Chapter 20: The Touch of Trust

Harper woke Monday morning in her Brooklyn apartment, the faint hum of the city seeping through the walls, her body still restless from last night's penthouse dance with Zane Carver. The memory of his hips pressing her against the window, his lips teasing hers, her moans fogging the glass—it lingered like a fever, a heat she couldn't shake. She'd left him at the elevator, his growled You're still mine echoing as she'd fled, and slept fitfully, dreaming of his hands, his voice, the edge they'd danced on. Today, 11 a.m., bedroom tweaks at the penthouse, and she felt the pull—work a thin veil over the real stakes between them.She dressed with a softer edge: a loose white blouse, skinny jeans, flats—less armor, more herself, a quiet nod to the trust he'd shown with that walnut table, those flowers. Her tablet held the tweaks—new nightstands, a warmer lamp, a subtle shift in the navy walls—but her mind was on him, on how he'd push, how she'd respond. Coffee steadied her hands as she grabbed her bag, the subway ride to Manhattan a haze of anticipation, her pulse a steady thrum by the time she stepped into the penthouse elevator.The doors opened at 11:02 a.m., and the space was quiet—no music, just the soft glow of late-morning light spilling through the windows, the walnut table a warm anchor in the dining area. Zane stood in the master suite doorway, barefoot in dark sweats and a gray tee, his hair tousled, his gray eyes catching hers with a softness that made her breath hitch. No smirk, no whiskey—just him, raw and present, a shift she felt in her bones."Late again," he said, his voice low, teasing but gentle, stepping aside to let her in. "Thought you'd bail.""Two minutes," she replied, dropping her bag on the silk-sheeted bed, her tone light despite the flutter in her chest. "You're stuck with me.""Good." He followed, stopping close, his arm brushing hers as he leaned against the bedpost, watching her. "Bedroom tweaks?"She nodded, pulling out her tablet, spreading the sketches on the silk—new nightstands in dark oak, a brass lamp, a slight tweak to the navy paint for depth. "Warmer tones, still sharp. Your sanctuary, right?"He studied the drawings, his hand brushing hers as he pointed at the lamp. "This one's good. Softens it without losing me.""Thought you'd say that." She smirked, her shoulder grazing his chest—a subtle nudge that sparked heat despite her intent to keep it tame. "Anything else?"He straightened, his gaze shifting from the sketches to her, lingering on the blouse, the way it slipped off one shoulder, baring skin. "Yeah," he said, his voice dropping, rougher now. "You."Her pulse jumped, his nearness pulling her in, but she held his stare, searching the softness there. "Zane—""Wait." He stepped back, raking a hand through his hair, his jaw tightening like he was wrestling something down. "Before we—whatever this is—I need to say something."She froze, the air thickening, her tablet forgotten as she turned to face him fully. "Okay. What?"He exhaled, sharp and unsteady, crossing to the window, his back to her for a moment before he turned, his eyes raw, unguarded. "I've been an asshole—controlling, pushing, holding you at arm's length even when I didn't want to. Lauren fucked me up, yeah, but that's not all of it. I'm scared, Harper. Scared of this—of you—because it's real, and I don't know how to lose it."Her chest tightened, his vulnerability hitting her like a wave, stripping her bare. "Zane—" She stepped closer, her hand hovering, then settling on his arm, feeling the tension there. "I'm scared too. But I'm not her. I'm not going anywhere.""I know." His hand covered hers, warm and steady, his thumb brushing her knuckles. "That's why I'm trying—table, flowers, this." He gestured to the room, to them, his voice softening. "I trust you. More than I've trusted anyone. I need you to know that."Her throat closed, emotion tangling with the heat he always sparked, and she squeezed his arm, her voice quiet. "I do. And I trust you—asshole and all."His laugh was rough, relieved, and he pulled her closer, his arms wrapping around her, her cheek pressing to his chest—his heartbeat a steady thud under her ear. "Good," he murmured, his lips brushing her hair, a touch that sent a shiver down her spine. "Now what?"She pulled back, meeting