Page 88 of His To Unravel
By the time we step outside, the morning air is crisp with sunlight spilling over the city streets. Nathaniel’s hand slides around my waist, tugging me close to him as the Rolls-Royce glides to the curb.
Once the doors shut, Nathaniel leans forward and presses a button that slides the privacy screen into place. The second it clicks, he pulls me onto his lap. His arms wrap around me as he buries his face in the curve of my neck.
A soft sigh escapes him, the tension from earlier still evident in the way his hands hold me tighter than necessary.
“I don’t like the way other men look at you,” he murmurs against my skin.
I tilt my head, threading my fingers through his hair. “They only notice me because of you, Nathaniel.”
He pulls back just enough to tilt my chin up, his gaze shadowed with something deeper than lust. I recognise the shift in him—this way desire blends with protectiveness, how the aftermath of this morning still clings to him like smoke. This isn’t just about wanting me. It’s about undoing the unease, reclaiming what’s his.
His lips find mine, feather-light at first. Measured. But restraint slips away almost instantly. The tension from earlier unfurling through the press of his mouth, turning deliberate into desperate, reverent into ruthless—and I let it consume me.
One of his hands slide down, cupping the curve of my waist. His fingers splay wide as if to mold me closer, to erase any space between us. The air thickens, heady with the weight of his need, and I feel it in the way his hands roam—tracing up my sides,gripping possessively at my hip before drifting lower, claiming every inch within reach.
I respond without thinking. My arms slip beneath his jacket, tugging him closer. The heat of his touch sends shivers ricocheting down my spine, and I lean further into him, caught in the dizzying pull of how deeply he wants me.
It isn’t just a kiss—it’s a vow, one that whispers that he’ll consume me whole if I let him. And god, I want him to.
The rest of the world blurs into nothing, leaving only the intoxicating sensation of his mouth against mine, his hands mapping every part of me he can reach.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against mine, his breath shallow.
“They notice you,” he insists, brushing his thumb against my bottom lip. “And I don’t like it.”
I offer him a small smile, holding his gaze. “It doesn’t matter who notices me, because the only one I see is you.”
TWENTY-FIVE
nathaniel
The city glows beneath us,soft and distant from the deck of the yacht as it drifts along the Hudson. Olivia stands near the railing, the wind teasing strands of her hair loose as she stares out at the Manhattan skyline, her face illuminated by the faint shimmer of the lights reflecting on the water. She looks untouched by the weight of the world—a vision carved out of the evening itself.
And she ismine.
I never intended to feel this way. Watching her, I find myself caught in the undercurrent of jealousy that has surfaced more times than I care to admit over the last day and a half. The way David Matthews looked at her. The lilt in Hunter Donaldson’s voice. It wasn’t just interest—it was audacity. Thinking Olivia could be pulled into their orbit.
They don’t understand what she is. What she’s becoming. She doesn’t belong to their world—yet. But she shifts the energy of a room when she enters. She draws attention like gravity.
This morning, we started at The Met. Empty. Quiet. Only us and the distant footsteps of the curator who remained just farenough away to give the illusion of privacy. I didn’t watch the art. I watchedher.
The way her eyes softened under the glow of the skylight in the European gallery, how she paused a little longer in front of Degas, her head tilting just so, as if the ballerinas whispered secrets only she could hear. I made a note of that. There will be a Degas in her future.
I arranged for her to see the hidden rooms too—the restoration spaces closed to the public. She touched the edge of an unfinished canvas with delicate reverence, and I wondered if she knew she was already shaping something unfinished in me.
Broadway came after. A private rehearsal. We sat in the empty theater, velvet seats stretching out in every direction. The stage held her attention, her eyes bright as the performers drifted in and out, their voices filling the quiet.
Olivia leaned into me at one point, her hand slipping into mine without a second thought, and I felt something dangerous settle in my chest. I squeezed her hand just a little too tightly, but she didn’t pull away.
Now, the yacht carries us around the city’s edges, the skyline reflecting back like a distorted mirage on the water. Olivia finally turns, catching me staring at her. She smiles—soft, unguarded.
“Something on your mind?” she asks, her voice light but knowing.
I tilt my head, lifting the corner of my mouth. “I like seeing you like this.”
Her brow arches slightly. “Like what?”
“Like you belong here.” I move closer, my arm banding around her waist and pulling her flush against me.
