His hand found the back of her neck before she could speak. Not gripping—just resting there, the weight of his palm against the fine hairs at her nape. The contact sent a current down her spine that had nothing to do with fear.
"Down." Not a command. A statement of fact, spoken low enough that she felt it more than heard it. His other hand found her shoulder.
She could have resisted. Her legs still worked. Her defiance was always right there, ready to flare. But something in the way his thumb moved—one slow circle against her skin—told her this wasn't discipline. This was the thing he'd admitted to wanting.
She let herself lower. Not collapsing, not surrendering—choosing. Her back met the wool rug, the fibers coarse through her thin blouse. The desk lamp threw his shadow across her body, a dark double that stretched from her hips to her throat.
He followed her down. Knees on either side of her thighs, his tailored trousers pulling taut. The wireframe glasses caught the lamplight, turning his pale grey eyes into mirrors. She couldn't read him. Then his breath hitched—that same catch she'd heard in Chapter 4, the one that meant his composure was costing him something.
"Sophia." Her name came out rough. Unpolished. His hands moved to frame her face, and she saw it—the tremor in his fingers, the way they shook against her cheekbones like he was holding something breakable.
"You're shaking," she said.
"I know."
She reached up. Not to stop the tremor this time—to feel it. Her fingers wrapped around his wrists, and the contact made his breath stutter. His whole body went still above her, every muscle locked.
"What happens now?" she asked. Her voice was smaller than she wanted. Less defiant.
He didn't answer. His thumbs traced the curve of her cheekbones, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the architecture of her face. The tremor never stopped. His jaw was tight, the muscle flickering near his ear.
"I don't know how to do this," he said. The words came out like a confession. Like he was handing her something sharp and trusting her not to cut him.
She turned her head. Pressed her lips to his palm. The skin was warm and tasted faintly of salt—he'd been gripping the desk edge earlier, she remembered. Holding himself together. She closed her eyes and let herself breathe him in.
"You're doing it," she whispered against his hand. "You're still here."
The buzz cut through the silence like a blade—short, sharp, vibrating against the leather desk blotter. Adrian's hands froze on her face. She felt the tremor in his fingers stop, then start again, worse than before.
"Don't," she said. The word escaped before she could catch it.
His jaw tightened. The phone buzzed again, insistent, the kind of pattern that meant someone wasn't giving up. His pale grey eyes flicked toward the desk, and she watched him calculate—seconds, priorities, the cost of letting it ring versus the cost of answering.
Her hands left his wrists before she'd consciously decided to move. The impulse surged through her arms, her shoulders, the curve of her spine arching off the rug before she could think better of it—reaching past him, toward the desk, toward the sound that had broken them open.
The angle was wrong. Her torso twisted, her shoulder blade scraping against wool, and she felt the rug burn through her thin blouse. Adrian's thighs tightened on either side of her hips, a reflex, and for a suspended breath she thought he would stop her—his hands still framing her face, his weight still caging her in. But he didn't move. He let her stretch.
Her fingers brushed the leather blotter first. Cool, smooth, the grain worn soft where his arm rested during long calls. Then the phone—vibrating hard against the desk, the buzz traveling up her fingertips into the bones of her hand. She couldn't see the screen from this angle. Didn't want to. Her index finger found the edge of the case, the seam where glass met metal.
"Sophia." His voice came from above her, rough and unsteady. Not a command. A question. Or a warning.
She didn't look at him. Her fingers closed around the phone, and for one electric second, she held it against the desk, the vibration humming through her palm like a trapped insect. The screen was face-down. She couldn't read the caller. Couldn't guess the urgency. But she felt it—the weight of whoever was on the other end, demanding Adrian's attention, pulling him away from this room, this rug, this moment.
The buzzing stopped.
Silence crashed back in—the fire's crackle, the faint whistle of wind against the window, and underneath it all, Adrian's breathing. Harsh. Close. She was still holding the phone. Her arm was still stretched toward the desk, her body half-twisted beneath him, and she realized, suddenly, that she'd left the shelter of his shadow. The lamplight hit her face directly now, and she could feel him seeing her—the flush on her throat, the stubborn set of her jaw, the way her chest rose and fell too fast.
"You reached for the phone," he said. The words came out slow. Measuring. But there was something else beneath them—something that made his hands tremble harder against her cheekbones.
She turned her head. Not to escape his touch, but to meet his eyes. The wireframe glasses had slipped slightly down his nose, and through the lenses, his pale grey irises were ringed with something she hadn't seen before. Not desire. Not fear. Something rawer.
"I wanted it to stop," she said. Her voice was steadier than she felt. "Whatever's out there—I wanted it to stop before you had to choose."