Chapter 22: The Wet Edge

Harper woke Wednesday morning in her Brooklyn apartment, the faint patter of rain against the window a soft counterpoint to the restless heat still simmering in her body. Last night's penthouse chaos—Zane pinning her to the walnut table, wine splashing, their bodies grinding through clothes—clung to her like a fever dream, a pulse of want 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, her dreams a tangle of his hands, his voice, the edge they'd danced on. Today, 9 a.m., bathroom tweaks at the penthouse, and she felt the pull—work a flimsy excuse for the real stakes between them.She dressed with a defiant edge: a charcoal tank top, fitted black leggings, sneakers—sleek, practical, but the tank clung to her curves, a subtle tease she knew he'd notice. Her tablet held the tweaks—black marble adjustments, a new showerhead, a tweak to the glass wall—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, rain streaking the glass behind her.The doors opened at 9:02 a.m., and the space was quiet—no jazz, just the soft drumming of rain against the windows, the walnut table still gleaming, flowers drooping slightly from last night's spill. Zane stood in the master suite doorway, barefoot in dark sweats and a white tee, his hair damp like he'd just showered, his gray eyes locking onto her with a mix of heat and something heavier—tension, maybe, or resolve. No smirk, just a steady gaze that made her breath hitch."Late again," he said, his voice low, steady, stepping aside to let her into the bedroom. "Rain slow you down?""Two minutes," she replied, dropping her bag on the silk sheets, her tone sharp to mask the flutter in her chest as she kicked off her sneakers. "You're still breathing.""Barely." His gaze raked over her—the tank, the leggings, lingering on her hips—before flicking back to her face. "Bathroom tweaks?"She nodded, pulling out her tablet, heading for the ensuite—black marble, glass shower, a space that screamed him but begged for her touch. "New showerhead—higher pressure—marble tweak here, glass wall adjustment," she said, spreading the sketches on the counter, her voice steadying as she fell into work. "Keeps it luxe, functional. Thoughts?"He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, studying the drawings, then her. "Showerhead's good. Pressure's key. Marble's fine—darker edge works.""Thought so." She smirked, her shoulder brushing his arm as she tapped the tablet, pulling up a render—a subtle nudge that sparked heat despite her intent to keep it tame. "Anything else?""Yeah." He straightened, stepping closer, his hand brushing her lower back, lingering. "Us."Her pulse jumped, his touch pulling her in, and she turned to face him, the air thickening, rain a soft roar beyond the glass. "Us?"He exhaled, sharp and unsteady, raking a hand through his damp hair, his jaw tightening. "Last night—wine, the table, all of it—it's not just a game anymore, Harper. I need to know what you see here. After the job's done."Her chest tightened, his question cutting through the heat, laying them bare. "Zane—" She stepped back, needing space, her hand gripping the counter as she searched his face—raw, unguarded, waiting. "I don't know. It's real—scary real—but I'm not good at planning. Are you?""No." His laugh was rough, self-aware, and he closed the gap, his hands framing her face, thumbs brushing her jaw—a touch softer than his usual fire, but no less potent. "I'm good at wanting you. Needing you. The rest—I'm figuring it out."Her throat closed, his honesty disarming her, and she leaned into his touch, her hands sliding to his chest, feeling his heartbeat under her palms. "Me too," she admitted, quieter, her voice trembling with the weight of it. "But I need more than heat. I need you—all of you.""You've got me." His fingers slid to her neck, grazing the fading bruise, his eyes darkening—not with hunger, but resolve. "I'm in this, Harper. Messy, fucked-up, all of it. You?"Her breath hitched, emotion tangling with desire, and she nodded, her hands fisting his tee. "Yeah. In.""Good." His lips quirked, a ghost of his smirk, and he pulled her closer, his voice dropping. "Shower's new—test it with me."Her laugh was shaky, heat flaring at the suggestion, and she shoved him back a step, playful but firm. "Work first.""Work's done." He tugged her toward the glass shower, his hand firm on her wrist, kicking the door open with his foot. "Approved. Now—test.""Zane—" Her protest died as he turned the water on, steam rising, the rain outside a distant echo as he pulled her inside—clothes and all, the spray soaking her tank, her leggings, plastering them to her skin. She gasped, the warm water shocking her senses, and he laughed, low and rough, stepping in after her, his tee clinging to his chest, his sweats dark and heavy."Asshole," she sputtered, shoving at him, but he caught her wrists, pinning them against the glass, his body pressing hers, the water cascading around them."Yours," he growled, his lips hovering over hers, his breath hot against her mouth as the steam thickened, fogging the glass. She moaned, soft and unrestrained, her hips rocking against his, feeling him—hard, insistent—through the wet fabric, a tease that made her tremble."Zane—" Her voice broke, her hands tugging free to fist in his tee, pulling him closer as he ground against her, slow and deliberate, the water amplifying every sensation—his hands sliding to her hips, gripping tight, her tank riding up to bare her stomach. His mouth found her neck, kissing the bruise, his teeth grazing as she arched, her leggings slick against her thighs, clinging to every curve."Fuck, Harper," he rasped, his lips brushing her jaw, his hands slipping under her tank, fingers splaying over her wet skin, teasing the edge of her bra. She whimpered, her legs parting to pull him tighter, the glass cool against her back, the water hot against her front, their bodies moving—slow, sensual, teetering on the edge."More," she panted, her voice husky, her hips bucking against him, chasing the heat, the tension coiling tight. He groaned, his hand tugging at her tank, lifting it higher, baring more skin as he rocked harder, the friction pushing her to the brink, clothes a maddening barrier.But then—damn it—he pulled back, his chest heaving, water dripping from his hair as he braced his hands on the glass, caging her in. "Fuck," he cursed, his forehead pressing to hers, his voice wrecked. "Not here. Not like this.""Zane—" Her protest was shaky, her body screaming, her hands clutching his shoulders, trying to drag him back."Trust," he rasped, echoing yesterday, his eyes locking onto hers, dark with hunger but steady with intent. "Slow. For us."Her breath caught, his restraint unraveling her, and she nodded, stepping out of his hold, her legs shaky as she turned off the water, steam curling around them. "You're impossible," she muttered, smoothing her soaked tank, her skin tingling where he'd touched."You're welcome." He smirked, dripping wet, his tee clinging to every muscle as he watched her grab her tablet, her clothes heavy with water. "Tomorrow, 8 a.m. Terrace tweaks. Dry this time.""No promises," she said, smirking back, heading for the elevator, her wet leggings leaving a trail, her body a live wire of frustration and want. "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—wet, rumpled, eyes blazing, steam fading behind him. Her apartment welcomed her with silence, the couch a poor substitute for his arms, but she sank into it, peeling off her soaked clothes, the shower replaying—his hands, his trust, the edge they'd teetered on. Tomorrow loomed, and she knew—damn it—she'd burn with him again.