Willow groaned softly and buried her face into Zane’s chest.
His skin was warm beneath her cheek, steady and familiar, the subtle rise and fall of his breathing grounding her in a way nothing else could. The room slled faintly of him, clean and understated, layered now with the softness of shared closeness. Her body felt loose and heavy at the sa ti, pleasantly spent, wrapped in that hazy warmth that followed connection rather than urgency.
"You are bad," she murmured, voice muffled but unmistakably accusing. "Through and through, Zane."
His chest vibrated beneath her cheek as he laughed, slow and unrepentant, the sound rolling through him with relaxed ease.
"That sounds suspiciously like praise."
She lifted her head just enough to glare at him, hair falling into her face in soft disarray, her expression caught sowhere between exasperation and reluctant amusent. "How exactly am I supposed to get out of your office now. My makeup is probably halfway down my face. I have no idea where my underwear is. And you," she added, poking his chest for emphasis, "are lying there with a huge Cheshire smile like you’ve just committed a cri and enjoyed every second of it."
He did not even attempt to hide the smile.
It was wide, lazy, thoroughly satisfied, the kind of expression that belonged to a man who had nothing to prove and everything to savor.
"I fail to see the problem," he said easily. "We can stay here until everyone leaves, if that’s what you want."
She stared at him, taking in the unbothered sprawl of his body, the way he looked utterly at ho in this mont, as if the world beyond the room had temporarily lost its relevance.
"Are you serious, Zane."
He laughed again, deeper this ti, eyes closing briefly as if savoring the mont, as if he were replaying it rather than rushing past it.
When she saw the way his mouth curved, the way utterly relaxed he looked, she swatted his hand away as it reached for her again, more playful than firm.
"Don’t," she warned, though the warning lacked conviction and the corners of her mouth betrayed her.
"That wasn’t very convincing," he said, amusent threading through his voice as his hand hovered before retreating.
"Help ," she said, pushing herself up slightly, bracing one hand against the mattress. "I can’t walk out of here looking like I lost a fight with your bed."
"I can’t," he replied calmly, not even attempting to move.
She narrowed her eyes. "Why not."
"I’m admiring the view."
She followed his gaze down the line of her body and snorted despite herself, heat creeping up her neck as she beca suddenly aware of how little she had bothered to fix yet. "You are impossible."
"And yet," he said, folding his hands behind his head, utterly content, his posture loose and open, "you’re still here."
She rolled off him with a dramatic huff and swung her legs over the side of the bed, the cool air against her skin making her shiver slightly as reality returned in small incrents.
"Fine," she muttered. "I’ll rescue myself."
She stood, imdiately freezing as she looked around the room.
The bed looked unmistakably lived in now, sheets rumpled and pillows displaced. Her shoes were by the chair, but her dress was nowhere near where she rembered leaving it. For a mont she simply stood there, hands on her hips, taking inventory with disbelief.
She turned slowly. "Zane."
"Yes."
"Where are my clothes."
He tilted his head slightly, considering with exaggerated seriousness. "That depends on which clothes."
She shot him a look that promised consequences.
He smiled wider, unrepentant and clearly enjoying every second.
"You’re enjoying this far too much."
"I waited patiently," he said. "I’m allowed to enjoy the aftermath."
She shook her head, moving around the room, picking up pieces as she found them. Her movents were unhurried now, loose in a way that spoke of comfort rather than haste, of soone who no longer felt the need to rush out of a space.
He watched her openly, without embarrassnt and without hunger this ti, just quiet appreciation, the kind that lingered without asking for anything in return.
"You know," she said, bending to retrieve her shoes, her hair falling forward again, "this side of you is deeply concerning."
"You like it."
She glanced back at him, pretending to frown, though the softness in her eyes betrayed her. "I tolerate it."
He raised an eyebrow, the look clearly challenging.
She smiled despite herself, the tension dissolving into warmth. "Fine. I like it."
He didn’t move as she dressed, only shifted to sit against the headboard, one arm resting casually along the pillow, eyes following her with quiet amusent, as though watching her was as satisfying as touching her had been monts ago.
When she finally gathered everything she could, smoothing fabric and checking herself from different angles, she headed toward the bathroom.
The light flicked on, revealing the aftermath she had feared.
She leaned closer to the mirror, groaning softly as she took in the smudged makeup and the unmistakable flush that no amount of powder would fully conceal. "Oh no."
"It’s that bad," he called mildly from the other room.
"I look thoroughly compromised," she replied, half laughing, half resigned.
She splashed water on her face, blotting carefully, thodically restoring order where she could. She fixed her hair as best as possible, smoothing and pinning, coaxing it into sothing resembling professionalism, though the softness remained.
When she stepped back into the room, she pointed at him with mock severity.
"Don’t move."
He watched her approach with curiosity, staying exactly where he was.
She reached up, straightened his collar, then paused, her fingers brushing lightly against his skin.
"There," she said, rubbing gently at his neck. "Lipstick."
He looked down at her, eyes warm and openly affectionate.
"You’re fixing ."
"Soone has to," she replied. "You can’t walk out there looking like that."
She leaned in and kissed him, soft and brief, a promise rather than a request, her lips lingering just long enough to remind him of what they shared.
"Fix the contract," she said quietly. "Do it properly."
He nodded, seriousness returning without losing the warmth. "I will."
"And I’m going to Zana," she added. "She’s been patient enough today."
Sothing softened in his expression, the shift imdiate and unmistakable.
"Tell her I’ll be ho."
She smiled, the word ho carrying more weight now than it had earlier. "I will."
She stepped back, taking him in one last ti. The man in his office bedroom. Relaxed. Open. Real. Not the composed executive he presented to the world, but the one she knew beneath it.
"This," she said, gesturing vaguely between them, "is dangerous."
He smiled again, that slow, sure smile she was quickly learning was her undoing, a look that promised confidence without control.
"We’ll survive."
She laughed softly, grabbed her bag, and headed for the door, adjusting her posture, reassembling herself piece by piece.
At the threshold, she paused and looked back.
"For the record," she said, "you really are bad."
He didn’t deny it.
And as she slipped out, carefully composed once more, Zane leaned back against the bed, still smiling, letting the quiet settle around him.
The contract could wait a few minutes.
Family could not.
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