Chapter 84

Chapter 84:

He crossed his legs tightly, as if that was the only thing stopping him from yanking me closer.

I could feel his control slipping.

His fingers clenched the sofa cushion like he needed an anchor.

Damn, he was fighting hard.

I could see it all over him.

Then, suddenly, he snapped.

Not in a wild, throw-me-down way,

No, he slammed his palm into his other hand, as if he was physically trying to shake himself out of whatever trance I’d pulled him into.

He pushed up to stand, but my arms stayed locked around his neck, not ready to let go.

He swore under his breath.

Then he kissed me again, fast, hard, breathless.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered against my lips. “Or I’ll…” His words barely registered in my mind.

I was already drunk on the taste of him, high on the heat, melting into him.

Then he lifted me, carrying me toward the stairs.

One moment, I was in his lap, and the next, I was on my back, flat against the sheets in my room.

Then he…

Left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Soft, but sharp enough to slice through the haze I was in.

He was gone.

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I lay there, boneless.

Like someone had unplugged every wire in my body and replaced it with static.

My skin still tingled.

My pulse was still racing.

And I couldn’t tell which was stronger—relief or disappointment.

Part of me was weirdly glad he’d stopped.

If he hadn’t, I might’ve just stripped him naked and begged him to ruin me. But the other part—the one powered by hormones and sheer, shameless lust—was screaming.

Who the hell walks away when a woman’s practically throwing herself at him?

Was I not sexy enough? Hot enough?

Was he just that noble?

What the hell was stopping him?

I was clearly all in.

And judging by my flushed cheeks and throbbing everything, my body hadn’t exactly been subtle about it.

But he’d walked away.

Was he hung up on someone?

Saving himself for some sainted ex he still lit a candle for?

Like Rhys had done with Catherine while pretending to date me?

Please.

What were the odds I’d fall for the only two men in all of Skyline City who knew how to keep it zipped when temptation was literally on their lap?

I sat up, pulled my shirt forward, and glanced down. “No way. Still hot,” I told my boobs. “So why the hell is Ashton acting like a monk in a meat market p>

The next day was the big one—Edouard Laurent’s 80th birthday bash. I had no intention of showing up looking like I was trying too hard.

So, I grabbed a simple white dress—understated, clean, no bells or whistles.

I let my long, dark hair fall freely, nothing too fussy.

Not a single piece of jewelry, not even a stud.

When I came downstairs, Ashton was in the living room, waiting.

His eyes locked on me the entire way down.

Not a casual glance.

This was the kind of look that peeled back layers, imagining every detail beneath the dress.

The fire in his gaze, the way his jaw flexed—it wasn’t subtle.

He wasn’t picturing a polite family dinner.

He was picturing something far more dangerous.

I saw it in the twitch of his fingers, the rigid set of his shoulders.

The heat that shot through me was instant.

Part of me wanted to gloat—see what you walked away from last night? I almost did a little twirl just to twist the knife… but the stairs were steep, and I wasn’t about to somersault into the wall.

Another part of me itched to demand answers—if you’re so good at mentally undressing me, why didn’t you just follow through? What the hell’s stopping you?

But this wasn’t the moment for that kind of question.

When I reached the bottom, I looked up at him with a teasing smile.

“Well? What do you think p>

He didn’t answer right away.

His eyes stayed on me, devouring.

Finally, after what felt like five years, he said, low and hoarse, “Beautiful p>

I reached for his hand, and he took it without hesitation, pulling me towards the door.

When we reached the car, he held on a second longer, then finally let go.

The parking lot at the Laurent estate was packed.

Old cars, new cars—all gleaming, all expensive.

Tonight was a milestone that clearly warranted pulling out every last stop.

As I stepped out of the car, I took in the scene.

The place was buzzing.

Family, friends, distant cousins dragged out of hiding—everyone who could make it was here.

Ashton’s family tree was less tree, more tangle.

Edouard Laurent had a few brothers and sisters, and each one had their own army of children and grandchildren.

Ashton’s father, Reginald, was Edouard’s youngest son.

Reginald had three sons, Ashton being the eldest.

Throw in a bunch of distant relatives, and you had a party that could rival any school reunion.

Ashton’s arm slipped around my waist, and we walked towards the house in sync.

Any nerves I’d had were long gone.

I clocked the man at the door—probably a butler—do a double take.

He blinked, like his brain needed a moment to process.

Even the staff couldn’t help sneaking glances.

Ashton had timed our entrance perfectly.

The living room was already crowded—clusters of people laughing, catching up, or locked in that awkward family small talk you only ever heard at holidays.

But the second we stepped through the door, silence.

Like someone had hit mute.

Every head turned.

Even the ones pretending not to notice got elbowed by whoever stood next to them.