his gaze, a playful glint sparking through the weight of it. "Now you relax. You're wound tight—shoulders like steel. Lie down."His brow arched, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Bossing me around?""Someone has to." She shoved him toward the bed, her hands firm, and he went willingly, sprawling on the silk sheets, propping himself on his elbows, watching her with a mix of amusement and heat."Fine," he said, his voice a low drawl. "What's the plan?""Massage," she said, climbing onto the bed, straddling his hips—a bold move that made his breath hitch, his hands settling on her thighs, gripping lightly. "You're a mess. Let me fix it.""Fix me?" His smirk widened, but his eyes darkened, his fingers flexing against her jeans as she leaned forward, her hands sliding to his shoulders, kneading the knots there. "Careful, Harper. This could get dangerous.""Could," she teased, her fingers digging in, working the tension free as he groaned, low and deep, his head tipping back against the silk. "But you'll behave.""No promises," he muttered, his hands sliding up her thighs, brushing the hem of her blouse, teasing the skin beneath. She pressed harder, her thumbs circling, and he groaned again, louder, his hips shifting beneath her, the friction sparking heat low in her belly."Fuck, that's good," he rasped, his eyes half-lidded, watching her through the haze, his hands roaming higher, grazing her waist, tugging her closer. She shifted, her hips rocking slightly—unintentional at first, then deliberate, drawing a growl from his throat as he gripped her tighter."Zane—" Her voice trembled, her hands sliding down his chest, feeling the muscle flex under her palms as she leaned in, her lips hovering over his, the air charged between them."Harper—" His growl was rough, needy, his hands slipping under her blouse, fingers splaying over her bare back, pulling her down until her chest pressed to his, silk sheets cool against her knees. She gasped, her hips rocking again, feeling him—hard, insistent—through their clothes, a tease that made her moan, soft and unrestrained.He surged up, his mouth brushing hers—not a kiss, not yet, just a slow, sensual graze that unraveled her. His hands roamed—up her spine, down to her ass, gripping, guiding her as she ground against him, the rhythm slow, deliberate, building heat that fogged her mind. "You're killing me," he muttered, his lips tracing her jaw, her neck, kissing the fading bruise with a tenderness that clashed with the fire in his grip."Then die happy," she panted, her hands fisting in his tee, her body trembling as he rocked up, meeting her, the friction pushing her to the edge, clothes a maddening barrier. She whimpered, her nails digging into his shoulders, and he groaned, his mouth hovering over hers, teasing, tasting her breath.But then—damn it—he pulled back, his chest heaving, his hands stilling on her hips, holding her steady. "Fuck," he cursed, his forehead pressing to hers, his voice wrecked. "Not like this. Not yet.""Zane—" Her protest was shaky, her body screaming, her hands clutching him, trying to pull him back."Trust," he rasped, echoing her demand, his eyes locking onto hers, dark with hunger but steady with intent. "Slow this time. For you."Her breath caught, his restraint disarming her, and she nodded, sliding off him, her legs shaky as she collapsed beside him on the silk, her body a live wire of frustration and want. "You're impossible," she muttered, smoothing her blouse, her skin tingling where he'd touched."You're welcome." He rolled to his side, propping his head on one hand, his smirk returning as he watched her. "Tomorrow, 10 a.m. Dining tweaks. Bring that fire.""No promises," she said, smirking back, grabbing her tablet as she slid off the bed, her hips swaying deliberately as she headed for the elevator. "See you, Carver.""Harper—" His voice stopped her, rough with promise as the doors opened. "You're still mine."She didn't reply, just stepped inside, the doors closing on his silhouette—tee rumpled, eyes blazing, silk sheets a mess behind him. Her apartment welcomed her with silence, the couch a poor substitute for his bed, but she sank into it, her body still humming, the massage replaying—his hands, his trust, the edge they'd teetered on. Tomorrow loomed, and she knew—damn it—she'd burn with him again.