Page 50 of Silence and Surrender

Butterflies fluttered in my belly at his tone. “Lead the way, Mr. Moreau.”

We walked separately, each of us on different sides as we crossed the gallery, nodding to the other guests. Lord Rutherford raised his glass as we passed. Reznikov’s eyes followed our movement.

The estate’s west wing was quieter, the sounds of the party fading behind us. A server emerged from a side door, carrying champagne glasses. We waited until his footsteps faded before continuing. Each step felt charged, like electricity building before the lightning strikes.

When we reached the library doors, his hand brushed my lower back. Just for a moment. Just enough to make my breath catch.

The library was dark, lit only by sconces that cast everything in warm shadow. Old books and the smell of antiques filled the air—leather bindings and paper and something else. Something expensive and ancient. But I barely registered any of it because suddenly, Colton was crowding me against a shelf, his body caging mine.

“There is no Degas in here.” I licked my lips, played along with his game.

“No.” His voice was raw, different from the tone he had used just a few minutes ago. “There isn’t.”

His eyes darkened with desire, and his arms went to my waist, backing me into a tiny alcove. Priceless stained glass hovered above my head, and shelves of first editions boxed me in. I was surprised at his boldness, shocked that he’d let his controlled demeanor slip, especially like this. In an off-limits room, at someone else’s estate, surrounded by colleagues.

But honestly, it just made me want him more.

Colton looked at me, his physical needs overtaking him. I watched as his pupils dilated and his breath took on a heavy pitch, as if he’d been running a marathon.

This was nothing like the vault. That had been desperation and adrenaline, fear and discovery. This…This was pure seduction.

Deliberate. Devastating. Deadly.

His mouth claimed mine with the same detail he applied to legal documents, but there was nothing professional about the way his hands snatched at my hips.

I grabbed the lapels of his tuxedo, pulling him closer. The shelf dug into my back through my dress, the leather-bound volumes pressing against the soft satin. His tongue swept into my mouth, and I tasted expensive scotch and barely leashed control.

“We shouldn’t,” I gasped as his mouth moved to my neck. The rational part of my brain tried to remember why this was a terrible idea. Why mixing our investigation and attraction was dangerous. But his teeth nipped at my neck, and all rationality fled.

“Then tell me to stop.” His voice was husky and sensual against my skin. “Tell me you haven’t been thinking about this for weeks. Tell me you haven’t been dreaming about how you felt in my arms in that vault.”

I had. God help me, I had. Being around him was like torture. Knowing what he tasted like. What his hands felt like. How hard his cock could be in his ironed slacks. How he’d looked at me in the blue darkness, all that control stripped away.

Instead of answering, I pulled his mouth back to mine. I needed this—needed him—like my body needed air.

His hand slid up my thigh, under my dress, and I bit back a moan. The contrast of his calloused fingers against my silk stockings made me shiver. When had Colton Moreau, the polished chief legal officer, developed greedy hands like that? He reached my garter belt, and practically growled.

“I hoped I’d find you wearing something like this.” He played with the hook that held my nylons up.

“Someone could come in—”

“Then be quiet.” His fingers quickly found lace and heat. “Can you do that, Isabella? Can you be quiet for me?” His authoritative tone was raw with unbridled passion.

I pressed my face into his shoulder, muffling the sounds he drew from me. Even here, even now, his movements were precise. Finding exactly the right pressure, the perfect rhythm. My nails dug into his shoulders through his expensive tuxedo, and I felt his growl more than I heard it.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

I did. His eyes were wild and hungry. The uptight lawyer was gone, replaced by someone primitive. Someone that made the heat rise and bubble between us. His other hand cupped my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip.

“You’re insatiable,” he murmured, and then he was kissing me again, swallowing my gasp as his fingers pushed inside me. The shelf rattled slightly as my hips jerked. Some distant part of me hoped the bookshelves were sturdy. That they’d survive what we were doing to them.

“Colton—” His name was a plea on my tongue. For more, for release, for something I couldn’t quite name at this exact moment.

“I know.” He pressed harder, deeper, his mouth catching the sounds I couldn’t contain. “You’re safe with me. I won’t let you fall.”

It had been so long since I’d been with someone. My father’s death had pushed me into a relentless cycle of work and isolation, leaving no room for intimacy or connection. But now, with Colton’s powerful body pressed against mine, every nerve ending sparked back to life with startling intensity. The strength in his arms as they surrounded me wasn’t just physical; it was his unwavering protection, his absolute focus on me alone. I was grateful it was him, only him, who was breaking through those walls I’d built. Someone who saw all of me, the determination, the obsession with my work, the vulnerability beneath, and still looked at me with such hunger. Someone whose control I could trust even as it frayed at the edges.

When I came apart, he kissed me through it, swallowing my cries. His free hand cradled my head, protective even now. Like he couldn’t quite stop himself from trying to keep me safe, even here in this darkened library with my taste on his tongue.

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