By the time they reached the penthouse, Ella's heels had been discarded somewhere between the elevator and the hallway, and Nicholas had his hand on her lower back, possessive and guiding, like he couldn't trust her to walk straight—or maybe he didn't trust himself not to shove her against the nearest wall.
He barely managed to get the door shut before he was crowding her inside, their bodies flush, her back pressed to it as his lips descended onto hers—hungry, claiming, filled with the kind of desperation that had been simmering between them for far too long.
The slam of the door echoed through the space, but Nicholas didn't care. He didn't care about the sound, or the view from the windows, or the fact that his jacket was somewhere on the floor and her lipstick was smeared across both their mouths.
All he cared about was her.
His Ella.
His problem. His obsession. His undoing.
