Chapter 29: The Table Truth

Harper stood in the penthouse kitchen Sunday evening, the soft glow of pendant lights casting shadows over the matte-black island, her body still tingling from this afternoon's chaos with Zane Carver. The memory of his hips grinding her against the sectional, their clothes a maddening barrier, her moans lost in the clutter of moving boxes—it lingered like a pulse, a heat she couldn't shake. Now, as the last box sat unpacked by the door, she felt the shift—living together, loving together, a new rhythm settling in the space they'd made theirs.He leaned against the island, barefoot in dark jeans and a black tee, his hair tousled, his gray eyes tracking her as she plated takeout—sushi, dumplings, a bottle of sake already open. The walnut table gleamed nearby, flowers fresh, the penthouse a blend of her warmth and his edge, their home now. Her white tee hung loose over denim shorts, her shoulder bare from this morning's tussle, and she caught his smirk, warm and knowing, as he poured sake into small cups."Dinner at 9 p.m.," he said, his voice a low drawl, handing her a cup as she slid the plates onto the table, the wood cool under her fingers. "No interruptions this time.""Famous last words," she teased, sipping the sake—sharp, warm, loosening her edges—as she sat, her knee brushing his under the table, a spark that made her pulse jump. "Mover's gone. Boxes are done. Just us.""Good." He settled beside her, his arm slinging over the back of her chair, his hand resting near her shoulder, possessive but soft. "Love you here—mess and all.""Love you too," she replied, softer, her hand resting on his thigh, feeling the muscle tense under her touch as they ate—chopsticks clinking, sake flowing, the jazz humming low. The air thickened, their brushes deliberate—his foot nudging hers, her fingers grazing his arm, tension building with every quiet laugh, every shared glance.They finished, plates pushed aside, and he refilled her sake, his eyes locking onto hers—deep, searching, a shift from the day's playfulness. "Tell me something," he said, his voice dropping, serious now, his hand sliding to her neck, thumb brushing her pulse. "Before me—worst heartbreak. I've spilled mine. Your turn."Her chest tightened, the vulnerability catching her off guard, and she set her cup down, her hand covering his, holding it there. "You want the dirt?""Want you—all of you." His fingers tightened, gentle but firm, his gaze steady, waiting.She exhaled, sharp and unsteady, leaning back, her eyes drifting to the flowers—wild, like her past. "College. Sophomore year. Guy named Ryan—art major, all charm, no spine. Said he loved me, then fucked my roommate. Found them in my bed—my shitty twin bed. Broke me for a while."His jaw clenched, a flicker of anger in his eyes, but his hand slid to her jaw, tilting her face to his. "Fucking idiot. His loss.""Yeah." Her laugh was dry, her hand sliding up his arm, feeling the warmth there. "Took me a year to trust anyone after. Then you—asshole with a shelf—snuck in.""Snuck?" He smirked, pulling her closer, her chair scraping as she landed half in his lap, her legs tangling with his. "I crashed, Harper. You let me.""True." She smirked back, her hands fisting his tee, tugging him nearer, their lips hovering—a whisper apart, teasing. "Your turn—worst before Lauren."He groaned, his hands sliding to her hips, gripping through the denim, his forehead pressing to hers. "High school. Katie—cheerleader, first love. Dumped me for the quarterback after I got her a car—saved every dime for it. Crushed me."Her chest ached, his rawness hitting her, and she kissed him—soft, slow, tasting sake and him, a balm for old wounds. "Her loss," she murmured, breaking away, her hands sliding under his tee, baring his chest—hard, hot, hers."Fuck yes." His growl was rough, needy, and he stood, pulling her with him, his lips crashing into hers—a kiss deep and hungry, a claim that shook the table as he backed her against it, the wood cool against her thighs. She moaned, her hands tugging his shirt off, tossing it aside, her fingers raking his skin as he yanked her tee over her head, revealing bare skin—no bra, just her, trembling for him."Love you," he rasped, his hands sliding to her shorts, unbuttoning them, peeling them down with her panties in one swift move, leaving her naked, vulnerable, aching. She kicked them away, her hands fumbling with his jeans, shoving them off with his boxers, freeing him—sculpted, pulsing, ready—until they stood bare, pressed against the table, the flowers trembling beside them."Love you," she panted, her voice husky, climbing onto the table, pulling him with her, the wood creaking as he settled between her legs, his hands pinning her wrists above her head. His mouth found her neck, sucking hard, marking her anew as he thrust—slow, deep, entering her fully, filling her with a stretch that drew a cry from her throat."Zane—" Her voice broke, her legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him tighter as he moved, a rhythm that shook the table—silk-smooth wood against her back, his body hot against her front, their moans echoing off the marble. He released her wrists, his hands roaming—gripping her thighs, spreading her wider, his lips closing over her breast, sucking until she arched, a scream spilling free, loud enough to rattle the windows."Fuck, Harper," he groaned, his voice breaking, his hands sliding to her ass, lifting her as he thrust harder, deeper, the table groaning under their weight. She clawed at his back, her nails digging in, and he flipped her, pulling her to her knees, entering her again—faster, rawer—his mouth on her shoulder, biting as she pushed back, the flowers toppling, petals scattering around them."Zane—please—" Her plea shattered, desperate, and he reached around, fingers finding her, circling, pushing her to the edge as he thrust relentlessly, the table slamming against the floor. She shattered, her climax hitting hard, a scream tearing from her throat as she clenched around him, pulsing, undone. He followed, a guttural roar as he buried himself in her, his release hot and fierce, his arms banding around her as they collapsed, breathless, spent, the table a mess beneath them.They lay there, tangled in each other, petals stuck to their skin, the mirrors reflecting their wreckage—his hands possessive, her legs draped over him, sake cups tipped in the chaos. He kissed her—slow, deep, tasting of them both, a seal on their truth. "Mine," he murmured, his voice rough, satisfied, his hand sliding to her jaw, holding her there."Yours," she whispered, too wrecked to argue, her body still trembling with aftershocks as she curled into him, the wood cool against her cheek. He pulled her closer, his heartbeat steady under her palm, and she let herself sink, the past aired, the love complete—for now.Tomorrow, they'd face the week—work, fights, the life they'd build—but tonight, on their table, with his hands claiming her skin, she didn't care. They'd bared their souls and bodies, and it was everything she'd feared and craved.