Chapter Ten

The quiet click of the door made Ralph turn. He'd been standing near the window, hands shoved into his pockets, the weight of the night coiled in his chest. But when she stepped into the suite, he forgot how to breathe.

She didn't say anything at first, she just closed the door gently behind her. Her hair was swept to one side, exposing her shoulder, and the silky emerald gown hugged her body like it was made for no one else. His jaw slackened, not from lust alone—but from awe.

She moved slowly toward the dresser, unhurried, as if she didn't notice the storm she'd just walked into. His eyes traced every inch of her—the delicate arch of her back, the way the slit revealed one long leg with each step, the shimmer of her skin under the suite's soft lights.

She didn't look at him, but she knew he was staring. "I just needed to take off my heels," she said quietly. "They were starting to hurt." Her voice was calm, but there was something trembling underneath.

She bent slightly, fingers working the straps, and Ralph swallowed hard.

"You look…" he tried, but the words fell apart. She stood upright again, barefoot now, and finally met his eyes. "I look?" she asked softly.

He took a breath. "Like a dream I don't deserve to have." That made her pause. Her lips parted, uncertain. He took a step toward her, then another. "I've never seen you in a gown before," he said. "I didn't know… I didn't know it could be this hard to think."

She held his gaze. Her chest rose and fell a little faster. He reached up, gently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "You take my breath, Alison," he murmured. "Every time you walk in the room, I forget everything else exists."

She didn't answer. Just looked at him, eyes wide and unreadable. His hand drifted to her waist. She didn't stop him. "I keep trying to stay away from you," he whispered. "But it's impossible."

She leaned in slightly, her breath brushing his cheek. "Then stop trying." The kiss that followed was slow, molten. No fire, no war—just surrender. His hands slid along her back, pulling her flush against him. Her fingers curled around his shirt.

When he kissed her neck, she shivered. The straps of her gown slipped a little from her shoulder. She didn't fix them. He kissed her harder. The air thickened.

She turned in his arms, her back to his chest now, and he held her from behind, burying his face in the crook of her neck. His lips brushed her skin, slow and aching. "Tell me to stop," he whispered. She didn't.

His hand found the zipper at the side of her gown. He tugged it down an inch. Then another. Her breathing hitched. She turned to face him again. Her eyes were glossy now, her lips red from his mouth. "Don't touch me because you feel guilty," she said, voice low. "Don't undress me just to forget what you've done." He froze.

Pain flickered in his expression. "I'm not," he whispered. "I just want to… feel you. But I'll stop if that's what you need." She looked down, then back up at him. "I need to know I'm not just a moment to you." "You're not," he said fiercely. "You're everything." Her chest tightened.

She reached for his hand and squeezed it once, then let go. "Then wait for me." And just like that, she stepped away, walked slowly toward the bathroom. The gown still half-undone. His hands still shaking. And his heart, somehow heavier than before.

The suite was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the occasional rustle of silk when she turned in her bed. Ralph lay on his side, fully awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it held answers to questions he wasn't brave enough to ask.

He shouldn't be feeling this. Not this deep, this often, this bad.

He should've let her take the other suite. Fought harder with the manager. Or at least kept his distance when they walked into the room, when her heels clicked softly on marble, when she slipped off her earrings with that tired grace and disappeared into the bathroom. When she came out minutes later in nothing but that robe—barefoot, soft-skinned, undone.

He clenched his jaw.

It wasn't even the way she looked. It was the way he felt. Like he'd forgotten how to breathe.

He turned slightly, eyes shifting toward the second bed. She was facing away from him now, blanket drawn high, her silhouette rising and falling with every soft breath. His gaze lingered on the slope of her waist, the curve beneath the sheets, the quiet stillness of her.

He remembered the balcony. The way her voice cracked when she said he made her feel like trash. He remembered her eyes when she told him to act human. And fuck, he was trying.

But everything inside him burned.

