The climax hit Sophie like a detonation, a silent scream tearing through her clenched teeth as her body convulsed around him. It wasn't surrender—it was a violent, wrenching claim, her internal muscles pulling him deeper, dragging him with her over the edge. Control was ash. Facade was dust.
Victor buried his face in the crook of her neck, his own release a raw, shuddering groan that vibrated through her spine. It felt less like triumph and more like a collapse, a soul being unmade against her skin. His hips stuttered, his hands—still gripping the railing on either side of her—trembled with the force of it.
For a long moment, there was only the frantic, synchronized hammering of their hearts, a wild drum against the cool night air. The sweat on her back cooled where his chest pressed against her. His breath was hot and ragged against her ear. The world, the city lights below, the distant hum of traffic—it all came rushing back in a dizzying wave, too bright, too loud.
Slowly, carefully, he withdrew. The absence was a shock. Sophie’s knees buckled, but his arm snapped around her waist, holding her upright against the railing. He didn’t let go. His other hand came up, his fingers brushing a stray, damp strand of platinum hair from her temple. The gesture was unnervingly gentle.
She couldn't look at him. She stared at their fragmented reflection in the dark glass, two ruined shapes pressed together. Her dress was rucked up, his trousers were open, and the evidence of what they’d just done was a cooling slickness on her inner thighs. The contract felt a million miles away.
“Sophie.” His voice was wrecked, a low scrape of sound.
Sophie turned in the circle of his arm. The motion was unsteady, her legs still liquid. His arm remained locked around her waist, a solid band keeping her from sinking to the teak floor. For the first time since the green room, she looked at him. Really looked.
His face was stripped. The sharp angles were softened by sweat, his hair disheveled where her fingers had gripped. His blue eyes, usually so cold and assessing, were dark and utterly vacant of calculation. He just stared back, his breath still coming in ragged pulls, his chest expanding against the rumpled fabric of his shirt. The controlled billionaire was gone. In his place was a man who looked gutted.
She became acutely aware of the night air chilling the dampness between her thighs, the ruined silk of her panties. Her dress was still bunched at her hips. His trousers were open. The obscene reality of it should have made her flinch, but she felt numb, hyper-aware of the heat still radiating from his body into hers. She could smell him—salt, expensive cologne, and sex. She could smell herself on him.
“Victor,” she said, and her own voice was a stranger’s—hoarse, used.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. His arm tightened infinitesimally. He didn’t speak. He slowly brought his other hand up, his fingers hovering near her cheek before he brushed his thumb along the curve of her bottom lip. The touch was so tentative it stole her breath. This was the man who had torn her clothes and commanded her to watch. This gentleness was more terrifying.
“That wasn’t in the contract,” she whispered, the words escaping before she could cage them.
A faint, broken sound escaped him—not a laugh, not a sigh. “No,” he agreed, his voice raw. “It wasn’t.”
The vibration buzzed against her hip, a muffled, insistent hum from the pocket of his open trousers. It was a tiny earthquake in the stillness, a stark, mechanical intrusion into the ruin they’d made.
She felt the exact moment he left her. His body didn’t move, but his eyes did. The dark, vacant warmth in his blue gaze iced over, sharpening back into focus. The thumb that had been tracing her lip stilled, then retreated. The tender wreck of a man was hastily bricked back up behind a familiar, impenetrable wall.
Victor’s arm remained around her waist, but it felt different now—not a embrace, but a bracket. He withdrew his other hand completely, reaching into his pocket with a fluid, practiced motion that felt obscenely normal. He extracted the phone, the screen lighting his face in a cold, blue wash. His expression as he read the notification was unreadable, just a slight tightening at the corner of his mouth.
Sophie watched the transformation, a hollow opening up beneath her ribs. The night air on her damp skin turned biting. She made herself step back, breaking the contact of his arm. Her legs held, barely. She smoothed her dress down over her hips, a futile gesture. The torn silk of her panties was a scandalous whisper against her thighs.
“Duty calls?” Her voice was back under control, edged with the sarcasm that was her armor. It sounded brittle to her own ears.
He didn’t answer immediately. His thumb hovered over the screen, his jaw working. When he finally looked up, his gaze was distant, already calculating trajectories she couldn’t see. “It’s the car,” he said, his tone flat, devoid of the raw wreckage from moments ago. “It’s waiting out front to take you home.”