Battle Royal by Lucy Parker

Chapter Twelve

The Starlight Circus

Round two.

The clowns are multiplying.

This time, thedoorway into hell set off a crescendo of fox screams. Darren Clyde was mixing up his playlist.

He’d also switched around the décor. The glowing stars on the ceiling were now purple, the previously white rug on the floor had turned pink and shaggy, and he’d put red bulbs in the floor lamps. Behind the counter, an oversized Union Jack hung from gold chains.

The whole room was overheated, the temperature immediately bypassing comfortable warmth and raising sweat along Dominic’s neck.

“If you ever wondered what Austin Powers’s sex dungeon would look like,” Sylvie remarked conversationally at his side, “ponder no more.”

He snorted, his hand going to her back without prior decision. He played absently with the end of her plait, running it through his fingers.

She moved slightly into his side. “Brace yourself,” she informed him solemnly. “Your best buddy has a gal pal.”

Dominic had already seen that particular horror. Wherever Clyde had obtained his demonic clown, the evil had spawned a companion. Same leering face and wide hypnotic eyes. Distinguishable by its earrings and painted-on spikes of mascara.

“It sort of looks like a possessed Betty Boop,” Sylvie said. Accurately.

“Let’s get these bloody drinks and get back to work.”

It had been almost four by the time they’d left the meeting with Rosie and Johnny, so he’d told Pet to clock off and dropped her near Oxford Street at her request. He and Sylvie had plans for the remainder of the day that involved a takeaway service at the Starlight Circus and another round of flavor trialing.

When they joined the line to place their orders, Sylvie suddenly swore. Her expression evolved from deeply meditative to wrathful. “Unbelievable. He’s mocking up a whole new menu on the . . . the fucking fruits of thievery.”

In a new glass cabinet, an array of desserts now included a so-called Midnight Elixir cheesecake.

“And I expect he’s used my Sorceress emulsion in that, too.”

“I’d imagine so.”

She spun on her high-heeled boots. “He’s profiting off my work. Is that acceptable?”

“It is not.”

“It’s outrageous. It’s probably illegal. He’s done this one too many times now.” She raised a finger. Not the one she’d undoubtedly like to direct at Clyde. “And do you know what I’m going to do about it?”

Leaning against the mechanical bear, Dominic crossed one ankle over the other and regarded her with great interest. When she poked him lightly in the chest for emphasis, he caught her finger, hooking it with his own. “What are you going to do about it?”

Sylvie glared at him, before she yanked her hand back with an exasperated gesture. “Nothing. I am probably going to do nothing about it, because at the first sign of confrontation, I generally fold like a bad round of poker.”

They’d reached the front of the queue.

Without a pause, she said very politely to the server, “Eight Midnight Elixir drinks and two slices of Midnight Elixir cheesecake to take away, please. And if you could package that order in two halves—four drinks and one cheesecake each—that would be great. Thank you.”

Then she again looked at Dominic as if he were responsible for every ill that ailed her and snapped, with extreme crabbiness, “My treat.”

It was probably slightly perverse to feel that growing warmth in his chest as she directed her list of grievances at him.

And yet here they were.

The more Sylvie stared daggers at him, the more inclined he was to pull her in.

For a fucking cuddle, no less.

She was increasingly bringing out parts of him he’d thought were long gone.

“We’re actually eating the cheesecake?” he asked mildly, tapping his fingers on the mechanical bear’s head.

“Clearly, you’re still not one hundred percent on the makeup of my Sorceress emulsion, and I’m missing one ingredient that you’re smugly keeping to yourself. Maybe it’s more obvious in the cheesecake version.” Sylvie hunched her shoulders and muttered ominously to herself. Stick her in front of her cauldrons and it would be like a Weird Sister from Macbeth had gone walkabout in twenty-first-century London.

Confirmed: increasing instinct to cuddle.

He could be disingenuous and wonder what the hell was going on with them, how things had come to this—but he’d never spouted naïve bullshit, even to himself. He hadn’t been living in a bubble. It might not have ever happened before, but it was pretty fucking obvious what was starting to happen to him now.

It had been over thirty years now since he’d put out a hand and had it impatiently pushed away every time. He had very low tolerance for irrational behaviour and he considered it a complete waste of time to dwell on regrets. Which was exactly why he’d always despised the fact that the small creeping shadow of that early lesson had burrowed so deep. That he’d let people who’d long since lost his respect, let alone any chance at love, leave even the smallest scar. And that he couldn’t deny it had chipped something away from even the most casual of his other relationships.

