Chapter 21: The Table Test

Harper woke Tuesday morning in her Brooklyn apartment, the faint buzz of the city seeping through the walls, her body still tingling from yesterday's penthouse encounter with Zane Carver. The memory of his hands kneading her thighs, her hips rocking against him on those silk sheets, his growled Slow this time—it clung to her like a fever, a heat she couldn't shake. She'd left him at the elevator, his promise of You're still mine echoing as she'd fled, and slept restlessly, dreaming of his touch, his trust, the edge they'd teetered on. Today, 10 a.m., dining tweaks at the penthouse, and she felt the pull—work a thin excuse for the real game between them.She dressed with a flirty edge: a burgundy wrap top that tied at the waist, black skinny jeans, ankle boots—bold but playful, the top hinting at cleavage, a tease she knew he'd catch. Her tablet held the tweaks—wine wall adjustments, pendant light placement, a new centerpiece—but her mind was on him, on how he'd push, how she'd push back. 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 10:03 a.m., and the space was alive—soft jazz drifting from the speakers, the scent of espresso and something baked wafting from the kitchen. Zane stood by the new walnut table, barefoot in dark jeans and a white tee, a bottle of red wine open beside two glasses, his gray eyes lighting up as she walked in. The wildflowers still bloomed at the table's center, a quiet nod to his trust, but his smirk was all mischief, a promise of chaos."Late again," he said, his voice a low drawl, pouring wine into a glass as he crossed to her, handing it over with a grin. "Thought I'd have to drink alone.""Three minutes," she shot back, dropping her bag on the island, kicking off her boots with a smirk. "You're impatient.""For you? Always." His gaze raked over her—the burgundy top, the jeans, lingering on the tie at her waist—before flicking back to her face. "Wine first, or work?""Work," she said, sipping the red—rich, velvety, warming her throat—though her skin prickled under his stare. "Dining tweaks. Let's keep it moving."He laughed, rough and warm, following her to the table where her sketches waited. "Moving's fine. You set the pace."She ignored the jab, spreading the drawings—wine wall shifted left, pendants lowered an inch, a sleek tray for the centerpiece. "Tighter layout, better flow. Thoughts?"He leaned over the table beside her, his arm brushing hers, his breath warm against her temple. "Looks good. Wine wall's smart—more space for my overpriced bottles.""Thought you'd like that." She smirked, her shoulder nudging his chest—a playful shove that sparked heat despite her intent to keep it tame. "Anything to tweak?"He grinned, snagging the wine bottle, topping off her glass with a flourish. "Pendants could drop another half-inch. More drama. Like you.""Drama?" She arched a brow, taking a sip, the wine loosening her edges as she leaned closer, her hip grazing his. "That's all you?""Shared title." His hand brushed her waist, lingering on the tie, fingers teasing the knot as he pointed at the sketch. "This tray—wood or metal?""Wood," she said, her voice catching as his fingers tugged lightly, the fabric shifting, baring a sliver of skin. "Matches the table.""Good call." He stepped closer, his hand sliding to her hip, gripping gently as he set the bottle down. "You're full of them."Her pulse jumped, his touch pulling her in, and she tilted her head, smirking up at him. "You're full of something.""Wine?" He laughed, low and rough, his free hand snagging her wrist, tugging her against him—chest to chest, the table edge biting her thighs. "Or trouble?""Both," she shot back, shoving at his chest, but he didn't budge—just grinned, his hands sliding to her hips, lifting her onto the table with a swift, playful hoist. She gasped, her legs dangling, the wood cool under her jeans as he stepped between them, his hands bracing beside her."Testing the table?" she teased, her hands flattening against his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken as she pushed, playful but firm."Testing you," he growled, leaning in, his lips hovering over hers, his breath warm with wine and want. "Sturdy enough?""Let's see." She hooked a leg around his hip, tugging him closer, her hands fisting in his tee as she yanked him down, their mouths crashing—not a kiss, not yet, just a hard press of lips, a wrestle for control. He groaned, his hands sliding to her ass, pulling her flush against him, and she laughed, breathless, shoving him back only to pull him in again, a playful tussle that tipped them sideways.They rolled, the table creaking under their weight, wine glasses wobbling as she straddled him, her hands pinning his wrists above his head, her hips rocking against his—hard, evident through his jeans. "Got you," she panted, her burgundy top gaping, flashing lace as she grinned down at him, triumphant."Not yet," he rasped, bucking up, flipping her onto her back with a swift twist, his body pinning hers, the wood digging into her spine. She moaned, loud and unrestrained, her legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him tight as he ground against her, slow and deliberate, the friction sparking through their clothes."Zane—" Her voice broke, her hands clawing at his back, tugging his tee up to rake her nails over bare skin, drawing a growl from his throat. His mouth found her neck, kissing the fading bruise, his teeth grazing as she arched, her hips bucking, chasing the heat coiling low."Harper—" His growl was rough, needy, his hands sliding under her top, fingers splaying over her stomach, brushing the edge of her bra as he rocked harder, the table groaning under their chaos. She whimpered, her nails digging in, and he groaned, his lips hovering over hers, teasing, tasting her breath as their bodies moved—wine-fueled, wild, teetering on the edge."Fuck, you're a menace," he muttered, his hand tugging at the tie of her top, loosening it, baring more skin as he thrust against her, the rhythm building, clothes a maddening barrier. She laughed, shaky and desperate, her hands fisting his hair, pulling him down, their mouths brushing—a whisper of a kiss that made her moan again, louder, the flowers trembling beside them.But then—damn it—the bottle tipped, wine splashing across the table, a cold shock that broke the spell. He froze, his chest heaving, cursing under his breath as he pulled back, his hands still on her, trembling with restraint. "Shit," he panted, sitting up, dragging her with him, the red pooling around them."Timing," she gasped, sliding off the table, her legs shaky, smoothing her top with trembling hands, the wine soaking her jeans, her body a live wire of frustration and want."Always," he muttered, grabbing a napkin, wiping at the spill, his eyes dark with hunger, watching her. "Tomorrow, 9 a.m. Bathroom tweaks. No wine.""No promises," she said, smirking despite the ache, grabbing her tablet as she headed for the elevator, her hips swaying deliberately, wine dripping from her hem. "Night, 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, the table a mess behind him. Her apartment welcomed her with silence, the couch a poor substitute for his arms, but she sank into it, her body still humming, the wrestling replaying—his hands, his heat, the edge they'd teetered on. Tomorrow loomed, and she knew—damn it—she'd burn with him again.