Chapter 38: The Window’s Edge

Harper stepped into the penthouse Monday evening, the city's dusk spilling amber streaks across the hardwood, her body taut from a grueling day of deadlines and client revisions. The air still held a faint echo of Sunday's quiet—unpacking the last box with Zane Carver, their pasts weaving into the space, her head on his shoulder as rain loomed on the terrace. Now, as the clock ticked past 6:58 p.m., she kicked off her ankle boots by the door, the cool floor a jolt against her tired feet, her navy blazer creased from hours at her desk, her white blouse clinging to her skin, jeans scuffed from the subway's chaos. Work had clawed them back into its grip, and she felt the strain—a knot in her shoulders, a buzz in her mind, craving the release only he could spark.The space was alive—soft jazz humming from the speakers, the walnut table gleaming under pendant lights, flowers drooping in their vase, a silent nod to their weekend calm. She dropped her bag on the sectional, her hair loose and tangled from the wind, her fingers itching to unravel the day's tension. Zane wasn't home yet, his empire often stretching him thin into the evening, and she exhaled, sharp and unsteady, the quiet amplifying her restlessness, the penthouse theirs but incomplete without him.She padded to the kitchen, the matte-black island a sleek expanse under her palms—still faintly scratched from their Thursday conquest, a ghost of pasta water and moans etched into the marble. She poured a glass of Cabernet—deep red, bold, a match for the bruise on her neck, tender from his fading mark—and sipped, the wine sliding down her throat, rich and warm, loosening the day's edges but not enough. Leaning against the counter, she traced the glass's rim with her fingertip—cool crystal grounding her, her thoughts drifting to him—his smirk, his touch, the way he'd turn her chaos into fire.The elevator dinged at 7:14 p.m., and he stepped out—barefoot already, dark suit jacket slung over his shoulder, tie gone, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, scratched from her nails. His gray eyes locked onto her, glinting with exhaustion and a flicker of mischief, his hair tousled from a day of battles, and his smirk was instant—tight, edged, a promise laced with strain as he dropped his bag by the door, crossing to her in a stride that carried the weight of his day."Rough one?" she asked, her voice husky, setting the glass down with a soft clink—her hand brushing the island, a reflex as she met his gaze, reading the tension in his jaw, the storm behind his smirk."Fucking brutal," he replied, his voice low, rough—snagging her wine to take a long sip, his lips pressing where hers had been, his hand settling on her hip—a spark that sent heat racing up her spine, prickling her skin despite the fatigue. "Board meeting—assholes fighting over numbers. You?""Same." She leaned into his touch—her hand sliding to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thud through the crisp fabric, fast and uneven, a mirror to her own. "Client changed the brief—again. Redrew half the damn project.""Fuckers." He set the glass down—harder than needed, the clink sharp in the quiet—his hand tightening on her hip, pulling her closer—chest to chest, her blouse crumpling against his shirt, his breath warm against her temple, edged with frustration. "Dinner—let's eat, unwind.""Unwind?" She smirked—sharp, teasing—shoving at his chest, playful but firm—but he didn't budge, just grinned, his free hand catching her wrist, pinning it behind her as he backed her against the island, the marble biting her thighs through her jeans. "You're wound tight, Carver.""So are you," he shot back—his lips hovering over hers, a whisper apart, teasing—his breath hot with wine and want, his eyes darkening as they flicked over her—blouse, jeans, the bare shoulder where her blazer slipped. "Pasta—quick. I cook, you sit.""Bossy," she muttered—tugging her wrist free, her hands fisting his shirt—tugging him closer, her smirk matching his, a dare in her eyes. "I sauce—you boil. Don't fuck it up.""Deal." He stepped back—his hand brushing her ass as he turned to the stove—a fleeting spark that made her breath catch—grabbing a pot, filling it with water, the hiss of the tap loud in the quiet. She raided the fridge—garlic, tomatoes, basil—her movements swift, the jazz weaving through the air, a rhythm to their tension.They cooked—water bubbling, his knife slicing garlic with a rough edge, her hands crushing tomatoes into a pan, the sizzle of olive oil sharp and earthy, steam curling around her face. Their hips brushed—her elbow nudging his arm, his foot tapping hers—a dance of proximity that crackled, their banter sharp—her mocking his chopping, him jabbing at her sauce, laughter edged with the day's strain. She stirred—the heat rising, her sweater slipping off one shoulder—and he dumped pasta in, splashing water onto the counter, a grin flashing as she glared, playful but pointed."Amateur," she teased—flicking a basil leaf at him, the green sticking to his shirt—and he laughed—rough, tight—snagging her wrist, pulling her against him, the sauce simmering forgotten as his hands slid to her hips—gripping through the denim, a spark that flared into