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Chapter 11 - CHAPTER TEN

Elise's POV

Elise stepped into the art room, heart thudding.

She hadn't meant to end up here again, not dressed like this — hair still damp, robe brushing the tops of her thighs, thin nightdress clinging to her curves and exposing her cleavage— but the silence of the house was deafening in her ears, she needed to distract herself. Carter had left again, without a word, probably with her.

Isabella.

The name tasted bitter.

She'd spent five hours waiting. Five hours lying on the bed in nothing but silk and hope, guilt gnawing at her stomach like a starving beggar. She thought if she could touch him — please him — maybe it would ease the sin of wanting his father.

But Carter never came.

So she rose. Her legs carried her through the hall, silent on marble tiles, her thoughts were spiraling with each step. Maybe she just needed to stand in the art room again, to smell the clay and paint, to remind herself that she was herself before she ever belonged to anyone else.

She wasn't looking for anything. At least, that's what she told herself.

Until she opened the door. She froze after barely taking a step in.

The scent of paint, oils, clay — and something deeper, darker, masculine — hit her first.

Then she saw him.

Alexander.

He was already there.

He stood by the window, drink in hand, watching the sky as though it held the answer to something unspeakable.

He turned the second she entered

He looked like a man who'd been waiting for her all night. Shirt half-unbuttoned, collar open, sleeves rolled to the elbows exposing his beautiful swirl of ink, chest littered with dried paint and muscle.

The silence between them charged the air like lightning about to strike. His eyes dropped, slowly, to the curve of her bare collarbone, the flesh of thigh visible beneath her robe. His gaze slid down her body like a brushstroke — slow, deliberate, possessive

She stopped breathing.

Then back to her face.

Their eyes locked.

He didn't look away.

Neither did she.

No words. Just that quiet, burning pull — like gravity but sharper, like the seconds before a storm breaks.

Then he moved.

Crossing the room like he owned it. Like he owned her.

He stopped inches away, close enough that her bare thighs brushed his pants, that she could feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of her robe.

She stepped further into the room, heartbeat wild, shutting the door behind her.

His fingers lifted, brushing the hem of the silk with barely a touch.

"You shouldn't walk around like that," he said, voice low, hoarse.

Her robe slipped from her shoulder, exposing more skin than modesty would allow. But modesty had stopped mattering days ago. "Why not?"

His jaw tensed. "Because I might do something I'll never be able to take back."

Her breath caught as the robe slipped off her shoulder even more, exposing more of the swell of her breast. She watched as his throat bobbed and eyes darkened at the sight.

Alexander's jaw clenched. His hands slid to her waist, firm, commanding. He dragged her closer until there was no space left between them.

"Maybe I don't want you to take it back," she said softly.

That broke something.

In a breath, Alexander was on her.

His mouth didn't claim hers — not yet — but it found the hollow of her throat, hot and open, grazing over her skin.

His lips were hot and possessive. His hands tightened on her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she gasped, breath hitching as his teeth grazed her skin. Her fingers sank into his hair, tugging gently, grounding herself.

He pressed her against the wall, the cool wood biting into her back as heat bloomed low in her belly.

"You were mine," he growled into her skin, "before you even knew it."

His paint-stained hands roamed, teasing the tie of her robe, slipping inside, not rushing, savoring.

She moaned as his lips traced down her collarbone, lingering on the side of her breast, then further, brushing along her ribs.

A soft gasp escaped her lips as his tongue flicked once, then again, before his teeth nipped the curve of her neck. She grabbed onto his shoulders to steady herself, already burning.

"I've wanted you since the second you looked at me," he growled, voice low against her clavicle. "You were mine before you even knew it."

She didn't answer.

She couldn't.

The nightdress barely covered her thighs — sheer, thin, dangerous — and Alexander made a sound that rumbled deep in his chest. Her robe fell to the floor in a beautiful bundle of silk.

His hands touched everywhere— her waist, hips, lower back. Touching, never rushing.

Then he turned her.

Lifted her.

Set her on the wide art table with one swift motion, his body caging hers.

Paint jars rattled. A brush fell to the floor.

He knelt slightly, brushing his nose against her stomach, sliding the nightwear open further, baring her to him. His hands roaming over the smooth flesh of her thighs, the underside of her breasts, the dip of her back.

He didn't ask permission.

She didn't need to give it.

"You're beautiful," he murmured. "But it's more than that. You feel alive in my hands. You don't hide."

But he didn't take her.

Not yet.

Instead, he kissed her hip, slow and teasing, like he was worshipping her. His fingers danced across her thighs, up and down, building tension until her knees nearly buckled.

