Chapter 4 – Lines We Shouldn’t Cross

Natalia’s apartment felt too quiet after the storm that was Darian Valente.

She sat on the edge of her bed, still in the red dress, fingers grazing the place where his hand had touched her cheek. Her skin still tingled from the nearness of his mouth, the heat in his voice.

> “Not tonight. But soon.”

God help her, she wanted that “soon” to be now.

But this wasn’t a game she could afford to lose. She had no safety net. If she gave in too quickly, she'd be just another pretty intern he discarded when the thrill wore off.

No. She would play it smarter.

So why did her entire body ache with need?

She peeled the dress off slowly, as if it still carried his gaze. Her sheets felt too cold, her apartment too quiet. She didn’t sleep much that night—just lay there, thoughts consumed by sharp suits and darker eyes.

The next morning, she arrived at the office fifteen minutes early, dressed in a high-waisted pencil skirt and a crisp white blouse. Professional. Controlled. Unreadable.

Just like him.

She was already seated at her desk in his office when he entered, coffee in one hand, phone pressed to his ear. He didn’t acknowledge her at first, just paced behind his desk, barking orders like a man used to obedience.

Then, finally, he hung up—and their eyes met.

“You came early,” he said.

“You said time is currency.”

He walked toward her slowly, placed the coffee on her desk—black, just how she liked it.

“I remember details,” he said. “Especially about things I want.”

Natalia blinked. “Things?”

He didn’t answer. Just smirked and returned to his desk.

The day unfolded in silence and tension. Emails. Reports. Meetings. But every time their fingers brushed as they passed files, every time his arm hovered too close to hers, it sent sparks dancing along her nerves.

By the end of the day, she was exhausted—and wound tight.

“Come with me,” Darian said abruptly, grabbing his coat.

“Where?”

“Don’t ask questions unless I say you can. That’s one of my rules, remember?”

She hesitated, then followed him into the private elevator.

They descended past the lobby, all the way to a private underground parking lot. A silver sports car waited, sleek and low to the ground. He opened the door for her, and she slid in, unsure if her heartbeat was excitement or fear.

They drove in silence, the city flashing by in blurs of neon and dusk.

He didn’t say where they were going.

When they finally stopped, it wasn’t at a restaurant or a hotel.

It was a penthouse.

His penthouse.

The elevator opened directly into the living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Minimalist furniture. The scent of leather and something darker.

He tossed his keys on a marble counter.

“Why am I here?” she asked, voice quiet.

Darian walked toward her slowly, stopping just inches away. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about last night. And I don’t like distractions.”

She swallowed hard. “So I’m a distraction now?”

“You’re the distraction.”

He reached up and brushed her hair behind her ear.

She froze.

“I told myself I wouldn’t touch you this soon,” he murmured. “But I never really meant it.”

Her breath hitched as his fingers trailed down her jaw, slow, electric.

And then, he kissed her.

Not soft. Not hesitant.

Possessive. Hungry. Demanding.

His hand cupped her waist, pulling her against his chest as his lips devoured hers. She gasped, and he took it—tasting, claiming, stealing every bit of air left in her lungs.

The kiss was a breaking point—and she shattered into it.

When he finally pulled back, her lips were swollen, her pulse wild.

He looked down at her, eyes dark and full of heat. “That,” he said, voice husky, “wasn’t a mistake.”

“I didn’t say it was,” she whispered.

His thumb brushed her bottom lip.

“Then stay.”

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