Chapter 41: The Storm Before

Harper woke Wednesday morning in the penthouse master suite, the soft gray light of a cloudy sky seeping through the navy curtains, her body tangled in silk sheets beside Zane Carver. The air carried a faint whiff of last night's chaos—his hands lifting her onto the walnut table, petals scattering as he thrust into her, her screams echoing off the marble, their love a wild imprint on the wood. Her muscles ached deliciously, a tender soreness from their Tuesday fire, but the quiet was heavier today—a restless hum beneath the calm, a premonition she couldn't name, stirred by the week's rhythm of leaks and love.His arm rested across her waist, lighter than usual, his chest a steady wall against her back, his breath slow and even against her neck—a presence that anchored her despite the unease curling in her gut. She shifted, the silk sliding against her bare skin—cool, smooth, whispering against the fading bruises he'd left—and his hand tightened briefly, a reflex of possession even in sleep, before relaxing again. The clock glowed 6:17 a.m., a typical hour for their chaos, but she lay still, her eyes tracing the room—mirrors reflecting the rumpled sheets, the walnut nightstands she'd picked, the cream rug still askew from Saturday, the penthouse theirs in every creak and shadow.He stirred, his lips brushing her shoulder—soft, absent, a sleepy gesture that sent a shiver down her spine, prickling her skin with a quiet warmth. "Morning," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, thick and low, rolling over her like a gentle tide as he cracked his gray eyes open, glinting with a softness that sharpened into concern as he caught her stillness. "You're quiet—what's up?""Dunno," she replied, her voice husky—rolling to face him, her bare skin brushing his—warm, familiar, a comfort that steadied her despite the flicker of doubt. "Feels… off. Work, maybe—this week's been a grind.""Same." His smirk flickered—faint, strained—and he pulled her closer—chest to chest, her legs tangling with his under the silk, his hand sliding to her lower back—fingers splaying wide, pressing her against him with an ease that sparked heat beneath her unease. "Client's riding my ass—big deal's teetering. Tonight'll be late.""Late?" Her brow arched—irritation flaring, the day's weight pressing harder—and she shoved at his chest—playful but pointed—breaking his hold as she slid from the sheets, the silk falling away to bare her body—flushed, marked, hers to wield. "Figures—my deadline's brutal too. We're ships passing now?""Not passing." He sat up—the sheets pooling at his waist, his chest bare, scratched from her nails—his gaze raking over her—slow, deliberate—lingering on her hips, her thighs, a hunger banked but alive. "Colliding—always." He stood—naked, sculpted—crossing to her, his hands settling on her hips—a spark that reignited embers, grounding her in the moment.She smirked—grabbing a robe—soft gray cotton, his, too big but hers—tying it loose as she padded to the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the hardwood, the cool floor a jolt against her warm skin. He followed—tugging on dark sweats—leaving his chest bare, a sight that made her pulse jump despite the strain, a reminder of their fire ever-present. The jazz hummed low—he flicked the remote—and the kitchen welcomed them—matte-black island gleaming, walnut table still scarred from their Tuesday chaos, petals swept away but the memory etched deep.They made coffee—black for him, cream for her—his hands brushing hers as he handed her a mug—a spark that flickered, a quiet intimacy in the routine. They sipped—leaning against the counter, shoulders touching—her robe slipping off one shoulder, baring the bruise he'd left, a mark that felt heavier today. "Tonight," she said—her voice low—"we need… us. After the grind.""Agreed." His hand slid to her neck—thumb brushing her pulse, a slow stroke that steadied her—"Dinner—here. I'll cook—late, but ours."She nodded—her laugh dry—shoving at his arm—playful, light—"Don't burn it, Carver." They parted—showering, dressing—her in a fitted blazer and trousers, him in a dark suit—tie loose, their hands brushing as they moved, a dance of tension and promise, the day looming ahead.Work hit hard—her sketching through revisions, his meetings dragging into dusk—texts sparse, a lifeline stretched thin. By 9:47 p.m., she stepped into the penthouse—rain streaking the windows, the city a blur of lights—her blazer soaked, her hair dripping, exhaustion warring with need as she kicked off her shoes, the hardwood cool and slick under her feet. The space was quiet—no jazz, just the faint hum of the stove—and Zane stood in the kitchen—shirt sleeves rolled up, a pan sizzling, his hair tousled, his smirk tight as he glanced up, gray eyes glinting with fatigue and relief."Rain?" he asked—his voice rough—crossing to her, his hand brushing her wet hair back—a spark that sent heat racing through her despite the chill."Fucking deluge," she muttered—shrugging off her blazer, tossing it onto the sectional—her blouse clinging to her skin, translucent from the wet—her hands trembling as she stepped closer, craving his warmth. "You?""Deal's fucked—client pulled out." His jaw tightened—his hand settling on her