Page 43 of Boiling Point
I turned to face him, caught in the gravity of those storm-gray eyes. My pulse fluttered as the world narrowed to this single, charged moment. “Maybe,” I said, low and daring, “you’re not all work after all.”
He closed the distance—a gentle insistence that sent heat rushing through me. His kiss was tender at first—testing—then deepened, like he’d been holding back a tide.
When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against mine. “I’ve been waiting all evening to do that,” he murmured, his breath a whisper against my skin.
“What took you so long?”
His low chuckle curled around me like smoke, and I loved how intimate and wild it felt. Drawing back just enough to catch my hand, his lips found mine again—searing and urgent— breaking only long enough for him to murmur, “There’s a more pressing conundrum than what’s on the board.”
I could barely breathe. “What could possibly be more pressing?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled in that maddeningly charming way. “Trying to work out how a woman so radiant, brilliant, and utterly disarming is here with me.”
My heart skipped. My breath hitched. “Oh,” I managed, confidence evaporating.
He cupped my face with both hands, voice low and fierce. “I can’t figure it out. I keep thinking I’ll wake up and find it’s not real.”
Another kiss—devouring, consuming—cut off my reply, and I didn’t care that he couldn’t see what was already so achingly clear. His intensity was a drug, and I craved another hit. I kissed him back with a heat that melted time and reason, tangling my hands in his hair as if touch alone could make this real.
“Cal,” I breathed as he traced his lips along my jawline.
“Gabrielle,” he said—reverent, almost broken.
I pulled back. “You really don’t see what I see, do you?”
He smiled, but there was a shadow in it. “I seem to suffer a particular myopia where you’re concerned.”
I shivered as he skimmed a thumb down my neck.
“Either that,” he said, drawing me in with exquisite slowness, “or I’m willfully blind.”
I felt the moment he hesitated—the slight shift in his touch as a hint of doubt flickered across his face. He held my gaze, searching for something—reassurance, permission perhaps—anything to steady the uncertainty.
“Well, my eyes are wide open,” I said, voice steady despite the wild racing of my heart.
He looked at me like we were poised before some irrevocable leap, his reluctance to cross our private Rubicon palpable in the charged air between us. The kiss that followed was soft, almost gentle.
“Stay,” he whispered against my lips, so quietly it almost wasn’t a word at all.
I met his gaze, pulse thudding. “Are you sure?” I held my breath, worried I’d gone too far—or not far enough.
The corner of his mouth lifted intothatroguish smile that undid me every time. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”
I curled my fingers into the buttery-soft fabric of his shirt. His eyes searched mine—intense, unreadable—as if measuring just how far this would go.
I tilted my head. “In that case…” I slid my fingers down the line of his buttons. “You’d better finish the tour.”
His eyes darkened, lips parting—more reaction than reply. And then, without a word, he took my hand again and led me down the hall.
His bedroom was dark, lit only by the warm spill of light from the hallway. Clean lines. Cool tones. A black headboard framed against a slate-gray wall. Nothing soft. Nothing fussy. Just Cal—sharp, elegant, controlled.
Until now.
He turned to me, and everything shifted.
The change in his eyes was clear before he even touched me—something raw and unguarded breaking loose beneath that careful façade. He reached for me, and I met him halfway.
The kiss was nothing like before.
