Chapter 6 Has Exploded

• CONTENT WARNING: This chapter contains mature themes.
• "You're awake," Atticus said softly. His baritone voice sounded lower, rougher than usual in the quiet space.
• ​"The power went out," I whispered, taking a slow step forward. My pulse began to quicken against my ribs. "I came to get water."
• ​"The backup generator will restore the main lights in ten minutes," he said, though he made no move to put space between us.
• ​"Why are you doing this, Atticus?" I asked, stopping on the opposite side of the island. The counter was the only thing separating us.
• ​"Doing what?"
• ​"This!" I gestured broadly into the dim room. "The coffees. The books. The driver. The complete control over my life while you physically hide from me like I'm contagious!"
• ​Atticus let out a low, breathy laugh that sent a shiver straight down my spine. He leaned forward, resting his palms flat against the cool marble surface.
• ​"I am not hiding from you, Freya."
• ​"Then what do you call running down the east wing every time you hear my footsteps?" I demanded, leaning over the counter so our faces were only inches apart. "Why did you choose me for this contract? Why do you know my favorite pastries? Why did you step in the exact moment Solomon ruined everything?"
• ​Atticus stared at me, his gaze sweeping over my eyes, my cheeks, and settling heavily on my mouth.
• ​"Because staying away was the only moral choice I had left," he said quietly, his voice stripping away all business-like distance. "For two years, I watched my foolish son take you for granted. I watched you bring him coffee, help him with his life, and give him your devotion while he barely looked at you."
• ​My heart hammered wildly in my chest. "Atticus..."
• ​"You occupied far more of my thoughts than you ever should have," he admitted, his voice dropping into a dangerous husk. "Getting involved with my son's fiancée was a line I refused to cross. But when he threw you away? When he destroyed your future out of spite?" He shook his head slowly. "Distance became impossible."
• ​My breath hitched.
• ​Before I could process his words, Atticus walked slowly around the marble island. He stopped right in front of me. The heat radiating off his bare chest was overwhelming, wrapping around me along with the scent of dark cedar, crisp rain, and warm whiskey.
• ​He didn't touch me yet. He simply stood there, towering over me, waiting.
• ​"The rule," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Rule number one. The only rule."
• ​"To hell with the rule," Atticus growled softly.
• ​He reached out, his hand cupping the back of my neck. His long fingers buried themselves into my hair, tilting my head up.
• ​When his mouth met mine, the entire world exploded into color.
• ​The kiss was heavy, deep, and completely unreserved. It wasn't the tentative, careful kissing I had known for two years with Solomon. Atticus kissed me like a man who had been starving in a desert and had finally found water.
• ​A soft gasp escaped my lips, and he took immediate advantage, his tongue sliding against mine with a smooth, possessive warmth. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, my fingers digging into the firm muscle of his upper back. He pulled me flush against his hard chest, lifting me slightly off my feet.
• ​The warmth of his skin against my palms drove out every rational thought in my head. He groaned low in his throat, a sound that vibrated directly into my chest, and deepened the kiss, angling his head to pull me closer, tighter, until there was no air left between us.
• ​His free hand slid down my spine, resting heavily on the curve of my waist, his thumb pressing firm circles into my bare hip. Every touch sent a sharp, intoxicating shock of heat rushing straight to my core.
• ​Four weeks of tension, frustration, and hidden glances vanished into the warm darkness of the kitchen. Neither of us was acting like a partner in a fake contract. Neither of us was thinking about public image, money, or revenge.
• ​He dragged his lips from my mouth down the slope of my jaw, his breath hot and ragged against my sensitive skin. He pressed a slow, agonizingly hot kiss to the pulse point on my neck, making my knees buckle slightly.
• ​"Atticus," I breathed, my hands clutching his hair as my head fell back.
• ​"I've wanted to do that since the moment you walked into my study," he murmured against my neck, his lips trailing back up to capture mine once more in a passionate, desperate rhythm that made my entire body hum with heat.
• ​The contract was dead. The boundaries were gone.
• ​When the bright overhead lights suddenly snapped back on as the main generator restored full power, neither of us pulled away immediately.
• ​Atticus rested his forehead against mine, both of us breathing heavily in the quiet kitchen. His dark eyes were fierce, bright, and completely stripped of his usual calm armor.
• ​I looked up at him, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
• ​The arrangement still existed on paper. The black card was still in my wallet. But as I looked at the man holding me like I was the only thing anchored to the earth, I realized the single most terrifying truth of this entire setup.
• ​The biggest danger to this arrangement wasn't Solomon discovering the truth. It wasn't the scandal of the media finding out.
• ​It was the fact that the line between a business transaction and genuine, terrifying feeling had vanished completely into the dark.
• ⁠✷⁠⁠✷⁠⁠✷⁠⁠✷⁠
• ​The next morning, the sun broke through the clouds, flooding the grand dining room with bright daylight.
• ​I walked down the stairs slowly, my stomach knotting itself into tight loops. My mind raced with panic. How were we supposed to look at each other now? Was he going to act cold again? Was he going to pretend last night never happened?
• I stepped into the dining room.
• ​Atticus sat in his usual chair at the head of the long table. He wore a sharp, custom-tailored navy suit, his hair neatly styled, looking every bit the ruthless billionaire who ran an empire.
• ​He set his coffee cup down as I entered and looked up. A quiet, remarkably warm smile spread slowly across his lips.
• ​"Good morning, Freya," he said, his deep voice smooth and welcoming. He gestured to the seat beside him, where a fresh plate of hot pastries and a double-shot cinnamon latte were already waiting. "Did you sleep well?"
• ​I blinked, taking my seat as the butler poured fresh orange juice into my glass. There was no cold awkwardness. No regret. Just a quiet, unyielding warmth that signaled a completely new reality.