That voice when he was with her? Not gone. But so quiet right now as to be almost negligible.

When he actually had time to sit and breathe and let his mind and body properly settle, the significance of that was patiently waiting, ready to sink in hard.

He accepted the boxes of cheesecake that the staffer passed over the counter. “I’m not sure where you got the image of yourself as a timid rabbit who bolts from confrontation. Five minutes after we met, I copped a lecture on empathy and public relations before you wandered off humming ‘Frosty the Snowman.’”

A fractional pause.

“That was different.” A frown flickered between her brows. More quietly: “It’s always been different with you.”

It was a day for some ruthless home truths. “Likewise. Apparently to a far greater extent than I realized.”

Their eyes met. Held.

Dominic’s hand tightened around the cardboard boxes. “Sylvie—”

Behind her, the door to the kitchens opened and a young woman came out. Speaking of timid rabbits . . . The stranger’s very large eyes widened, and he was surprised her nose and ears didn’t twitch before she turned tail and shot back into the kitchen.

He frowned. “What was that about?”

“What?”

“A woman I’ve never seen before in my life, who just took one look at me and scarpered.” He turned back to her thoughtfully. “Or one look at you.”

“Probably a viewer,” Sylvie said sweetly. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Well, well.” The kitchen door had opened again, and a blond man walked out, green eyes and provocative grin fixed on Sylvie. He was probably midthirties. Muscular build. A uniquely punchable face. “The head of the coven herself. In my humble little establishment.”

Not so long ago, Dominic would have said that Sylvie thoroughly disliked him. Clearly, that wasn’t the emotion directed at him now. The exact degree to which her feelings had changed, he didn’t know. But she’d never looked at him with the loathing she turned on this prick.

“‘Humble’ is not a word I’ve ever associated with you, Darren.” Her gaze flicked dismissively around the gold-standard example of staggeringly bad taste. “Nor is it the first descriptor that comes to mind in this place.”

“Always my biggest fan, Sylvie.” Darren’s smile didn’t remotely touch his eyes.

“And apparently, you’re still mine. Since half my menu seems to show up here. In a remarkably poor reflection.”

“And yet you appear to be buying from my sad shade of a menu.” Darren’s mocking stare swung to rest on Dominic. “I am honored today. Dominic De Vere.” He extended a hand. “Darren Clyde. Owner and proprietor. Your fellow judge and I have a history. Instant pals in class, weren’t we, Sylvie?”

“Well, you did copy my answers on the very first quiz,” Sylvie said. “Nobody can say you’re not consistent.”

For a person who kept insisting she lacked assertiveness, she was taking swipes with the same skill she applied to her sugar sculptures, verbally whittling Clyde down to reveal the little cockroach within. Dominic had developed an apparently endless supply of protective instincts where Sylvie was concerned, but absolutely none of them were currently required. It actually pissed him off that she would have had to curtsy at St. Giles, because this woman needed to bow to no one.

He didn’t so much as glance at Darren’s extended hand. After a moment, the plagiarizer’s fingers curled and fell away.

“Funny.” Darren divided a cool look between them. “I had the impression that you two weren’t exactly fast friends. How deceptive TV can be.”

Dominic scanned the other man from head to boots. “So this is the talentless twat who’s been stealing your recipes.”

Bristling, Darren stood taller, straightened wide shoulders.

“The one you offered to punch,” Sylvie agreed chirpily, picking up the toss with effortless ease.

“He’s a little bigger than I was expecting,” he noted, and the rigidity of her body relaxed into a sudden bubbling of laughter in her eyes. “But I’ll give it a go if you like.”

The guy actually took a step back, to his own immediate, visible aggravation.

Sylvie tilted her head. After a considering moment, she said, “That’s okay.” She didn’t look at Darren; only at Dominic. The dimple beside her lips peeped out. “I can handle myself.”

His mouth lifted. “I never doubted.”

The server came around the counter with two trays of drinks. “Here you go.”

“Thank you so much.” Sylvie took them. “I have two new sweets going into production next week. Clearly, your lonely brain cell is incapable of any original thought, Darren, so why don’t I just type out the recipes and email them straight over. Save you the trip. Little early Christmas present.”

Even the Duchess of Albany would fail to find fault with the way she exited the café.

Amusement becoming an outright grin, Dominic followed.

Outside in the bitter cold, he stood in a circle of warm light reflecting from the café windows and took one tray of drinks from her. “Such a spineless, retiring mouse.”

Sylvie huffed a half laugh. “Even the confrontation-averse have their breaking point.”

