Chapter 15: Back to Reality

Harper stepped off the private jet Thursday evening, the New York skyline a jagged silhouette against the fading dusk, her body still buzzing from Paris. The past three days had been a whirlwind—Zane's hands tearing her lingerie in that expo office, his growled promises against her skin, the way they'd stumbled back to the hotel and fallen into bed, too spent for his vowed "slow" finish but tangled in each other all the same. The design expo had been a triumph—new clients, killer deals, her name buzzing in the right circles—but it was the memory of his touch, his voice claiming her, that lingered, a heat she couldn't shake.Her silver dress was gone, sacrificed to their chaos, and she'd boarded the jet in a borrowed shirt of his—white, oversized, paired with jeans and boots—a silent mark of their shift. Zane walked beside her now, duffel slung over his shoulder, his dark suit rumpled from the flight, his gray eyes catching hers with a flicker of something unreadable. They'd barely spoken since takeoff, the hum of the engines filling the silence, but his hand had rested on her thigh the whole way, a steady weight that said more than words.The penthouse loomed as the elevator climbed, its sleek familiarity a stark contrast to Paris's old-world charm. Harper dropped her bag by the island, kicking off her boots, the marble cool under her bare feet. Zane set his duffel down, pouring whiskey into two glasses without asking, his movements deliberate, his silence heavy."Home sweet home," she said, breaking the quiet, taking the glass he offered, their fingers brushing—a spark that made her pulse jump despite her exhaustion."Yeah," he replied, his voice low, sipping his drink, his eyes tracing her—his shirt swallowing her frame, the jeans hugging her hips. "Missed it?""Not as much as Paris." She smirked, leaning against the counter, the whiskey burning her throat, warming the knot in her chest. "We did good there.""Damn right." He stepped closer, setting his glass down, his hand brushing her waist, lingering. "You were a fucking star. Expo, clients—me."Her breath hitched, his touch reigniting the fire that never seemed to die. "Team effort," she said, keeping her tone light, though her body leaned into him, traitorously eager. "But now what?"His brow furrowed, his hand stilling. "What do you mean?"She set her glass down, stepping back, needing space to think—away from his heat, his scent. "Paris was… intense. The job's moving fast, but us—" She gestured between them, her voice tightening. "What are we doing, Zane?"He straightened, his jaw clenching, a shadow crossing his face. "What do you want it to be?""Don't turn this on me." She crossed her arms, the shirt slipping off one shoulder, exposing the fading bruise he'd left. "You've been calling me 'yours' since that shelf night. But I'm not some conquest. I need to know where this lands."He raked a hand through his hair, pacing a step, then stopping, his eyes locking onto hers—stormy, raw. "You think I don't know that? You're not a conquest, Harper. You're—" He stopped, exhaling sharp, like the words cost him. "You're under my skin. Deeper than I planned."Her chest tightened, his vulnerability hitting her harder than his growls ever had. "Then why's it feel like a game? Paris, the office, all of it—hot as hell, but what happens when the job's done?"He closed the gap, his hands framing her face, thumbs brushing her jaw—a touch softer than she expected, but no less intense. "It's not a game. Not anymore. I don't know how to do this—trust, whatever this is—without fucking it up. But I'm not walking away."She searched his eyes, finding truth tangled with fear, mirroring her own. "Me neither," she admitted, quieter, her hands sliding to his chest, feeling his heartbeat under her palms. "But we can't just keep crashing into each other. Work's one thing—this is… messy.""Messy's fine." His lips quirked, a ghost of his smirk, and he dipped his head, his breath warm against her mouth. "I like messy with you."Her laugh was shaky, her resolve fraying as his hands slid down her sides, settling on her hips, pulling her closer. "You're impossible," she murmured, her fingers curling into his shirt, tugging him nearer despite her words."And you're stubborn as hell," he shot back, his voice dropping to that growl she felt in her bones. "Keeps it interesting."The air thickened, their breaths mingling, and she felt the pull—the same reckless want that had driven them in Paris, simmering now with something deeper. His lips hovered over hers, a whisper away, and her body arched, craving the contact, but she held back, needing more than heat this time."Zane—" Her voice trembled, a plea or a warning, and he groaned, his hands tightening, pressing her against the island, the edge biting her hips."Tell me to stop," he rasped, echoing every near-breaking point they'd danced around, his forehead resting against hers, his restraint visibly fraying. "Or I'll take you right here."She didn't stop him—couldn't—but she pulled back just enough, her hands flattening against his chest, holding him at bay. "Not yet," she said, her voice steadier than she felt, her body screaming in protest. "We need to figure this out first."His groan was pure frustration, but he nodded, stepping back, his hands flexing like he didn't trust them to stay off her. "Fine. Talk. But you're not making this easy, wearing my shirt like that."She smirked, adjusting the collar, the fabric brushing her thighs. "Good. Keeps you on your toes."He laughed, rough and genuine, grabbing his whiskey and downing it, his eyes never leaving her. "Tomorrow, 3 p.m. Office updates. Then dinner. We talk—really talk.""Deal," she said, picking up her glass, sipping slow, the burn grounding her. "But no funny business 'til then.""No promises," he muttered, his gaze dark, lingering on her legs, her lips, a promise of what he'd held back.She grabbed her bag, heading for the elevator, needing her own space to breathe, to think—away from his orbit that pulled her in like gravity. "See you tomorrow, Carver.""Harper—" His voice stopped her, rough with something unspoken as the doors slid open. "You're still mine."She didn't reply, just stepped inside, the doors closing on his silhouette—shirtless, whiskey in hand, eyes burning. Her apartment welcomed her with silence, the lumpy couch a far cry from his silk sheets, but she collapsed onto it, her body still humming, his words echoing. You're still mine. She was—and that truth, messy and uncharted, kept her awake, the night stretching long with the promise of tomorrow.