"Moretti." Her hand caught his arm before he could follow his team through the door. Her nails pressed into the wool of his jacket, and he stopped mid-stride like she'd pulled a leash.
The corridor stretched empty behind them. The conference room door had swung mostly shut—a crack of light, the murmur of voices, someone laughing at something someone else said. One push and they'd be visible. One step and they wouldn't.
"What are you playing at?" Her voice was low, flat, nothing like the woman who'd pressed her forehead to the glass ten minutes ago. "The merger hasn't signed. You don't have a deal yet. You don't have me."
He turned, slow, his dark eyes traveling up her body like he was cataloging every inch he'd already touched. The bite on his lower lip had stopped bleeding. The wound was a dark crescent, tender-looking, a mark she'd put there.
"I have exactly what I need," he said, and didn't explain further.
She opened her mouth—and his hand was there, flat against the wall beside her head, boxing her in. She hadn't seen him move. One second there was air between them, and the next his body blocked the light from the corridor, his chest inches from hers, his cologne filling every breath she took.
"You're in my space, Moretti." She didn't step back. Didn't flinch. "Careful. I bite."
"I'm counting on it." His other hand found her hip through the silk of her skirt, fingers pressing into the curve, not hard enough to hurt, hard enough to hold. "But you already did that. Now I want to see what happens when you don't fight."
"I don't—"
"Shh." His mouth brushed her ear, his breath hot against the shell of it. "I want you to stop pretending you don't feel this."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She felt it. Of course she felt it—his hand on her hip, his chest against hers, the way her body had already softened into the wall like it was waiting for this. Like it had been waiting since the conference room, since the kiss, since the first second she'd seen him across a boardroom table and thought this man is going to destroy me.
She didn't say any of that.
"You don't know what I feel."
"I know exactly what you feel." His hand slid higher, palm trailing up her thigh, over the silk, over the heat she couldn't hide. His fingers pressed into the junction between her legs, and her body answered before her mind caught up—a sharp inhale, her hips tilting forward, her mouth falling open.
"That," he said, his voice a low rumble against her skin. "That's what you feel. That's what you've been trying to pretend doesn't exist."
She should push him away. She should say something cutting, something that would make him step back, something that would reassert the distance between them. The words were right there— get your hand off me, this changes nothing, you're still just a man who thinks he can buy everything.
But his thumb found the edge of her underwear through the silk, pressed there, dragged once, slow, and the words died in her throat.
She gasped. A soft, broken sound she couldn't call back, couldn't disguise, couldn't pretend was anything other than what it was. Her hand flew to his shoulder—not to push, to hold. To steady herself.
"There she is," he breathed. "There's the woman who kissed me back." His thumb pressed again, found the wet heat seeping through the fabric, and he made a sound low in his throat—a sound that wasn't triumph. It was hunger. "You're soaked, Eclipse."
Her name in his mouth, like that, like a confession. Her eyes found his, and she saw it—the crack in his armor, the one he couldn't hide. His pupils blown wide, his jaw tight, the pulse hammering in his throat. He was as caught as she was. More, maybe. He'd started this. He had more to lose.
"You think this gives you power," she said, and her voice was steadier than it should have been. "You think because my body responds, you've won something."
His thumb stilled. "I think—"
"You think wrong." She held his gaze, let him see her—the want, the hunger, the need that matched his. And then she smiled, slow and dangerous. "Your hand is shaking, Moretti."
He looked down. She watched him realize she was right—the tremor in his fingers, barely perceptible, the tension running through his arm. He was holding himself back. Barely.
"Is it?" His voice was rough. He pressed harder, his palm flat against her through the silk, and she bit her lip to keep from making another sound. "Or is that your pulse I'm feeling?"
She didn't answer. Couldn't. His hand was between her legs, his body pinning hers to the wall, and the heat was unbearable—a slow, spreading ache that made her want to wrap her legs around him, to pull him closer, to let him do exactly what he was threatening to do.
From inside the conference room, a voice: "Luca? We're ready when you are."
The moment shattered.
He didn't step back immediately. His eyes held hers for one more heartbeat, his thumb pressed one more time—a promise, not a goodbye—and then he pulled his hand away, slow, letting her feel every inch of the withdrawal.
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
He straightened his jacket, ran a hand through his hair, and for a second, he looked almost human. Almost undone. His hand went to his lip, touched the wound she'd left there, and he smiled—a dark, knowing thing that made her stomach flip.
"Shall we?" He gestured toward the door. "I believe we were discussing valuation multiples."
She smoothed her skirt with both hands, adjusted her glasses, and felt the damp silk against her palm as she did. Evidence. A mark he'd left. She should be furious. She should be calculating how to use this against him.
Instead, she said, "Your fly's crooked."
He glanced down. It wasn't. But he looked—and when he looked up, she was already walking past him, her hand on the door handle, her back to him, the sway of her hips deliberate and unhurried.
"Eclipse."
She stopped. Didn't turn.
"This isn't over." His voice was low, rough, stripped of the polished veneer he wore like armor. "The merger is happening. And when it does—"
"I know." She looked over her shoulder, met his eyes one last time. "You're going to take me apart piece by piece." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "But you forgot one thing, Moretti."
"What's that?"
"I take things apart for a living." She pushed the door open, and the light from the conference room flooded the corridor. "You're not the only one who knows how to play."
