Chapter 18: The Edge of Play

Harper Quinn woke Sunday morning in her Brooklyn apartment, sunlight slicing through the blinds, her body restless with the echo of yesterday's penthouse encounter. Zane's walnut table, those wildflowers, his rough I'm trying, Harper—they'd lodged in her chest, a tender bruise alongside the heat he always sparked. She'd left him at the elevator, his promise of No promises ringing in her ears, and slept fitfully, dreaming of his hands, his smirk, the trust he'd laid bare. Today, 1 p.m., kitchen tweaks at the penthouse, and she felt the pull—work as a flimsy excuse for the real dance between them.She dressed with a playful edge: a fitted olive tank top, high-waisted jeans, ankle boots—casual but deliberate, the tank hugging her curves, a tease she knew he'd notice. Her tablet held the tweaks—cabinet adjustments, a new faucet, matte-black pulls—but her mind was on him, on how he'd push, how she'd push back. Coffee burned her throat as she grabbed her bag, the subway ride to Manhattan a blur of anticipation, her pulse a steady thrum by the time she stepped into the penthouse elevator.The doors opened at 1:04 p.m., and the space was alive—soft rock humming from hidden speakers, the scent of coffee and something sweet drifting from the kitchen. Zane leaned against the island, barefoot in dark jeans and a black tee, a mug in hand, his gray eyes lighting up as she walked in. The walnut table gleamed in the dining area, flowers still vibrant, a quiet testament to yesterday's shift, but his smirk was all mischief, a promise of chaos."Late again," he said, his voice a low drawl, setting the mug down as he crossed to her, stopping close enough that she caught his cedar-and-whiskey scent. "Starting to think you like keeping me waiting.""Four minutes," she shot back, dropping her bag on the counter, kicking off her boots with a grin. "You'll survive.""Barely." His gaze raked over her—the tank, the jeans, lingering on her hips—before flicking back to her face. "Coffee? Or straight to work?""Work," she said, pulling out her tablet, though her skin prickled under his stare. "Kitchen tweaks. Let's keep it quick."He laughed, low and rough, following her to the bar area where her cabinet specs waited. "Quick's not my style. You know that."She ignored the jab, spreading the sketches—new pulls, a sleeker faucet, a slight shift in shelf height. "These match the matte-black island. Functional, sharp. Thoughts?"He leaned over the counter beside her, his arm brushing hers, his breath warm against her temple. "Looks good. You've got an eye for this.""Damn right." She smirked, tapping the tablet to pull up a render, her shoulder grazing his chest—a deliberate nudge. "Your turn. Pick something to hate."He grinned, snagging a pencil from her bag, twirling it between his fingers. "Faucet's too modern. Swap it for something with a curve—less robot, more… you.""Me?" She arched a brow, snatching the pencil back, her fingers brushing his, a spark that made her pulse jump. "What's that mean?""Warm. Bold." He straightened, stepping closer, his hand brushing her hip as he pointed at the sketch. "Like this tank top. Distracting as hell."Her laugh was sharp, playful, shoving him back a step. "Focus, Carver. We're working.""Am I?" He caught her wrist, tugging her against him, his free hand sliding to her waist, fingers splaying over the denim. "You're the one teasing."She glared up at him, defiance sparking through the heat pooling low, but didn't pull away. "You're imagining things.""Liar." His smirk widened, and he spun her, backing her against the counter, the edge biting her hips as he pressed in—chest to chest, thigh to thigh. "This shirt's a weapon.""Jeans too?" She tilted her head, her hands flattening against his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken under her palms."Fuck yes." His voice dropped to a growl, his hands sliding to her hips, gripping tight as he lifted her onto the counter, stepping between her legs. "You're playing dirty.""Learned from the best," she shot back, her legs parting instinctively, jeans tight against her thighs as he pressed closer, his arousal evident through his denim, brushing her core. She gasped, soft and involuntary, her hands fisting in his tee, pulling him in despite the voice screaming to stop."Harper—" His growl was rough, needy, his lips hovering over hers, his breath hot against her mouth as his hands roamed—up her sides, brushing the edge of her tank, teasing the skin beneath. She arched, her hips rocking against him, the friction sparking a moan she couldn't stifle, loud enough to echo off the marble."Zane—" Her voice broke, her nails digging into his shoulders as he ground against her, slow and deliberate, the counter creaking under their weight. His mouth found her neck, kissing the fading bruise, his teeth grazing, sending a jolt straight to her core. She tilted her head back, giving him access, her hands sliding down his back, clawing at the fabric as he rocked harder, the heat building, clothes a maddening barrier."You're killing me," he muttered, his lips brushing her jaw, his hands slipping under her tank, fingers splaying over her bare stomach, inching higher. "Want to rip this off you.""Then do it," she challenged, her voice husky, her hips bucking against him, chasing the edge, the tension coiling tight. He groaned, a primal sound, his fingers brushing the underside of her bra, teasing, and she whimpered, her legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him tighter.But then—damn it—his phone buzzed on the island, a shrill interruption that made him freeze, his breath ragged against her cheek. "Fuck," he cursed, pulling back just enough to glare at it, his hands still on her, trembling with restraint."Don't," she panted, her hands fisting his shirt, trying to drag him back, her body screaming for release."Gotta," he rasped, stepping away, his chest heaving as he snatched the phone, silencing it with a swipe. "Client. Bad timing."She slid off the counter, legs shaky, smoothing her tank with trembling hands, her face burning. "Always is," she muttered, grabbing her tablet, her body a live wire of frustration and want.He raked a hand through his hair, his eyes dark with hunger, watching her. "We're not done," he said, his voice rough, a promise that made her shiver. "Tonight, 7 p.m. Dinner out. Pick up where we left off.""No counters," she said, smirking despite the ache, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she headed for the elevator. "And no phones.""No promises," he called, his grin returning, his silhouette framed by the kitchen—shirt rumpled, eyes blazing—as the doors closed.Back in her apartment, she collapsed onto the couch, her body still humming, the ghost of his hands, his hips, lingering on her skin. Tonight loomed, a chance to finish what they'd started, and she knew—damn it—she'd be there, ready to burn with him again.