Emma watched the skyline turn gold as the sun dipped low behind the glass towers. Zane had said tomorrow. Now, it was here.
One night. No power plays. No signatures. No masks.
She should've felt in control. But all she felt was exposed.
Because the one thing more terrifying than domination… was intimacy.
A soft knock sounded on her bedroom door.
She opened it.
Zane stood there. No suit. No tie. No armor. Just a dark grey T-shirt and slacks. His hair slightly tousled. Barefoot.
He looked… human.
"May I come in?" he asked.
She stepped aside silently.
Zane walked in like a man entering sacred ground. He didn't touch her. Not yet. Instead, he held out something in his hand.
A single silver key.
"What's this?" she asked.
"It opens a drawer in my study. The one you've never touched."
Emma took the key slowly. "What's inside?"
"Everything I don't let people see."
She met his eyes. "Why now?"
"Because I can't ask you to bare yourself if I'm not willing to do the same."
The words hit her harder than any kiss.
Zane stepped closer. His fingers brushed her wrist, then trailed slowly up her arm. He didn't grip, didn't command. Just… touched.
"I won't ask you what you want tonight," he murmured. "I'll only ask what you need."
Emma swallowed hard. "I don't know yet."
"That's okay." He looked at her like she was already enough. "We have all night."
Then he kissed her.
Soft. Reverent. A whisper of a kiss that deepened slowly, as if he was learning her like a language.
She kissed him back.
But this time it wasn't a challenge. It was a choice.
His hands found her waist. Hers, his shoulders.
There was no rush. Just electricity, rising slow and steady.
He pulled back just enough to whisper against her lips.
"No rules, Emma. Just us."
Zane's hands moved slowly.
Not like a man claiming, but like one discovering.
He traced the line of Emma's spine as if memorizing her by touch. She stood still under his fingers, breathing through every rise of sensation—every pause that asked, Are you sure?
She was.
His lips found her collarbone, feather-light, like a secret. Her head tilted instinctively, eyes fluttering closed as his mouth moved across her skin.
She hadn't realized how badly she'd needed this—not domination, not submission—but this: a moment where she wasn't just a body, but a person being worshipped.
Zane's fingers found the zipper on the back of her dress. He hesitated.
Emma opened her eyes. "You can."
He lowered it slowly. The fabric fell to her feet, leaving her in soft lace and warm skin. She stood bare before him, but not powerless.
Zane didn't move immediately. He looked at her. Really looked.
Like she was art. Or maybe salvation.
"You're beautiful," he murmured.
Emma's throat tightened. Not from the words—but from how he said them. No lust. No ownership. Just awe.
She reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it upward. He let her. She ran her hands over his chest, feeling the heat of him, the heartbeat under muscle.
"I've imagined this," he said. "A hundred times."
"Me too," she whispered.
His hands slid to her waist, then her thighs, then her back again. When he kissed her this time, it was deeper. Slower. Full of quiet hunger.
They moved together toward the bed.
Every step felt like surrender.
Zane lay her down gently, like a secret he didn't want to break. He followed, hovering over her, but didn't rush. Instead, he kissed her again—cheek, neck, shoulder—until she was gasping beneath him, not from heat, but from trust.
"Touch me," she whispered.
"I am."
"No," she said, eyes meeting his. "Touch me. Not just my body. All of me."
Zane froze.
Then something in him cracked—just a little.
He bent his head and pressed his lips to her sternum, her ribs, the curve of her hip. Worship. That's what it was. And Emma felt it in her bones.
He made her feel like no one had ever touched her before.
Because no one had—not like this.
The air between them thickened with silence—heavy, sacred.
Zane hovered above her, breath uneven, eyes burning. His fingers brushed her cheek, her jaw, her lips. Each touch asked permission.
Emma didn't speak.
She reached for him instead.
Her hands guided his. Her body welcomed his. But her gaze—her gaze held him.
She wasn't submitting.
She was inviting.
And Zane, for the first time in years, said yes to something he didn't control.
Their bodies met slowly. No rush. No force. Just movement. Just heat. Just presence.
Emma gasped softly, not from pain, not from pressure—but from being seen. Every part of her responded to him—not because she had to, but because she chose to.
Zane moved with her like a man starving, but terrified to break the moment. His lips stayed on her neck. His hands stayed on her waist. Every movement was gentle, deliberate, reverent.
He whispered her name like a prayer.
She answered with a breath, a sigh, a whisper of "don't stop."
The rhythm they found wasn't perfect. It wasn't choreographed. It was raw. Alive. Honest.
And when Emma cried out, it wasn't loud—but it was real.
Zane followed her seconds later, his grip tightening, his body trembling. He didn't growl. He didn't curse. He just held her. Like she was the only solid thing in a life that had been floating for too long.
He didn't let go right away.
Emma didn't want him to.
They lay like that—tangled, quiet, still. The only sound in the room was their breath trying to calm itself.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
Eventually, Zane rolled to his side and pulled her close, her head resting against his chest.
"You still with me?" he asked, voice hoarse.
Emma nodded. "Too much."
He laughed, quiet. "That's the problem with no rules. You feel everything."
She traced a line across his ribs. "And if I told you I didn't want to go back to rules?"
Zane went still.
Then: "Then I'd tell you I'm terrified… and I'd still stay."
Emma smiled against his skin. "Me too."
Silence again. But this time, it was full of something neither of them had expected.
Peace.
Zane's fingers played absently in her hair. His heart had finally slowed. But his eyes stayed open, staring at the ceiling.
Because he knew the truth.
Tonight had changed everything.
And there was no going back.