Chapter 25: The Final Frame

Harper woke Saturday morning in her Brooklyn apartment, the faint glow of dawn seeping through the blinds, her body still restless from yesterday's penthouse clash with Zane Carver. The memory of his hips pinning her to the office desk, their bodies grinding through clothes, her moans lost in the chaos—it clung to her 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 touch, his trust, the edge they'd danced on. Today, 6 a.m., final walkthrough at the penthouse, and she felt the pull—not just work, but the end of something, the start of more.She dressed with a tender edge: a soft gray sweater that slipped off one shoulder, fitted jeans, ankle boots—simple but hers, the sweater hugging her curves, a quiet tease she knew he'd catch. Her tablet held the final notes—every tweak locked in, the penthouse transformed—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 blur of anticipation, her pulse a steady thrum by the time she stepped into the penthouse elevator, the city waking under a golden sky.The doors opened at 6:02 a.m., and the space was alive—soft jazz drifting from the speakers, the scent of coffee and cinnamon wafting from the kitchen. Zane stood by the living room window, barefoot in dark jeans and a white tee, his hair tousled, his gray eyes lighting up as she walked in. The penthouse gleamed—walnut table with fresh flowers, matte-black kitchen island, terrace chairs basking in the dawn—and his smirk was soft, a promise of something deeper than mischief."Late again," he said, his voice a low drawl, crossing to her with a mug of coffee, handing it over with a grin. "Thought you'd leave me hanging.""Two minutes," she shot back, dropping her bag on the sectional, kicking off her boots with a smirk. "You're still here.""Barely." His gaze raked over her—the sweater, the jeans, lingering on her bare shoulder—before flicking back to her face. "Final walkthrough?"She nodded, sipping the coffee—rich, warm, grounding her—then set it down, pulling out her tablet. "Everything's in—kitchen, office, bedroom, terrace. Let's see it."He followed, a shadow at her side, as they moved through the space—kitchen island sleek and dark, office desk sharp with new shelves, bedroom silk sheets smoothed, terrace chairs sun-warmed. She checked off tweaks—lighting perfect, flow seamless—her vision brought to life, his trust in every detail. He watched her, not the rooms, his hand brushing hers as they paused by the dining table, the flowers a quiet echo of their shift."Looks good," he said, his voice low, steady, leaning against the table as she ticked the last box. "Better than good. You're a fucking genius.""Team effort," she replied, her shoulder grazing his arm—a subtle nudge that sparked heat despite her intent to keep it tame. "You signed off.""Barely." His hand slid to her lower back, lingering, pulling her closer. "You made it mine. Made it us."Her pulse jumped, his touch pulling her in, and she turned to face him, the air thickening, the city a golden hum beyond the glass. "Us?"He exhaled, sharp and unsteady, stepping into her space, his hands framing her face, thumbs brushing her jaw—a touch softer than his usual fire, but no less potent. "Yeah, us. This—" He gestured to the penthouse, to them—"It's done, Harper. Job's over. But I'm not done with you. I don't want to be."Her chest tightened, his words slicing through the heat, laying them bare. "Zane—" She leaned into his touch, her hands sliding to his chest, feeling his heartbeat under her palms. "What are you saying?""I'm saying I love you." His voice dropped, rough and raw, his eyes locking onto hers—fierce, unguarded, terrified. "Messy, real, permanent—I love you, Harper. Been falling since that damn shelf night. I need you to know that."Her throat closed, emotion crashing over her, and she gripped his tee, her voice trembling. "Zane—I love you too. Scared shitless, but I do. I'm in—all in.""Good." His smirk returned, relief flooding his face, and he pulled her against him, his lips crashing down—not a tease, a full kiss, deep and hungry, tasting of coffee and him. She moaned, loud and unrestrained, her hands fisting his shirt, tugging him closer as their tongues clashed, a dance of need and surrender."Fuck, Harper," he growled, breaking the kiss, his hands sliding to her hips, lifting her against the window, the glass cool against her back, her legs parting as he pressed between them. She gasped, the suddenness shocking her senses, and he grinned, low and rough, grinding against her—slow, deliberate, the friction sparking through her jeans."Zane—" Her voice broke, her hands clawing at his back, tugging his tee up to rake her nails over bare skin, drawing a groan from his throat. His mouth found her neck, kissing the fading bruise, his teeth grazing as she arched, her sweater slipping further, baring her shoulder for his lips to claim."Love you," he rasped, his lips brushing her jaw, his hands sliding under her sweater, fingers splaying over her bare stomach, teasing the edge of her bra. She whimpered, her legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him tighter, the glass rattling under their weight, the city a golden blur below."Love you," she panted, her voice husky, her hips bucking against him, chasing the heat, the tension coiling tight, clothes a maddening barrier. He groaned, his hand tugging at her sweater, lifting it higher, kissing the skin beneath as he rocked harder, pushing her to the brink, their breaths mingling—hot, desperate, a seal on their words."Fuck, you're everything," he muttered, his lips hovering over hers, teasing, tasting her moan as he thrust against her, the rhythm building—wild, raw, teetering on the edge. She laughed, shaky and needy, her hands fisting his hair, pulling him down, their mouths brushing—a deep, messy kiss that made her moan again, louder, the glass fogging behind her.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 here. Not like this.""Zane—" Her protest was shaky, her body screaming, her hands clutching his shoulders, trying to drag him back."First time," he rasped, his eyes locking onto hers, dark with hunger but steady with intent. "Not against a window. Bed—slow, real. For us."Her breath caught, his restraint unraveling her, and she nodded, sliding down, her legs shaky as she smoothed her sweater, her body a live wire of frustration and love. "You're impossible," she muttered, her skin tingling where he'd touched."You're welcome." He smirked, his tee rumpled, watching her grab her tablet, her boots. "Tonight, 8 p.m. Dinner—my place. No work.""No promises," she said, smirking back, heading for the elevator, her hips swaying deliberately, her sweater still askew. "See you, Carver.""Harper—" His voice stopped her, rough with promise as the doors opened. "You're mine—always.""Yours," she replied, stepping inside, the doors closing on his silhouette—tee rumpled, eyes blazing, the penthouse theirs 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 walkthrough replaying—his love, his heat, the future they'd claimed. Tonight loomed, and she knew—damn it—she'd burn with him again, this time for keeps.