Page 3 of The CEO's Obsession

Something flashes in Harper's eyes—interest, wariness, or both. The spark between us intensifies, a silent challenge hanging in the air.

"Dangerous ambitions," she murmurs.

"Perhaps," I concede. "But no more dangerous than an artist determined to make the world feel."

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice. "Your ambition, your talent...they deserve a wider audience. I have resources, connections. I could help your art reach beyond Oakwood."

Harper's chest rises and falls rapidly, her internal struggle evident. I can see the war in her eyes—desire for opportunity battling against fierce independence.

"I don't need handouts," she says, but there's a waver in her voice.

"It's not charity," I counter smoothly. "It's an investment. In your vision, your potential."

Her fingers fidget with a loose thread on her paint-splattered shirt. I fight the urge to still her hand with my own.

"And what would you want in return?" Harper asks, eyes narrowing.

The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. I consider my words carefully, aware that pushing too hard could shatter this delicate moment.

"For now? Nothing but the satisfaction of seeing your work get the recognition it deserves."

Harper's skepticism is palpable, but I can see the temptation warring with her instincts. She opens her mouth, likely to refuse, but I take a step back before she can speak.

"Think about it," I say, holding her gaze. "I'll see you again, Harper Lane."

I turn and walk away, feeling her eyes boring into my back. She’ll take the bait.

She has to.

CHAPTER

TWO

Mason

The morning sunslants through the penthouse windows, painting my skin with golden light. But it's not the warmth that wakes me—it's thoughts ofher. Harper. Her vivid image burns behind my eyelids, consuming me from the inside out.

I sit up, sheets pooling around my waist, and run a hand through my hair. "Jesus," I mutter, my voice rough with sleep and something darker.

Last night replays in my mind: Harper weaving through the fundraiser crowd, a whirlwind of color against Oakwood's muted elegance. The way her eyes flashed when she spoke about her art, challenging the world to keep up.

I close my eyes, letting the memories wash over me. Harper was radiant last night, her auburn hair catching the light like burnished copper. Those hazel eyes sparked with passion as she described her latest series—a study in motion and stillness. Her slender hands moved gracefully, punctuating each point.

My breath catches as I recall the way her emerald dress clung to every curve. The neckline dipped just low enough to hint at the swell of her breasts. When she turned, the fabric skimmed over the perfect arch of her back, down to the flare of her hips.

I groan, my cock hardening as I imagine running my hands over that silken skin. Tracing the line of her collarbone with my tongue. Cupping those pert breasts, feeling her nipples harden beneath my palms. I picture her gasping as I push her against the wall, hiking up that tantalizingly short dress.

My hand drifts lower, wrapping around my shaft as visions of Harper writhe through my mind. I want to worship every inch of her body. To claim her, possess her, make her mine in every way.

I groan and make myself stop, my fists clenching in the Egyptian cotton sheets. This obsession is...unexpected. Unprecedented.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting cool hardwood. "Get it together, Blackwood," I growl at myself. But even as I say it, I know it's futile. The fire Harper ignited refuses to be extinguished by logic or self-control.

I stalk to the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out at Oakwood's pristine streets. The town looks small from up here, containable. But Harper...she's anything but. Her raw talent, her unapologetic authenticity—it's intoxicating. Dangerous.

"I have to see her again," I decide, the words escaping before I can stop them. It's not a want. It's aneed, primal and all-consuming.

I press my forehead against the cool glass, wrestling with the intensity of my reaction. This isn't me. I don't lose control. I don't fixate.

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