hip—pulling her against him—chest to chest—her wet blouse soaking his shirt, his breath warm against her temple. "Steak's almost done—wine's open."She nodded—grabbing the bottle—Pinot Noir, deep and bold—pouring two glasses, her hands unsteady as she handed him one—his fingers brushing hers, a spark that flared into heat. They ate—steak rare, potatoes crisp—the walnut table a quiet anchor, their knees brushing under it, tension simmering beneath their bites, rain drumming harder against the glass, a storm brewing outside and in."Today sucked," she said—setting her fork down—her voice low—leaning back, her blouse gaping slightly—baring lace beneath—her eyes locking onto his, searching. "We're fraying—feel it?""Yeah." He exhaled—sharp, unsteady—his hand sliding to her knee—warm through her trousers—his thumb brushing her skin, a tether in the strain. "Work's a bitch—but we're not."Her chest tightened—his words hitting deep—and she stood—crossing to him—her hands fisting his shirt—tugging him up—her lips hovering over his—a whisper apart, teasing. "Prove it," she murmured—her voice husky—shoving at his chest—backing him toward the table, the rain a steady roar beyond the glass."Fuck, Harper," he growled—his hands sliding to her blouse—unbuttoning it—rough, urgent—baring her bra—black lace, soaked—his eyes dark with hunger as he peeled it off, tossing it aside—her skin flushed, trembling. She yanked at his shirt—buttons popping—revealing his chest—scratched, hers—her hands roaming—tracing muscle, the heat of his skin, a map she'd claimed."Zane—" Her voice broke—a gasp as he shoved her trousers down—panties following—leaving her naked—the hardwood cool under her feet—rain streaking the windows behind her. He shed his slacks—boxers kicked away—bare now, pulsing, ready—his hands gripping her hips—lifting her onto the table—the wood cold against her ass, the edge biting her thighs as he stepped between them, plates rattling beside her."Love you," he rasped—his lips crashing into hers—a kiss deep and desperate—tasting of wine and him—his tongue plunging, claiming—a heat 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. She moaned—her legs wrapping around his hips—pulling him tighter—her nails raking his shoulders—fresh marks blooming as he moved—a rhythm that creaked the wood—plates sliding, a glass tipping—wine spilling red across the surface, pooling around her."Love you—fuck—" Her voice shattered—her hands fisting his hair—tugging hard—his lips on her neck—sucking the bruise—marking her anew as he thrust harder—deeper—the table slick with sweat and wine—her moans loud, shameless—cutting through the rain's roar. He groaned—his hand sliding between them—fingers circling—slow, firm—pushing her toward the edge—her climax coiling tight, a wave ready to break."Zane—shit—" Her cry broke—her spine bowing as he thrust faster—wilder—the table groaning—a leg wobbling—wine dripping to the floor—rain a blur beyond the glass. She flipped him—straddling him on the table—her hands pinning his wrists—riding him with a ferocity that drew a roar from his throat—raw, primal—plates clattering off the edge—shattering on the hardwood—chaos matching the storm outside."Harper—fuck—" His voice cracked—his hands breaking free—gripping her ass—guiding her—urging her on as she rode him harder—the table sliding—an inch, then two—wood scraping—the rain a deafening drum against their fire. She shattered—her climax hitting hard—a scream tearing from her throat—wild, unrestrained—as she clenched around him—pulsing, undone—her body trembling—her hands clawing his chest—sweat mixing with wine. He followed—a guttural roar as he thrust up—his release hot, fierce—his arms banding around her—pulling her down as they collapsed—breathless, wrecked—tangled on the table, shards glinting below.They lay there—sprawled across the walnut—sweat-slicked, trembling—wine pooling beneath her, glass shards scattered—the air thick with heat, rain, and the tang of steak grease—rain hammering the windows, a storm raging outside. He kissed her—slow, deep—tasting of them—his tongue lingering, tracing her lips with a tenderness that softened the fire—grounding her in the wreckage. "Mine," he murmured—his voice rough—his hand sliding to her jaw—holding her—his thumb brushing her cheek—slick with sweat and wine."Yours," she panted—too spent to argue—her body trembling with aftershocks—leaning into him—the wood cool against her cheek—his heartbeat a steady thud—a rhythm she'd fight for. "Asshole.""Love you too." He smirked—lazy, warm—easing her off—her legs shaky as he steadied her—the table a ruin—wine-stained, scratched—plates broken below—rain a steady hum beyond their chaos. He grabbed a towel—soft, white—wiping her thighs—his eyes glinting with mischief—promising more."Shower—bed," he said—his voice low—guiding her toward the ensuite—his hand possessive on her hip—the storm outside a mirror to their fire within. She let him lead—her blouse a wet heap, his shirt torn—the night theirs, raw and real.Tomorrow loomed—work, fallout, a call that would change everything—but tonight, on their table, with his hands steady on her skin, she didn't care. The storm had hit—inside and out—and their love burned through it, wild and unshakable, setting the stage for the end.