“Thanks for the drinks.”

Her fingers folded tightly around her own tray. A thick strand of lavender hair fell across her eyes before she shook it back. “You’re welcome.”

A few snowflakes drifted down over his shoulders, falling to melt on the wet stones.

Sylvie’s eyes searched his as their arms touched. When Dominic leaned in, her lips trembled under his as he kissed her. It was a lingering caress, light, gentle—until she pushed up on her tiptoes, pressing into him. They breathed each other in, the kiss deepening.

Her tongue had just stroked his, sending a pleasurable shock straight to his groin, when his phone rang.

He lifted his mouth with a muffled groan, and she dropped her head to rest briefly on his shoulder.

“I was expecting to come out of this experience sleep-deprived and hopefully many pennies wealthier,” she said into his coat. “Not internally sobbing from sexual frustration.”

Ruefully, she stepped back. “Answer it.” She took back his tray of drinks to free up one of his hands.

Dominic straightened, breathed deep. Joking comments aside, he got the frustration. His body was taut with aborted sensation, his skin prickling as if it had stretched too tight across his bones. In just a few seconds, he was infinitely more aroused than he was comfortable with on a public street, relatively deserted or not.

With a jerk, he pulled his phone from his coat pocket, checked the screen. He swiped to answer. “Liam, I hope you’re clocking out.”

“Nobody is clocking out.” Liam’s voice shot down the line. “We’ve got a problem.”

His movements stilled. “What’s the matter?”

Sylvie had been kicking her feet along the ground, also keeping moving to stay warm. She looked up swiftly.

“Last month, when Aaron was still . . . preoccupied, he took an order from Grosvenor Park Hotel.” Paper rustled. “Twelve dozen cupcakes, six hundred chocolates. Mostly Pointillist Caramels.” Their most time-consuming sweet, which had to be produced and consumed fresh. “And a five-tier cake. He forgot to record it.”

Foreboding was a hard pulse in Dominic’s blood. “And when is the delivery date for this order that we haven’t started yet?”

Sylvie came close, obviously concerned.

Liam dropped the expected hammer. “Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Fuck,” Dominic said emphatically.

What’s wrong?she mouthed, and he grimaced.

“Who’s still there and who’s prepared to stay?” he asked Liam. “Triple pay.”

“Everyone here is staying. Regardless of overtime pay,” his friend said firmly. “You’re a bit of a dick sometimes, mate, but we’re all pretty loyal to our boss, you know. Go team.”

His boots squeaked over the falling snow as he turned with a small sound of amusement, but the sincerity behind the words didn’t pass unnoticed. Or unappreciated.

“But we’re already short-staffed because of the flu bug. Pete left early for a dental appointment and his phone is off. Lizzie’s on annual leave as of this afternoon and is probably at the airport by now. And we still have to finish the remainder of the Farquhar’s order for tomorrow afternoon.” Liam had earned his position at the salon through finely honed talent and years of hard work—and because he was routinely unflappable. Right now, he was flapping. “There’s no way we’re going to finish this on time. It’s intricate work, and we don’t have enough hands.”

As Liam added each dire pronouncement to the situation, Sylvie had put down her armload of drinks and extracted Dominic’s car keys from his pocket. Taking the slices of cheesecake from him, she beeped the lock on the car and put the boxes and trays on the back seat, coming back to touch his arm.

And in a moment of stress and bone-deep tiredness, on a freezing-cold street outside the tackiest establishment in London, he realized that for the first time, his instinct when things went wrong really was to reach out, metaphorically and physically. After years in sole charge of every aspect of his life, of feeling the honor and the weight of so many livelihoods standing on his shoulders, he put out his hand and Sylvie took it in hers without the slightest hesitation.

There was nothing wrong with a solitary life. In fact, even if you didn’t intrinsically want a solitary life, there were still times when it was fucking bliss to spend long hours in your own company. Essential. Bonus points if the cat was upstairs in his own room. However, the feeling of absolute faith that when the cracks started to appear, someone else would be crouching at your side, helping to bail out the water, and that you could do the same for them—

Pretty indescribable.

He rubbed warmth back into her chilled fingers. “Start the mixing,” he said crisply to Liam. “We’ll be there in fifteen.”

“‘We’?”

The surprised query was cut short as Dominic swiped his thumb, ending the call. He looked down into her questioning face. “Sylvie,” he said. “I need help.”

She looked back silently.

And her fingers moved to interlock with his.

De Vere’s

And, temporarily, quite a lot of Sugar Fair.

