The door clicked shut behind them.
For a second, neither of them moved.
The muffled sounds of the reception—the music, the laughter, the clink of glasses—faded into a distant hum. Up here, on the top floor of the boutique hotel Elena had insisted on (“You’ll need one night away from my tart crumbs,” she’d said), it was just them.
Mara’s fingers tangled uselessly in the strap of her slip.
Liam stood a few feet away, jacket off, tie already discarded, shirt open at the collar. He looked…wrecked in the best way. A man who’d run an emotional marathon and somehow still had enough left to look at her like *that*.
Like she was the only thing anchoring him to the room.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
She huffed out a breath. “If you ask me that one more time, I’m putting it in the divorce clause.”
His mouth curved. “You can’t divorce me on our wedding night,” he said. “PR would never recover.”
“PR will be fine,” she muttered. “They eat scandal for breakfast.”
He took a step toward her. Then another.
Her pulse stuttered, rabbit-fast.
They’d kissed before. Hard. Hungry. Enough to leave her shaking.
This felt…different.
Bigger.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said, stopping just within arm’s reach.
She laughed, a short, breathless sound. “That I have no idea what I’m doing,” she admitted. “That I’m standing in a very nice hotel room in a very pretty slip with a man I’ve technically known for months and emotionally known for about five minutes. That there’s a video of us kissing circulating online, and for once, that’s not the part that scares me.”
His gaze softened.
“What scares you?” he asked.
“Wanting you,” she blurted, then winced. “Too much.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Dark. Hot.
He lifted a hand, slow enough that she could see every inch of the movement, and brushed his knuckles along her jaw.
“You’re allowed to want me,” he said. “I want you. That’s…not a secret.”
“Yeah, the kitchen camera kind of ruined any chance of subtlety there,” she muttered.
He smiled, then sobered.
“We don’t have to do anything tonight,” he said. “We can sit on that stupidly expensive couch, order room service, and argue about Pier 7 contracts. Or sleep. God knows we could both use it.”
“How romantic,” she said dryly.
“I mean it,” he said. “Sex isn’t some…checkbox we have to tick to make this real. It’s already real.”
Her chest went tight.
“That’s very…reasonable,” she said. “And not helping at all.”
He blinked. “It’s not?”
“Liam,” she said, exasperated. “You’re standing there with your shirt half open telling me we don’t *have* to, and somehow that makes me want to more, not less.”
Understanding dawned.
“Oh,” he said softly. “Right.”
He stepped closer.
“Then let’s…start,” he said. “Slow. And if at any point you want to stop, we stop. No questions. No guilt.”
Her throat worked.
“Okay,” she whispered.
He leaned in.
The first kiss was…gentle.
Not a claiming. Not a rush.
Just his mouth on hers, warm, coaxing. His hand slid into her hair, fingers splaying against her scalp, anchoring.
She melted.
All the fear, all the noise, all the headlines fell away under the steady press of his lips.
He deepened it gradually, giving her time to catch up. To match him.
Her hands, uncertain at first, found his shoulders. The slide of muscle under fabric. The heat of him.
When she tugged, he made a low sound and stepped into her space, bodies brushing.
Everywhere they touched felt like static. Like hummingwire.
His tongue swept lightly against her lower lip, asking.
She let him in.
Heat flared, low and sharp.
They kissed until her knees went soft.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, breath ragged.
“Okay?” he asked.
She nodded, dazed. “Mmhmm.”
“That wasn’t very verbal,” he said, though his voice was shaking a little too.
“More,” she managed.
His eyes darkened.
“Careful, Mrs. Hart,” he murmured. “I might get used to you asking.”
“Good,” she said.
He laughed, a little breathless, and kissed her again.
This time his hands wandered.
Down the line of her shoulders. The curve of her waist. The small of her back, pulling her flush against him.
She felt him.
Hard. Real. Wanting.
Power rippled through her, unexpected.
He wanted her.
Not because the board did.
Not because the contract required it.
Because she was *her*.
Her fingers slid down the front of his shirt, tracing the line of buttons. She hesitated.
He stilled.
“You sure?” he asked, searching her face.
She swallowed.
“I’m not sure about…anything,” she said. “Except that I want to take this off you.”
Relief and hunger tangled in his expression.
“By all means,” he said roughly.
She fumbled with the first button.
Then the second.
Her fingers weren’t as steady as she’d have liked, but she got there. The fabric parted, revealing a strip of skin. Chest. A faint line of hair.
She’d seen glimpses before—hotel room, post‑storm—but not like this. Not with his eyes locked on hers as she bared him.
By the time she reached the last button, her palms were slick.
