Chapter 13 - The Fire in the Storm
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The kiss was raw, desperate, and filled with six years of suppressed hunger.
Vincent pulled her body flush against his, lifting her slightly off the wet pavement so she wouldn't bear the weight of her injured side.
His lips were hot against her freezing mouth, demanding everything she had kept hidden behind polite professional smiles and office protocols.
Arabella gasped into the kiss, her hands coming up to grip the wet lapels of his tuxedo jacket.
All the fear, all the hesitation, and all the rational defenses she had built over the years melted away under the heat of his embrace.
She parted her lips, letting him taste her completely, letting him feel the fierce, unyielding love she had harbored in silence.
A clap of thunder shook the ground beneath them, but neither of them pulled away.
When Vincent finally broke the kiss, he was panting, his forehead resting against hers as his dark eyes searched her face.
“Come home with me,” he whispered against her lips.
“Not as my secretary.”
“Never as my secretary again.”
Arabella nodded slowly, her fingers tangling in his wet hair.
“Take me home, Vincent.”
Twenty minutes later, the private elevator opened directly into the penthouse foyer.
They left a trail of water across the marble as Vincent scooped her up into his arms, carrying her effortlessly down the hallway despite her protests.
“You are injured, you are freezing, and you are going to take a hot bath before you catch pneumonia,” he commanded, though his tone was layered with fierce tenderness.
He carried her into the vast, stone-tiled master bathroom, where steam was already rising from the sunken marble tub.
Gently, he set her down on a plush velvet bench by the counter.
Arabella watched him as he stripped off his dripping tuxedo jacket and shirt, tossing them unceremoniously onto the floor.
His bare chest was broad, mapped with faded scars from a lifetime of violence, but his hands were steady and gentle as he knelt before her.
He reached for the zipper of her black trench coat, sliding it down and easing the wet fabric off her shoulders.
Then, with agonizing care, his fingers moved to the zipper of her ivory silk gown.
The dress pooled around her feet, leaving her in delicate, damp lace lingerie.
Vincent’s breath hitched in his throat as he looked at her.
He saw the dark, ugly bruises across her ribs and the neat row of surgical staples along her lower abdomen.
A look of profound reverence and sorrow washed over his face.
He leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly against the scar on her side.
Arabella shivered, her fingers sinking into his dark hair, a soft sigh escaping her throat.
“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Vincent murmured against her skin.
He lifted her into the warm, fragrant water of the tub, stepping in behind her to let her lean back against his solid, bare chest.
The warm water enveloped her aching muscles, soothing the deep, bone-weary pain.
Vincent wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him as he buried his face in the crook of her neck.
For hours, they stayed in the quiet sanctuary of the steam and candlelight, whispering truths that had been buried in the dark for far too long.
There were no secrets left between them.
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No syndicate, no ledgers, and no enemies waiting in the rain.
There was only Vincent and Arabella, two broken souls finding their peace in the middle of a war.
