Page 209 of Modern Romance March 2025 (5-8)

He didn’t know when she shattered in his arms; he was too far gone, himself. Her heart was drumming so fast it echoed the flow of blood in his ears and her breathing was as ragged as his.

It was the hottest thing he’d ever experienced, knowing that he’d done this to her. No—thatthey’dcreated this moment. Together. They both knew this had no future, but for just this moment—this heat-filled, sticky, sweat-drenched moment punctuated by gasps of air and tangled limbs—they were together.

Impulsively he reached out and cradled her face in his hands.

“I want to stay,” he said simply, surprised at the honesty in his words. He wished that navigating life wasn’t such a strain for him and that the aftermath of his father’s death—and his role in it—hadn’t consumed him so much. “May I?”

Even as the words hovered in the air, he couldn’t believe he’d said them. He’d once been the type of man to say such things, but that version of Desmond Tesfay had been buried in the smoking wreckage of Flight 0718, ten years ago. He should be planning a smooth exit; ego aside, he should be thrilled that she wanted him out of the room. It was rare that a woman made it so easy for him. But there was something beyond her stern facade, something that made him want to stay.

“This was nice,” he finished, lamely.

“It was,” she agreed. “It’s been a long time. Thank you, Desmond.” She sat up, drawing her knees together almost primly; the ladylike employee of the sheikh was back. “I’m going to…” She gestured to the washroom.

“Go ahead,” he said.

Then she was up and moving swiftly toward the bathroom, leaving only rumpled sheets and a faint hint of perfume and sex behind. Desmond was left at the foot of the bed, feeling curiously bereft. He missed her already, and that was strange. Unsettling.

“Room service?” he called out to the closed door, forcing lightness into his voice. The last thing he wanted to do was appearneedy.

An aggravated huff came out in response, drifting over the sound of running water. “Fine.But after food, you go.”

* * *

A buzz from her mobile woke Val in the morning.

Automatically, her fingers groped for the slim rectangle and she held it blearily to her face, still overcome by the fog of sleep. Her lids were stuck together and she rubbed her eyes to release them, then froze as the events of the night before—well, only a few hours before, if she were being honest—filtered through her mind.

There was Champagne. Steak. Slow, slow kissing. Not so slow kissing. Laughter. Conversation. And then…and then…

Passion. Unhinged, unrestrained passion, here on this very bed. And afterward, when they’d both been too worn out to move, they’d finally had those damned Wagyu burgers, at nearly five in the morning. They’d eaten them in languid respite, at first lazily and then rapidly, as their hunger overtook them, shoving piping-hot truffle fries soaked in ketchup down as if they were uni students trying to soak up their beers at a pub after a late night.

They hadn’t slept. And he hadn’t left. He’d asked to stay with her, and she knew the memory of the look in his eyes at that moment wouldn’t leave her for a long time.

Then they’dtalked.

In the pale light of dawn, Desmond seemed to have shed the layers of flippancy he’d wrapped himself in all evening. And Val realized how much she missed both the intimacy of sex and of conversation.

They’d chatted about inane things at first, tried to watch a replay ofCoronation Streetthat neither could follow, and drowned their gluttony in ice-cold Cokes from the minibar.

Then he’d asked about her father, and she’d been loose enough with serotonin and food and a pleasant tiredness to answer. His body was lean and chiseled, standing out against rumpled snow-white sheets. The playfulness had gone; his eyes were curious and kind.

“What do you want to know?”

He lifted his slim shoulders, an odd little smile playing round his mouth. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “It’s something we have in common and I feel oddly close to you right now.”

The words hung between them for a long moment. Val cleared her throat and pursed her lips. “Do you always say exactly what you mean?”

“You don’t have to answer, you know,” he pointed out.

She knew. She reached up to smooth her hair and knew she was going to have one hell of a time detangling it in the morning. When last had she forgotten to put on a silk scarf before climbing into bed?

“You mentioned a stepfather.”

“Yeah. Russell,” she said, and even as she uttered his name, his face came to memory. Prematurely wrinkling skin the color of coffee with cream. A little too eager to please with a tendency to lecture, but altogether a decent man, most of the time. “He was…kind. At least, in the early years he was. I was happy when he came because my mother wasn’t crying anymore.”

Desmond nodded, his face unreadable.

“She’d been so unhappy, up until then. And it was okay—it was really okay. He didn’t treat me like his daughter, but he treated me fairly. And then he and my mum had my siblings—Joy, Michaela and Sam. He wanted kids right from the beginning.”

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