Bellamy greets me at the door to the penthouse with two glasses of wine and a smile so fake that it’s verging on tears.

“How did it go?” Her voice is strung tight and high, and I can’t bear it.

I take the glasses from her hands and put them on the side table. “About as well as your interview.”

Her face falls, chin quivering. “How did you know about the interview?”

I wrap my arms around her and tilt her face toward mine. “You might not like the answer.”

“What’s the answer?” Bellamy curls her body into mine, the lines of her pressing against all the right places beneath my suit.

“You’re an open book to me now.” It’s almost entirely true. There are times when Bellamy is closed off, far away—like when she’s sitting across from her mother—but we’ve been together long enough. And it’s not just that—I’ve paid attention to her, even when it’s a risk.

“Damn,” she says softly, and I wonder if the word has more than one meaning. There’s a curve in her spine, a sag in her shoulders, that gives her away.

“Their loss.” I spread my hands out over her back.

I want to do so much more—slide my palms over the curve of her hips, stroke my fingers between her legs, rub one thumb across her chin and open her mouth to me—but the intimacy of holding her, of comforting her by being close—it takes my fucking breath away.

The moment builds and crests and crashes against the shore of us when Bellamy lifts her face to mine for a kiss. It’s the same kind of kiss, deep and intimate. Every movement she makes with her tongue sears against my lips in excruciating slowness. The pain of it, of not devouring her, turns into pleasure, and when she sighs against me, my tortured cock leaps against the fabric of my pants.

I’m not waiting for the bedroom.

I pull away from her and turn her around, pressing her hands up against the wall and dragging my lips down the side of her neck. The reward for this? A series of quick little gasps, her nipples rising against her shirt so that when I reach for them, they’re already standing out from her skin.

The energy of her body against the wall is tidal, irresistible, and I can’t be gentle anymore. Gentleness is going to burn me alive. Being restrained is going to be the end of me.

I yank her jeans to the floor and her panties after them, pulling her white socks off in the process. White socks. Jesus.

“Graham, please—”

I know what she’s begging for.

I stand behind her and knock her knees apart with one of mine, wrap a hand around her throat, and dip one between her legs.

She’s soaked.

Bellamy arches back as far as she can under the featherlight touch I’m using against the curve of her neck. This I can be gentle with. This I have to be gentle with. The gentleness shows my power, and holy fuck, does she respond to it.

“Beg, sweetness.”

“Please.” She gasps the word on an inhale that breaks her voice into a thousand pieces. “Please.”

“Please?” I push two fingers into her. There’s no resistance. Her ass trembles as she spreads her legs wider to let me in.

“Please take me. Take me, Graham, I need it.”

“Why do you need it?”

“Because I—” Her words are broken up by shallow breaths, and I watch a pink blush spread over her lower back. “I want to be yours. I need to be yours. You’re the only one who… who—”

I twist my fingers inside of her, the tips brushing up against a spot that makes her curl her fingers and toes with a low moan that shakes and shudders her body all the way up, and all the way down.

“You’re the only one who can make this go away.”

Bellamy clenches around my fingers and I take them away.

“No,” she chokes out. “No, please—”

“Oh, sweetness. Do you think I’d leave you empty for long?”

Belt. Zipper. Both of them fall away like they’re nothing, and I have my crown at her slick, needy entrance, puffy and wanting.

“Oh, thank God,” pants Bellamy.

“Thank me. Because I can’t be gentle, sweetness. I can’t take it slow.”

“Don’t.” She growls the word through gritted teeth and I thrust into her. It’s too fast, and I can feel it—she’s a fraction of a second behind me, a fraction of a second too slow in opening.

I slow down.

She shakes her head, hissing, and pushes back harder.

Fuck. She’s a spitfire. This is the same Bellamy Leighton who chased me out of her little coffee shop and fought with me over a hundred dollars. This is the Bellamy Leighton who walked out of that meeting with Brian and me and came back with her chin in the air and fire in her eyes. The girl who likes a little bit of pain with her pleasure.

I reach around to the front of her and tease her clit with my fingertips.

“Oh,” Bellamy says, tightening down around me. “Oh.” She presses her hands flat against the wall and takes a breath. “More?”

I am undone.

I give her more.

I give her everything I have, pinning her against that wall, her feet braced on the floor, her whole body shaking with the effort of taking me in, over and over.

She comes with a cry that vibrates straight through her core and pushes me over the edge, still frenzied until every last bit of desire is pumped out of me. It’s only then that I can gather her back into my arms while we both come down.

“So you—” I laugh out loud from the adrenaline rush. “You brought wine?”

“I was trying to set up a party. I got a cheese tray.”

I laugh harder. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” I kiss the unbelievable woman in my arms, and she laughs too.

“It was pretty sad. Because I’m guessing we both failed.”

“Being the president has not improved my brother’s sense of fairness. Wait.” I push her away from me and look down into her eyes. “A party?”

“A sort of anti-celebration.”

“Screw that.” I take her hand in mine. “We’re going to a real party.”