Page 62 of Forbidden Fruit
"So do I. But I want you to feel safe." I cut into my steak, the knife slicing through like butter. "Jack has always had trouble with boundaries. And rejection."
"He's desperate. I almost feel sorry for him." She takes a sip of wine. "Almost."
"That's because you have a good heart. It's one of the things I lo—" I catch myself. Too soon. "One of the things I admire about you."
Her eyes meet mine, and I know she caught my near slip. A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth.
"Tell me about your day," I say, changing the subject. "Any exciting events on the horizon?"
She launches into a description of an upcoming charity gala she's planning, her hands animating as she speaks. I find myself mesmerized by her passion, the way her entire face lights up. This is the Becca I know—confident, brilliant, enthusiastic. Not the subdued woman who walked in earlier, weighted down by Jack's lies.
"Sorry," she says suddenly. "I'm rambling."
"Don't apologize. I love watching you talk about your work."
"It's not as impressive as running a global security firm."
I shake my head. "What you do brings people joy. That's something to be proud of."
Our conversation flows easily after that, moving from work to books we've read recently, to places we'd like to travel. The weight of Jack's accusations seems to lift with each passing minute, and by dessert—a dark chocolate soufflé we share between us—Becca is laughing freely, her eyes bright.
"Stay with me tonight," I say as we step out into the cool evening air, my hand at the small of her back.
She looks up at me, hesitation flickering across her face. "I don't know if that's a good idea. Not because I don't want to," she adds quickly. "But because once I'm in your arms again, I might never want to leave."
I pull her closer, not caring who might see us on the busy street. "Would that be so terrible?"
"No," she whispers, her breath warm against my neck. "That's what scares me."
I signal to my driver, who pulls the car smoothly to the curb. As we slide into the backseat, Becca's hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining.
"Take us home," I say, not specifying which home. There's only one place I want to be tonight.
Clive
As we drive through the city lights, Becca rests her head on my shoulder. I kiss her hair, breathing in the scent of her floral and delicate shampoo.
"Thank you for believing in me," I murmur.
She lifts her head, confusion in her eyes. "What do you mean?"
"For giving me a chance to explain. For not letting Jack's lies come between us."
"I know who you are, Clive." Her hand comes up to cup my cheek. Her gentle touch almost undoes me. "The real you, not the version Jack tried to sell me."
The car slows as we approach my building, the lobby lights spilling onto the sidewalk. For a moment, I'm struck by how right this feels—Becca by my side, heading home.
The doorman nods respectfully as we enter, and I guide Becca toward the private elevator with my hand still at the small of her back. We stand close in the mirrored compartment, our reflections multiplied around us. She looks up at me, vulnerability and desire mingling in her dark eyes.
"What are you thinking?" I ask softly.
"That I've never felt so certain and terrified at the same time," she admits.
The elevator doors slide open directly into my penthouse foyer. I've always appreciated the view—Manhattan sprawling beneath us, lights twinkling like earthbound stars—but tonight, I can barely tear my eyes from Becca as she steps into the space.
"Would you like a nightcap?" I ask, shrugging off my jacket.
"No." She turns to face me, and the determination in her expression takes my breath away. "I want you."