His tongue flicked across the inside of her knee, trailing fire.

She whimpered, legs instinctively spreading as his mouth moved up, his hands gripping her thighs to steady her.

"You ache to be seen," he whispered, lips tracing the edge of her silk underwear. "To be touched, cherished. But he doesn't see you, does he?"

"No," she whispered. "Not like you do."

"Say you want this," he murmured.

"I want this," she breathed.

His lips pressed just beneath her navel.

Then lower.

And lower still.

He never touched where she craved him most — not yet — but the air between them sparked with a promise.

Her hands tangled in his hair, hips rocking gently against his hold, soft, needy sounds falling from her lips. His mouth found her inner thigh and lingered there, hands gripping her legs as he stared up at her, devouring her with his gaze.

But then — he stopped.

She opened her eyes, breathless. "Why are you stopping?"

Then he stood, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her from that table.

They stumbled toward the center of the room where a familiar table stood, the same one where they'd painted hours ago. The memory of intimacy, of laughter, of stolen glances returned.

Now, it was hot. Burning heat

He bent her over the table, not to take her—not yet—but to explore her. His lips found the curve of her spine, his hands sliding along her ribs, teasing, coaxing.

She whimpered. "Alexander..."

He turned her around, lifted her onto the edge of the table, pulled her close by the hips. Their faces inches apart, his breath hot against her lips.

"I want to kiss you," he said, voice breaking.

She leaned in, eyes fluttering closed.

But his lips found her jaw instead, then her throat, then the swell of her breast.

Every touch set her skin ablaze.

Her hands slipped beneath his shirt, feeling the strength of his body, the tension. He groaned when her fingers traced the scar on his side.

"If I kiss you now," he whispered into her ear, "I won't stop."

"Then don't stop," she whispered back.

But he did.

He pulled away suddenly, breath ragged, eyes burning. His hand cradled her cheek. His thumb swept over her lips, and she leaned forward, trying to close the distance.

To kiss him.

"Please," she whispered. "I want to—"

But he pulled back.

"No," he said softly.

Her eyes widened in confusion, shame threatening to wash over her.

He stroked her jaw with the back of his fingers.

"When I kiss you," he murmured, "it won't be out of guilt. Or confusion. Or loneliness."

He leaned in until his forehead touched hers, his voice a husky growl.

"When I kiss you, Elise… you'll be mine. Not my son's wife. Not a woman who's doubting herself. But a woman who had made her choice. Who's ready to submit to every part of what I want to give her."

He leaned down and pressed a long, burning kiss to her shoulder. Then another to the side of her throat. Her pulse was wild, body shaking, fingers digging into his arms.

"Do you want me to stop?" he whispered.

"No," she breathed, already undone.

He slid her nightdress up to her hips, his mouth painting a trail along her inner thigh, stopping just where she needed him most.

But he didn't touch.

Again.

"I'm going to leave you aching," he said, voice dark and deep. "Because I want you to know what it feels like to crave me. The way I've craved you."

And then he moved her panties aside and his mouth moved.

And she shattered.

Falling back on the table, breathless, legs trembling, clutching at him like he was the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

His tongue worshipped her like she was the most delicious meal ever made. Like he was a starved, caged beast.

He didn't stop until she was sobbing his name, until her body shook again and again beneath his hands.

"Oh, Alex…" she whispered as she climaxed under his touch

When it was over, when she lay wrecked and glowing, he pressed a kiss just above her heart.

"When I take you," he whispered, lips brushing her skin, "and I will… I want you to beg for it."

Her heart stuttered.

"But not yet," he said. "When you're mine completely. Without his ring on your finger."

He wrapped her robe back around her, hands lingering too long, then kissed the top of her shoulder—tender, intimate.

He rose, slowly, deliberately, towering over her.

But before she could speak —

The slam of a car door outside.

Both their heads turned.

Alexander straightened immediately, body becoming tense.

Carter.

Alexander stepped back, face hardening with restraint. Elise sat frozen, hair a mess, skin flushed.

"Carter," he muttered.

He helped her down gently, smoothing her nightdress, brushing back her hair.

"Go to your room," Alexander said, voice tight. "I'll cover for you."

She nodded dizzy, still trembling.

She slipped out of the room on quiet feet, worries forgetting, heart thundering.

But as she reached her door, fingers on the knob, she paused.

Because the worst part wasn't what they'd done.

It wasn't the touches. The moans. The intimacy that had burned her from the inside out.

It was that she didn't regret it.

Not a single second.

And that terrified her most of all.

The last thing she heard as she slipped into the bedroom was the front door opening.

And her heart still beating for the man she should never have touched.

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