heat."Watch it," he growled—his voice dropping, backing her toward the window—the glass cool against her back through her blouse—his lips hovering over hers, teasing without closing the gap. "I'll take over—dinner and you.""Try it," she shot back—shoving at his chest—but he caught her hands—pinning them above her head against the glass, his body pressing hers—chest to chest, thigh to thigh—the city a glowing blur below, the air thickening with their game. Her breath hitched—her hips rocking against him, feeling him harden through his slacks—a tease that made her smirk falter, her resolve fraying."Fuck, Harper," he rasped—releasing her hands—his fingers sliding to her blouse—unbuttoning it slow, deliberate—baring her black lace bra, her skin flushed beneath—his eyes dark with hunger, raking over her like she was his to claim. She tugged at his shirt—popping buttons with a reckless snap—revealing his chest—scratched, sculpted, hers—her hands roaming, tracing muscle, the heat of his skin, a map she'd memorized."Zane—" Her voice broke—a gasp as he yanked her jeans down—rough, urgent—peeling them off with her panties, leaving her naked from the waist down—the glass cold against her ass, a shock that made her tremble. He shed his slacks—boxers following, kicking them aside—bare now, pulsing, ready—his hands gripping her hips—lifting her against the window, her legs wrapping around his hips—the edge biting her thighs as he pressed between them, the city lights smearing behind the glass."Love you," he growled—his lips crashing into hers—a kiss deep and desperate—tasting of wine and him, a claim that rattled the window as he thrust—slow, deep—entering her fully—filling her with a stretch that drew a cry from her throat—sharp, wild—echoing off the marble walls. She gasped—her legs tightening—pulling him closer—her nails digging into his shoulders—raking fresh marks as he moved—a rhythm that shook the glass—her moans spilling free—loud, shameless—drowning out the jazz, owning the night."Love you—fuck—" Her voice shattered—her hands fisting his hair—tugging hard—his lips on her neck—sucking the fading bruise—marking her anew as he thrust harder—deeper—the glass fogging with their heat—her body trembling, every thrust a jolt that unraveled her. He groaned—his hand sliding between them—fingers finding her—circling slow, firm—pushing her toward the edge with a precision that drove her wild—her climax building—a wave cresting in her core."Zane—shit—" Her cry broke—her spine bowing against the glass as he thrust faster—wilder—the window rattling—a smudge of her handprint streaking the surface—city lights blurring below. He flipped her—pressing her front to the glass—her breasts against the cold—nipples peaking—his hands gripping her hips as he entered her again—faster, rawer—his mouth on her shoulder—biting gently—then harder—a growl rumbling from his chest as she pushed back—meeting every thrust, the rhythm relentless."Harper—fuck—" His voice cracked—his lips brushing her ear—his hand sliding around—fingers circling again—firm, sure—pushing her over the edge as he thrust deep—the glass shaking—a faint creak of strain against their chaos. She shattered—her climax hitting hard—a scream tearing from her throat—raw, primal—as she clenched around him—pulsing, undone—her body trembling—her hands clawing at the glass—leaving streaks in the fog. He followed—a guttural roar as he buried himself in her—his release hot and fierce—his arms banding around her—pulling her back against him as they slumped—breathless, wrecked—against the window, the city a distant hum below.They stayed there—pressed to the glass—sweat-slicked, trembling—her legs still wrapped around him, his hands possessive on her hips—the air thick with heat, wine, and the faint tang of garlic from the forgotten sauce. He kissed her—slow, deep—tasting of them both—his tongue lingering, tracing her lips with a tenderness that softened the fire—grounding her in the aftermath. "Mine," he murmured—his voice rough, satisfied—his hand sliding to her jaw—holding her there—his thumb brushing her cheek—slick with sweat, a gentle claim in the calm."Yours," she panted—too spent to argue—her body still trembling with aftershocks as she leaned into him—the glass cool against her cheek—his heartbeat a steady thud under her palm—a rhythm she'd fight for, live for. "Asshole.""Love you too." He smirked—lazy, warm—easing her down—her legs shaky as he steadied her—the window streaked with their chaos, pasta water cold on the stove, jazz humming low beneath the wreckage. He grabbed a towel from the kitchen—soft, white—wiping her thighs with possessive care—his eyes glinting with mischief as he tossed it aside—turning back to her."Shower—food later," he said—his voice low—his hand sliding to her lower back—guiding her toward the ensuite—promising more in the way he held her—steady but simmering. She let him lead—her blouse half-on, his shirt a ruin on the floor—the day's tension burned away, the night theirs to reclaim.Tomorrow, they'd face work—life, fights, the next clash—but tonight, against their window, with his hands steady on her skin, she didn't care. They'd turned strain into fire, their love a wild, unshakable thing, and it was everything she'd feared and craved.