By the ti they reached the penthouse, Ella’s heels had been discarded sowhere between the elevator and the hallway, and Nicholas had his hand on her lower back, possessive and guiding, like he couldn’t trust her to walk straight—or maybe he didn’t trust himself not to shove her against the nearest wall.
He barely managed to get the door shut before he was crowding her inside, their bodies flush, her back pressed to it as his lips descended onto hers—hungry, claiming, filled with the kind of desperation that had been simring between them for far too long.
The slam of the door echoed through the space, but Nicholas didn’t care. He didn’t care about the sound, or the view from the windows, or the fact that his jacket was sowhere on the floor and her lipstick was sared across both their mouths.
All he cared about was her.
His Ella.
His problem. His obsession. His undoing.
Their mouths moved frantically, tugging, sucking, nipping. Ella’s hands were already working his shirt out of his pants, fingers trembling as she button his shirt and peel it off his shoulders. Nicholas groaned low in his throat when her palms dragged over his abs, fingers skimming the hem of his singlet, and she tugged his singlet up, her breath shallow, pulse thrumming beneath her skin like a second heartbeat. Nicholas lifted his arms and let her peel it off him, and the mont the fabric hit the floor, his mouth was back on hers—harder this ti, needier, like he couldn’t bear even a second of space between them.
His hands gripped her waist, then slid up her back, all warm palms and gentle command, until they found the zipper of her dress. The mont it ca down, his lips slowed. Still hungry, but now reverent. He kissed her with more patience than she’d ever known, as though unwrapping her wasn’t just part of the ritual—it was the ritual.
The straps slid down her shoulders, the dress falling away like it had never belonged on her skin to begin with. He barely let it hit the floor before he stepped back, just far enough to look at her.
"Jesus, Ella..." he murmured, voice hoarse.
She stood there in her lingerie, skin flushed, breathing unsteady, but she didn’t shrink. Not this ti. The way Nicholas looked at her—like she was art, like she was sacred—made her feel seen. Not inspected. Not judged. Just... wanted.
Nicholas reached out again, slower this ti, cupping her face, thumb brushing the edge of her lip where her lipstick had smudged. "You okay?" he asked softly.
Ella gave a quick nod. "Yeah," she whispered, fingers gripping the waistband of his pants. "More than okay."
He let out a breath, sothing tight in his chest loosening as he leaned in again, dropping a kiss to her shoulder, then lower, mouth tracing the top of her chest as he whispered, "Troublemaker."
She smiled faintly, just about to respond—until he pressed his hips to hers again, slow, steady, and the hard ridge of him brushed her center through the thin layers separating them. A gasp escaped her lips, hands finding his shoulders to keep herself steady.
Nicholas pulled back, eyes heavy with heat, lips parted. "Did I say sothing about you being in trouble?" he murmured, tilting his head. "Because I think I’m the one who’s fucked."
He dragged her toward the bed with an ease that made her dizzy. Her knees hit the mattress, and she let herself fall back as he followed, kneeling between her legs, his hands splaying possessively over her thighs.
The bra ca next, undone in a smooth motion. The sight of her bare to him stole the air from his lungs. His gaze drank her in—like he’d been starving for her, like the mont was too good to be real.
And then he paused.
Ella sat up slightly, brows furrowed. "What?"
Nicholas shook his head, almost in disbelief. "Just trying to rember if I’ve ever wanted anything this much." His voice dropped low, rough with honesty. "And I don’t think I have."
Ella’s throat tightened. She reached for him, pulling him back down until their mouths t again.
They were slower now, savoring. Kissing like they had all the ti in the world—until Nicholas hooked his fingers into the sides of her panties and began pulling them down her legs. He left a trail of kisses in their wake, his mouth hot against her skin. When he reached the bed again, he pressed her legs open with his hands, gaze locking on hers as he settled between her thighs.
She squird instinctively, breath catching. It was too much—too intimate—too... real.
But Nicholas didn’t look away. He didn’t rush. One hand gripped her thigh, the other stroked gently along the outside of her knee.
"You’re so fucking beautiful," he murmured, voice like gravel. "You know that?"
Before she could answer, he leaned in.
The first stroke of his tongue made her back arch. Ella gasped, hands flying to the sheets. Nicholas groaned in approval, tongue dragging slow, devastating circles around her clit, lips sealing over her with exquisite pressure.
Her thighs shook. Her stomach clenched. He gripped her tighter, holding her down, refusing to let her escape the storm he was dragging her into.
He moaned into her, like she was the thing feeding him, his sounds vibrating right through her center until she was trembling, breathless, practically whimpering.
"Fuck—Nicholas—"
He didn’t stop. He didn’t speak. Just pulled her in deeper, his lips and tongue unrelenting until she was crying out, legs shaking, her fingers sinking into his hair like she was drowning and he was the only thing keeping her afloat.
Then he pulled back.
Ella whimpered at the loss. She blinked down at him, dazed and flushed.
Nicholas’s chin was slick, lips glistening, chest heaving like he’d just run a mile. His eyes locked on hers as he stood and reached for the drawer beside the bed, tearing open a foil packet. He rolled the condom on with a rough breath, then settled against the headboard, his hand outstretched toward her.
"C’re, lovely girl," he said, his voice velvet and heat. "You’re in control now."
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