He shrugged the shirt off, letting it slide to the floor.
Her breath caught.
He wasn’t a gym‑sculpted magazine cover. He was real. Solid. Broad shoulders. Defined chest. Scars—small, pale lines—dusted over one bicep and near his ribs. Stories she didn’t know yet.
Her hand lifted of its own accord, fingertips tracing one faint line.
“How?” she asked softly.
“Fell off a bike when I was twelve,” he said. “Thought I could out‑pedal gravity. Lost.”
She smiled slightly.
“Gravity always wins,” she said.
“Sometimes,” he replied. “Sometimes we negotiate.”
His hands went to her shoulders.
“Your turn?” he asked quietly.
Fear flared, sharp.
He saw it.
“We can stop,” he said again. “Stay here. Like this. Fully clothed. Half‑clothed. Whatever.”
She took a breath.
“I trust you,” she said, surprising herself with how certain it sounded.
He swallowed.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Then tell me if that changes.”
Her slip had thin straps.
He slid his hands up, brushing her skin, and caught them, thumbs circling gently over her collarbones.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he whispered.
“Take it off, Hart,” she said.
His eyes flashed.
He eased the straps down, one at a time, letting them slide over her shoulders, her arms.
The fabric whispered against her skin as it fell, pooling at her feet.
He sucked in a breath.
For a long second, he didn’t move. Didn’t rush to touch. Just looked.
She fought the urge to cover herself.
Her body wasn’t perfect. Not by magazine standards. Soft in places. Stretch marks. The inevitable changes pregnancy had left behind.
She braced for…something.
Judgment. Disappointment.
What she got instead was reverence.
“You’re…” He shook his head, at a loss. “You’re incredible.”
Heat rushed to her face.
“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it,” she said, voice small.
“I mean it,” he said, fierce. “Every inch of you. Every part that tells the story of what you’ve survived. What you’ve done.”
His hand lifted, hovering just above her chest.
“May I?” he asked.
She nodded, unable to find words.
His palm settled, warm, over her heart.
It pounded under his touch.
“So fast,” he murmured.
“Yours too,” she whispered, splaying her fingers on his chest.
His heartbeat echoed hers.
They stood there, bare and breathing, hands on each other, for a long moment.
Then, slowly, they moved.
Toward the bed.
Toward a new kind of intimacy neither contract nor camera could define.
***
Later, lying tangled in sheets, her body pleasantly heavy, Mara stared at the ceiling and tried to find the right word.
Not perfect.
They’d fumbled. Laughed once when her elbow ended up in his ribs. Paused twice to check in. To breathe. To make sure they were still both there.
But it had been…good.
Better than good.
“Hey,” Liam murmured.
She turned her head.
He lay on his side, propped on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes softer than she’d ever seen.
“You okay?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes. “That’s illegal now,” she said. “You have to find a new question.”
He smiled. “How was it?” he asked shamelessly.
She snorted. “Very subtle.”
“I’m serious,” he said. “Was it…okay for you? Good? Bad? Somewhere between ‘meh’ and ‘I’ve made a terrible mistake’?”
She considered.
“On a scale of one to ten,” she said slowly, “with one being ‘that one time I had food poisoning’ and ten being ‘Hallie’s first giggle’…”
He winced. “That’s an unfair scale.”
“…I’d give it a solid eight point five,” she finished.
“Only eight point five?” he said, mock‑offended.
“There’s room for…growth,” she said, lips twitching. “We barely know each other’s bodies. Or…anything.”
He relaxed. “I can work with eight point five,” he said. “As long as the curve is steep.”
She swatted his arm.
He caught her hand, kissed her knuckles.
His expression shifted.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?” she asked.
“For trusting me,” he said. “With this. With…you.”
Her throat tightened.
“You make it sound like I did you a favor,” she said.
“You did,” he said simply. “You could have said no.”
“I could have,” she agreed. “But I wanted to say yes.”
He smiled, small and sincere.
“I’m glad you did,” he murmured.
He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.
“Now sleep,” he said. “We have a lot of fighting to do tomorrow.”
She sighed.
“Do you ever stop thinking about work?” she asked, amused.
He thought.
“Tonight,” he said. “Right now. This minute. I don’t care about Pier 7. Or Kane. Or the board. I care about you. Here. Breathing.”
Her eyes stung.
“Dangerous,” she whispered. “Caring like that.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m doing it anyway.”
Her heart squeezed.
She closed her eyes.
Sleep tugged.
As she drifted, her last coherent thought was that for the first time in years, even with vultures circling, even with storms on the horizon, she felt…held.
Not just physically.
Held in a life that might, just might, fit.
***