""Bullshit." He closed the gap, his hands bracing on the bed beside her hips, caging her in. "You feel it. Same as me. Last night, that wasn't work. That was us."Her pulse roared, his heat seeping through her dress, his scent—wine and cedar—drowning her senses. "Us doesn't exist," she said, but her voice wavered, betraying her. "This is a job.""Then quit." His face was inches from hers, his breath warm against her lips. "Walk away if it's just a job. But you won't."She glared up at him, anger flaring hot alongside the want she couldn't kill. "You're so damn sure of yourself.""Am I wrong?" His hand slid to her waist, fingers digging into the fabric, pulling her closer. "Tell me you don't want this.""I—" The words died as his thumb brushed her hip, a spark that lit her up. She shoved at his chest, not hard enough, and he didn't budge, just smirked like he knew he'd won. "You're an asshole," she snapped, grabbing her wine and draining it in one furious gulp, slamming the glass down."And you're stubborn as hell," he shot back, snatching his own glass and finishing it, the clink of crystal sharp in the silence. "Keeps things interesting.""Interesting?" She laughed, bitter and wild, stepping around him to grab the bottle from the nightstand, pouring herself another splash. "You mean infuriating. You push every button I've got.""Good." He followed, taking the bottle from her, their hands brushing as he poured his own. "You push mine. Fair's fair."She took a swig, the wine loosening her tongue, her restraint. "I don't play fair, Zane. I play to win.""So do I." He set the bottle down, his eyes locking on hers, dark and molten. "And I'm done losing."The room spun—not from the wine, but from him, the way he stepped into her space, his hand cupping her jaw, tilting her face to his. "Tell me to stop," he rasped, his thumb brushing her lips, smearing her lipstick. "Last chance."She didn't. Couldn't. Instead, she surged up, crashing her mouth into his, the wine glass slipping from her hand to shatter on the floor. He groaned, a sound of pure hunger, and kissed her back—hard, messy, all teeth and tongue, tasting of merlot and sin. Her hands fisted in his shirt, yanking him closer, and his arms banded around her, lifting her onto the bed's edge as glass crunched under his feet."Fuck, Harper," he growled against her lips, his hands roaming, one sliding up her thigh, pushing her dress higher, the other tangling in her hair. She bit his lip, hard enough to draw a hiss, and he retaliated, sucking her bottom lip, his tongue chasing hers in a duel she didn't want to win.Her dress parted, the tie unraveling under his fingers, and he tore at it, the fabric ripping as he bared her shoulder, his mouth finding her collarbone. She arched into him, nails raking down his back, and he shoved her back onto the bed, following her down, his weight pinning her to the mattress. The leather headboard creaked as he gripped it, his hips grinding against hers, the friction sparking a moan she couldn't stifle."Zane—" Her voice broke, her hands clawing at his shirt, buttons popping as she ripped it open, her palms flattening against his chest—hot, hard, alive. He groaned, capturing her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand, his other sliding under her dress, finding lace and skin and heat."You're a goddamn wildfire," he muttered, his mouth on her neck, teeth grazing, then biting, marking her as she writhed beneath him. She yanked a hand free, fisting it in his hair, pulling him back to her lips, kissing him deeper, dirtier, their breaths ragged and desperate.He tore at her dress again, the sound of fabric giving way lost in her gasp as his hand cupped her breast, thumb brushing lace, sending a jolt straight to her core. She hooked a leg around his hip, pulling him tighter, feeling him—hard, insistent—through his slacks, and he cursed, rocking against her, the bed shaking with their chaos.They were a tangle of limbs and want, clothes half-gone, his shirt hanging open, her dress a ruin around her waist. His hand slid lower, fingers teasing the edge of her panties, and she arched, a plea on her lips—but then he froze, his breath hitching, his forehead pressed to hers."Fuck," he panted, his voice wrecked. "We need to stop.""What?" She blinked up at him, dazed, her body screaming for more, her hands still clutching his shoulders."Not like this." He pulled back, chest heaving, his eyes dark with a mix of lust and something softer—restraint she didn't expect. "Not drunk. Not fighting."She laughed, shaky and incredulous, shoving at him as she sat up, her dress falling around her in tatters. "You started it.""And I'll finish it," he promised, his voice rough, brushing a strand of hair from her face with a tenderness that disarmed her. "When you're sober. When you mean it."She stared at him, her heart pounding, her body a live wire of frustration and need. "You're impossible.""You're welcome." He rolled off the bed, grabbing a spare shirt from a drawer, tossing it to her. "Cover up before I change my mind."She caught it, pulling it on over her ruined dress, the fabric soft and smelling of him—cedar and sin. "This doesn't change anything," she said, sliding off the bed, avoiding the glass shards."Changes everything," he countered, watching her grab her bag, his shirt dwarfing her frame. "Tomorrow. 6 p.m. We talk.""About the suite?""About us." His eyes held hers, steady and sure, and she felt the ground shift beneath her.She didn't reply, just headed for the elevator, her steps unsteady, her lips still tingling from his taste. The doors closed on his silhouette—shirtless, hair wild, a promise in his stare—and she slumped against the wall, her body alive, her mind a mess. They'd crossed a line tonight, and there was no going back.