Chapter 40: The Table’s Turn

Harper stepped into the penthouse Tuesday evening, the city's twilight casting a soft glow across the hardwood, her body still humming from the morning's quiet chaos with Zane Carver. The memory of their teamwork—mopping the ensuite, his hand steady on her back as they faced the leak—lingered like a warm pulse, a tenderness that had settled deep after a day of work pulled them apart. Now, as the clock ticked past 7:02 p.m., she kicked off her ankle boots by the door, the cool floor a balm against her tired feet, her navy blouse creased from hours at her desk, jeans hugging her thighs, her hair loose and slightly mussed from the subway's wind.The space was alive—soft jazz drifting from the speakers, the walnut table gleaming under pendant lights, flowers drooping in their vase, a silent nod to their past chaos on its surface. The leak was fixed—maintenance had left hours ago, the ensuite dry, the penthouse theirs again—and she exhaled, sharp and unsteady, dropping her bag on the sectional, craving the spark only he could ignite after a day of sketches and client calls. The air felt lighter, the drip silenced, but a restless energy buzzed beneath her skin, a need to reconnect in the stillness they'd reclaimed.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 their fire etched into the marble. She poured a glass of Pinot Noir—deep, ruby-red, 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 knots, her thoughts drifting to him—his smirk, his touch, the way he turned her quiet into chaos.The elevator dinged at 7:19 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 a mix of fatigue and mischief, his hair tousled from a day of battles, and his smirk was instant—warm, wicked, a promise that made her pulse jump as he dropped his bag by the door, crossing to her in a stride that carried the day's weight and shed it in her presence."Fixed?" he asked, his voice low, rough—snagging her wine to take a slow sip, his lips brushing where hers had been, his hand settling on her hip—a spark that sent heat racing up her spine, prickling her skin with anticipation."Yeah," she replied, her voice husky—leaning into his touch, her hand sliding to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thud through the crisp fabric, steady and strong, a rhythm she craved. "Dry as a bone—maintenance earned their pay.""Good." He set the glass down—soft, deliberate—his hand tightening on her hip, pulling her closer—chest to chest, her blouse crumpling against his shirt, his breath warm against her temple, a quiet heat simmering beneath his calm. "Missed you—too quiet without your mess.""Mess?" 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 toward the living room, the jazz swelling around them, a rhythm that matched her pulse. "You're the one breaking shit.""Worth it." His lips hovered 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 sleeve slipped. "Dance with me—unwind.""Dance?" She laughed—dry, playful—tugging her wrist free, her hands fisting his shirt—tugging him closer, her smirk matching his, a dare in her eyes. "You don't dance, Carver.""Try me." He stepped back—his hand sliding to hers, lacing their fingers—pulling her into the open space by the sectional, the hardwood cool under her feet as he spun her—slow, deliberate—into his arms, his chest pressing her back, his hands settling on her hips, guiding her to sway with the jazz—low, sultry, a beat that sank into her bones.Her breath hitched—his touch igniting embers, the slow grind of their bodies sparking heat—and she leaned into him—her head tipping back against his shoulder, his breath warm on her neck as they moved—hip to hip, a dance that wasn't about steps but connection, a reclaiming of their space after the day's strain. The music wove through the air—saxophone curling, drums pulsing—and she turned in his arms—facing him, her hands sliding to his shoulders—fingers digging in, feeling the muscle tense under her touch, a map she knew by heart."Love you," he murmured—his voice rough—his lips brushing her jaw—not a kiss, a tease that made her tremble—his hands sliding under her blouse—fingers splaying over her bare back, pressing her closer, the heat of his skin seeping through her lace bra. She moaned—soft, needy—her hips rocking against him—feeling him harden through his slacks—a tease that unraveled her resolve, the jazz fading into their rhythm."Love you too," she panted—her voice husky—her hands tugging at his shirt—unbuttoning it slow, deliberate—baring his chest—scratched, sculpted, hers—her fingers tracing the lines of muscle, the warmth of his skin, a canvas of their chaos. He growled—low, rough—his hands sliding to her jeans—unbuttoning them—peeling them down with her panties in one swift move—leaving her naked from the waist down, the hardwood cool against her feet, a shock that made her gasp."Zane—" Her voice broke—a moan as he shed his shirt—tossing it aside—his slacks following, boxers kicked away—leaving him bare—pulsing, ready—his hands gripping her hips, lifting her onto the walnut table—the wood cold against her ass, the edge biting her thighs as he stepped between them, the flowers trembling beside her. She yanked her blouse off—bra following—tossing them to the floor—fully nude now, flushed, trembling—her legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer, the table creaking under her weight."Fuck, Harper," he rasped—his lips crashing into hers—a kiss deep and desperate—tasting of wine and him, a claim that shook the table 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 nails digging into his shoulders—raking fresh marks as he moved—a rhythm that rattled the vase—petals scattering, the jazz a distant hum beneath their chaos."Zane—shit—" 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 wood slick with their sweat—her moans spilling free—loud, shameless—owning the night. 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, threatening to crash."Love you—fuck—" His growl broke—his lips brushing her ear—his hands gripping her ass—lifting her higher—thrusting faster—wilder—the table groaning—a petal sticking to her thigh—city lights smearing beyond the glass. She flipped him—pushing him back—straddling him on the table—her hands pinning his wrists above his head—triumphant, fierce—her hips rocking against him—slow, deliberate—then faster—riding him with a ferocity that drew a roar from his throat—loud, primal—a sound that shook the room."Harper—yes—" His voice cracked—his hands breaking free—gripping her hips—guiding her—urging her on as she rode him harder—the table sliding—an inch, then two—petals scattering—vase tipping, rolling to the floor with a soft thud—water pooling around it. She shattered—her climax hitting hard—a scream tearing from her throat—raw, unrestrained—as she clenched around him—pulsing, undone—her body trembling—her hands white-knuckling his shoulders—sweat dripping onto his chest. He followed—a guttural roar as he thrust up—burying himself in her—his release hot and fierce—his arms banding around her—pulling her down against him as they collapsed—breathless, wrecked—tangled on the table, flowers crushed beneath them.They lay there—sprawled across the walnut—sweat-slicked, trembling—petals stuck to their skin, vase water pooling on the hardwood—the air thick with heat, wine, and the faint tang of basil from Thursday's ghost. 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 curled into him—the wood 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—rolling them so she lay beneath him—his body a shield—his arms bracketing her—his lips brushing her forehead—a soft seal on their table-turned chaos. The wood creaked—petals fluttering to the floor—and he pulled her closer—chest to chest, legs tangled—jazz humming low beneath the wreckage, city lights a distant glow beyond the glass."Shower—food later," he said—his voice low—his hand sliding down her back—tracing her spine with a featherlight touch that made her shiver—reigniting embers she thought were doused. She nodded—her laugh shaky—her hand resting on his chest—feeling his heartbeat quicken—a promise of more as the night stretched before them, quiet and theirs.Tomorrow, they'd face work—life, fights, the next test—but tonight, on their table, with his hands steady on her skin, she didn't care. The day's strain had melted into fire, their love a wild, unshakable thing, and it was everything she'd feared and craved.