She stepped through the door, into the murmur of voices, the shuffle of papers, the smell of coffee and negotiation. She took her seat at the table, crossed her legs, and opened her folder like the past ten minutes had never happened.
Behind her, the door clicked shut.
And then Luca Moretti walked past her chair—close enough that his thigh brushed her shoulder, close enough that she caught the heat of his body, close enough that she could see his hand tremble as he set his folder on the table.
He didn't look at her. But his voice, when he spoke to the room, was an octave lower than it had been before the break.
"Let's continue."
The meeting resumed like nothing had happened. Papers shuffled. Projections flashed across the presentation screen. Someone from Luca's team—a junior analyst with a nervous stutter—walked through the revenue synergies for the third time, and Eclipse nodded along, made notes, asked exactly the right questions.
But her body was still in that corridor. His hand was still between her legs. The damp silk of her underwear pressed against her thighs with every movement, a constant reminder that she'd let him touch her, that she'd gasped, that she'd held onto his shoulder instead of pushing him away.
She uncrossed her legs, recrossed them the other way. The fabric shifted. She felt the slickness, the evidence of her own arousal, and she wanted to hate him for it.
She didn't.
Across the table, Luca sat with his hands folded, his face a mask of professional composure. He was listening to the analyst with the same expression he'd worn during the corridor—calculating, hungry, patient. His thumb traced a slow circle on the back of his other hand, and she watched it, watched the way his fingers moved, and remembered exactly where those fingers had been.
He glanced up. Caught her watching.
She didn't look away. Neither did he.
The moment stretched—two heartbeats, three—and then the analyst finished his presentation and looked to Luca for approval. Luca broke eye contact, nodded once, and said, "Good work. Run the numbers again with a higher discount rate. I want to see the downside case."
Eclipse's pen tapped against her notepad. "The downside case assumes we can't integrate. We can integrate."
"We can integrate if there's trust." He said it like a challenge, his dark eyes finding hers again. "Do you trust me, Eclipse?"
The room went quiet. Someone coughed. The junior analyst looked like he wanted to disappear into the carpet.
Eclipse smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "I trust that you'll do what's best for your company. I trust that you'll protect your interests. I trust that you'll lie to me if it serves your purposes. Beyond that?" She shrugged, a slow roll of her shoulders that made the silk of her blouse shift. "I don't trust anyone."
"That's going to be a problem."
"Then it's a good thing I'm not the one who needs to earn trust." She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her voice dropping to something almost intimate. "You made a promise in that corridor, Moretti. You said you were going to take me apart. But promises work both ways. If we sign this merger, you're not just my enemy—you're my partner. And partners share everything."
She let that hang in the air. Saw the flicker in his eyes—the moment he understood what she was offering, and what it cost.
"Including leverage," she finished. "Including weakness. Including the parts of yourself you'd rather keep hidden."
His jaw tightened. The mask slipped, just for a second—a flash of something raw, something almost vulnerable—and then it was back, smooth and impenetrable.
"Then I suppose we'll have to learn to trust each other," he said. "Or destroy each other trying."
He held out his hand across the table. The gesture was formal, professional—the kind of handshake that sealed deals and ended wars.
Eclipse looked at his hand. Looked at the crescent scar on his lip, the one she'd put there. Looked at his face, at the hunger he couldn't quite hide, at the challenge in his dark eyes.
She took his hand.
His fingers closed around hers, warm and firm, and she felt it—the same electricity that had crackled between them in the corridor, the same pull that had made her gasp when his thumb found her through the silk. His thumb pressed against her palm, once, a secret message she couldn't decode, and then he released her.
"I'll have my legal team send over the revised terms by end of day," he said, his voice steady. "We can sign tomorrow morning."
Tomorrow morning. Twenty-four hours. One more day before she was bound to him, legally, financially, irrevocably.
One more day before the real war began.
Eclipse nodded, closed her folder, and stood. "I'll have my team review the terms. If they're acceptable, I'll see you at nine."
"I'll be waiting."
She gathered her things—her laptop, her pen, her phone—and walked toward the door. Her heels clicked against the polished floor, measured and unhurried, the same deliberate pace she'd used in the corridor. She could feel his eyes on her back, could feel the weight of his gaze like a hand pressed against her spine.
She didn't turn around.
In the elevator, alone, she let herself breathe. Her hand went to her chest, felt the hammer of her heart beneath her palm. The silk of her skirt was still damp. Her thighs were still slick. Her body was still humming with the memory of his touch, and she hated it—hated that he'd gotten under her skin, hated that she'd let him, hated that she wanted more.
The elevator doors opened onto the lobby. She stepped out, past the security desk, past the potted plants and the marble floors and the glass walls that showed the city stretching out beneath her. The afternoon sun caught her face, warm and indifferent.
She got into her car, closed the door, and sat in the silence.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
You forgot something.
She stared at the screen. Another buzz.
Your taste.
Her breath caught. She remembered the kiss—the copper of his blood on her tongue, the way he'd groaned into her mouth, the way she'd bitten harder instead of pulling away.
She didn't respond.
But she didn't delete the messages either.
The car pulled away from the curb, and Eclipse watched the glass tower shrink in the side mirror. Tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock. One more day before she signed away her empire—or won the war before it even started.
Her phone buzzed a third time.
Sweet dreams, Eclipse.
She closed her eyes, leaned her head back against the leather seat, and felt the ghost of his hand between her legs.
She didn't sleep well that night.
But she didn't stop thinking about him either.