Not just for her body—but for the way she stood her ground. For the fact that she didn't crumble, didn't beg, didn't chase. She just… let him feel the weight of what he'd done. And it made him want her more.

His fingers curled against the sheets.

He thought about getting up. About walking to her. Just standing there, close enough to feel her warmth. Maybe whispering her name, seeing if she was really asleep or just lying there too—heart racing, throat tight, like him.

But he didn't move.

He just stared. Wanting her. Hating himself. Wanting her again. He would give anything to reach for her and not ruin it.

The curtains were still drawn, the world outside quiet, wrapped in a pale blush of early light. Alison stirred beneath the sheets, the silk of her nightdress clinging to one thigh as she rolled slowly to the side. The bed was big. She didn't remember when Ralph had gotten up.

A knock came, soft—then the door creaked open. She blinked. He stepped in, already dressed in a simple black shirt and tailored slacks, sleeves rolled, collar undone. His hair still damp from a shower. He was holding a tray.

"I ordered breakfast," he said quietly. "Didn't want to wake you."

She sat up slowly, the sheets falling to her waist. Her hair was tousled, her eyes heavy with sleep. He stared a second too long. Then looked away and set the tray on the small table near the window.

She rose, padded barefoot toward him. The gown brushed her ankles, hugged her hips. He didn't hide the way he looked this time. The way his eyes followed the lazy movement of silk across her skin. She felt it. And didn't rush.

"Thanks," she murmured.

He didn't answer. Just held her gaze.

Outside, the city was stretching awake. Inside, the air pulsed like something held too long between teeth. He pulled out the chair for her. She sat. He sat across. The tray held croissants, fresh fruit, coffee in tiny porcelain cups. But neither of them reached for anything.

"I didn't sleep much," he said finally.

She sipped the coffee. "Why?"

He watched her lips against the rim. "I was thinking about last night."

She looked at him, but said nothing.

"I meant what I said."

"I know." But she did not know how to reply.

His jaw shifted. "I don't regret wanting you, Alison. I only regret making you feel like I didn't."

The silence that followed wasn't heavy this time. It was warm. Filled with the quiet hum of something changing. Something slow.

She stood to clear her plate, fingers curling around the porcelain cup, but as she reached, he reached too. Their hands brushed—warm, hesitant, deliberate. She paused. Her fingers didn't move away. Neither did his. Just a breath passed between them. A charged stillness.

Her eyes lifted, locking with his.

He didn't speak. Didn't ask. He just leaned in, so close she could feel the whisper of his breath against her mouth, and then—he kissed her.

Not with hunger.

With reverence.

His lips brushed hers like he was tasting a memory he'd nearly forgotten. Warm, firm, unhurried. She stood still, breath shallow, eyes fluttering closed as his mouth moved over hers with a tenderness that made her knees weaken. It wasn't just a kiss—it was a question. An apology. A quiet plea to be let in again.

He deepened it slowly, one hand rising to graze the side of her neck, thumb stroking beneath her jaw. She melted into him before she even realized it—leaning, sighing, letting the kiss pull her under. The world fell away. No car. No knock. No past. Just the softness of his mouth and the way her body responded to him like it remembered everything, even the parts she'd tried to forget.

He pulled back a fraction, just to breathe, forehead resting lightly against hers. She didn't open her eyes. Didn't speak.

He whispered, voice rough with restraint, "Alison…"

But the knock came then, cruel and jarring, cutting through the moment like a blade.

They froze.

Another knock. "Mr. Lauren? The car is ready, sir."

She stepped back first. Breathless. Heart racing. Her lips tingled from the kiss and her fingers trembled where they still held the coffee cup.

He didn't speak. Just looked at her like he hated letting her go.

She didn't let herself look back as she turned, walked to the wardrobe, and picked up her shawl.

Her voice, when it came, was soft. "We should go."

He nodded once, jaw clenched, hands still aching from not pulling her closer.

But neither of them would forget that kiss.