Chapter 12: Business and Pleasure

Harper stood in the penthouse living room Tuesday morning, her suitcase by the door, a whirlwind of nerves and anticipation churning in her gut. The past twenty-four hours had shifted everything—Zane's raw confession about his ex, their slow, soul-baring reconnection in the hot tub, the way he'd held her after like she was something precious. She'd stayed the night again, waking tangled in his silk sheets, his arm heavy across her waist, his breath warm against her neck. They'd crossed a line—not just physical, but emotional—and now, as she watched him pack a leather duffel across the room, she wasn't sure where they stood."Paris," he'd said over coffee an hour ago, casual as if he hadn't just upended her world. "Design expo. You're coming. Jet leaves at noon." No question, just a statement, his gray eyes steady on hers, daring her to argue. She hadn't—partly because the expo was a career goldmine, partly because the thought of being alone with him in a foreign city lit her up in ways she couldn't deny.Now, he zipped the duffel, his dark shirt stretching across his shoulders, and glanced at her, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You're quiet. Second thoughts?"She crossed her arms, leaning against the island, her navy blazer sharp against her jeans. "About Paris? No. About you? Maybe."His laugh was low, rough, as he crossed to her, stopping close enough that she felt his heat. "Too late for that." His hand brushed her hip, lingering, and his voice dropped. "You're in this, Harper. We both are."Her pulse kicked up, his touch reigniting the fire that never seemed to die. "We'll see," she said, stepping back, grabbing her suitcase handle. "Let's go."The private jet was a sleek cocoon—leather seats, a bar stocked with whiskey, a bedroom in the back she avoided looking at. Zane sprawled across from her, laptop open, but his eyes kept drifting to her, a silent promise that made the six-hour flight feel endless. She buried herself in expo notes—vendors, trends, a pitch for a Parisian client—but every shift of his leg, every sip of his drink, pulled her focus. By the time they landed at Le Bourget, dusk painting Paris in gold and violet, her body was a tight coil of want.Their hotel was a boutique gem in the Marais—cobblestone streets, wrought-iron balconies, a suite with a view of the Seine shimmering under streetlights. Harper dropped her bag in the living room, kicking off her boots as Zane poured wine from a bottle left by the concierge. The space was intimate—cream walls, a plush sofa, double doors leading to a bedroom with a four-poster bed she tried not to imagine them wrecking."Expo's tomorrow," he said, handing her a glass, his fingers brushing hers. "Tonight's ours."She took a sip, the rich red warming her throat, and met his gaze. "Ours?"He stepped closer, his free hand sliding to her waist, pulling her against him. "Yeah. No work. No running. Just us."Her breath hitched, the wine glass trembling as his lips brushed her jaw, soft but deliberate. "Zane—""No fighting me tonight," he murmured, kissing a slow path to her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "You're mine here, too."She didn't argue—couldn't, not when his hands slid under her blazer, peeling it off, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that was all heat and promise. She kissed him back, fierce and needy, the wine forgotten as she set it down, her fingers tugging at his shirt. They stumbled toward the bedroom, clothes shedding—her jeans, his shirt, a trail of fabric marking their path—but he stopped her at the balcony doors, pushing them open to the cool night air."Out here," he rasped, his hands on her hips, guiding her onto the narrow balcony, the city sprawling below—lights twinkling, the faint hum of traffic and laughter rising from the streets."Zane—" Her protest died as he pressed her against the railing, the iron cold against her back, his body hot against her front. Her bra and panties were all that remained, silver against her skin, and he groaned, his hands roaming, cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing lace until she gasped."No one's stopping us now," he said, his voice rough, tearing at her bra, the clasp snapping as he bared her to the night. His mouth followed, kissing, sucking, his teeth grazing her nipple as she arched, a moan slipping free, loud enough to echo off the stone walls."People will hear," she panted, her hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer despite her words."Let them." He dropped to his knees, yanking her panties down, his lips tracing her inner thigh, then higher, his tongue finding her with a slow, deliberate lick that made her cry out. The city blurred, her world narrowing to his mouth, his hands gripping her hips, holding her steady as she trembled, her moans rising with the wind."Fuck, Zane—" Her voice broke, her legs shaking as he devoured her, relentless, his growl vibrating against her until she shattered, her climax hitting hard, loud and unrestrained, her scream bouncing off the buildings. He rose, kissing her fierce and messy, letting her taste herself, and she clawed at his boxers, freeing him—hard, pulsing, hers.He lifted her, her legs wrapping around his hips, and pressed her back to the railing, the iron biting her skin as he thrust into her—deep, sudden, filling her completely. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders, and he groaned, a primal sound that mingled with hers as he moved, a rhythm that shook the balcony, the city their witness. The stars blurred above, the air cool against her fevered skin, and she rocked against him, meeting every thrust, her moans loud, shameless, scandalizing the night."Mine," he growled, his mouth on her neck, biting the bruise he'd left, his hands bruising her thighs as he drove harder, deeper. She cried out, her voice echoing, and he laughed—wild, triumphant—thrusting faster, the railing creaking under their weight."Yours," she gasped, her head tipping back, Paris spinning below as pleasure built again, sharp and inevitable. He shifted, angling deeper, his fingers finding her, circling, and she broke—her second climax crashing through her, louder than the first, her scream tearing through the night as she clenched around him. He followed, a guttural roar as he spilled into her, his thrusts slowing, his arms banding around her, holding her through the aftershocks.They slumped against the railing, panting, sweat-slick and sated, the city humming below—windows flickering, a distant shout of indignation proving they'd been heard. He laughed, low and rough, kissing her slow and deep, his hands still possessive on her skin."Scandalized them," he murmured, pulling back to smirk at her, his eyes glinting in the starlight."Good," she said, breathless, her legs unsteady as he set her down, the cool air a shock against her flushed body. "Let them talk."He scooped her up, carrying her inside, kicking the balcony doors shut behind them. They collapsed onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and laughter, the expo forgotten, Paris theirs for the taking. Tomorrow, they'd face the world—work, whispers, the consequences of their noise—but tonight, wrapped in each other, they burned brighter than the city lights.