“Duck,” Sylvie sang out, swinging a tray of chocolates out of the way as Dominic’s sous-chef Liam slipped past her holding a huge bowl of Vienna buttercream.

“A word from you that sends shivers down my spine.” Dominic was transferring the final cake layer onto the racks to cool. The moment it was secure, he turned back to the conveyor belt of chocolates, picking up a mold. As Sylvie took three seconds to roll out her shoulders and neck, she watched him hand-painting the multitude of tiny dots that would form the crisp surface of De Vere’s Pointillist Caramels. Several of his team had already completed trays of these and done so adeptly, but as soon as the brush was in Dominic’s hand, it was as if the universe had a hit a fast-forward button. He was working so quickly she couldn’t even catch the individual techniques.

Now that the more irritating parts of his personality were dramatically losing the battle against his reluctant and increasingly overwhelming good side, she could appreciate his skill without prejudice.

However, they were on the clock here. This was not the time for musings as to whether her more sensitive patches of skin would tolerate chocolate paint.

“Last time, it preceded a fairly dramatic explosion,” he murmured, setting his brushes in their stand and pouring molten chocolate into the mold. He tipped and rolled the mold, coating each casing in a thin layer of chocolate.

“Well, fortunately this is one of your cakes.” Sylvie eased around another of his team with a polite “Excuse me” and set a large pot of sugar syrup on the stove. “And the only soulless robotics involved with a De Vere’s commission”—she clicked on the gas and turned to smile blandly at him—“are the clientele.”

At the cupcake station, a grinning Liam made a hissing sound between his teeth. “Bit unfair,” he said over his shoulder.

“Farquhar’s?”

“All right. Fair.”

Dominic joined her at the stove with another pot. The moment they stepped foot in a kitchen, regardless of whose name was above the door, they were both in their professional zone, concentrating on the task at hand. But as he turned to meet the teasing glint in her eyes, out of the others’ sight and for the merest flicker of a moment, he angled his head as if he were going to whisper in her ear—her ultimate weakness. His lips touched the hollow beneath her earlobe. The tiniest butterfly nuzzle. He was gone and back to work before the last shiver had skittered down her spine.

The man didn’t make a practice of spontaneous physical affection. Clearly, he was one of those people who excelled at literally every bloody thing they tried. If she weren’t thoroughly enjoying the near-constant sensual annihilation, it would actually be quite annoying.

With a mostly steady hand, she stirred the sugar solution and adjusted the temperature, then joined Liam and the rest of the staffers spinning out cupcakes. Most of the team were Dominic’s, but a number were her own people. The rivalry between the two bakeries extended right down the staff line, but every member of her team who’d been about to pack up this evening had taken up the offer of overtime. They’d dashed across the street to help, with no more than lighthearted jabs.

She wasn’t in the least surprised. She and Jay hired for skill—and they hired for integrity.

Even Mabel had agreed to lend a hand and was currently using a lethal-looking syringe to shoot filling into chocolates. Naturally, she’d made a beeline for the sharp and pointy.

And frankly, the whole night would be worthwhile just for the first meeting between Mabel and Dominic.

Her assistant had marched her diminutive self into the kitchen as if she owned it, cast a disparaging look around, criticized his choice of lamps, and skewered him with a comprehensive stare. “I’m Mabel,” she’d said. “Those of my choosing call me Mabs.” Another pointed sweep up and down his body before she reached her verdict. “You can call me Mabel.”

Sylvie hadn’t missed the immediate acquisitive gleam in Dominic’s eyes. She saw it again now as Mabel finished a row of chocolates almost as quickly as Dominic himself.

When he walked past the cupcake station, she caught hold of his belt and leaned close. “If you try to headhunt my Mabel,” she said, incredibly silkily, “the next balls floating in my cocktails? Will not be made of sugar.”

He raised a brow. “I’ll pay her more.”

“She’s very well paid and will shortly be getting a large Christmas bonus. You can try to coax her away.” She smiled at him. “She’ll never come. She loves me.”

They both looked over Mabel, who was—with an air of extreme martyrdom—helping Dominic’s apprentice Aaron to correct his technique. The poor guy still looked on the edge of tears over his error with the order.

“Or she doesn’t trust me to run the business successfully without her supervision,” Sylvie said. “Either way—the terrifying misanthrope is mine.”

Liam edged past them with another rack of cupcakes. “Oh?” His face was alive with devilry, his dark skin creasing into lines of amusement around the light in his eyes. With a pointed chin jerk toward Dominic and very precise enunciation, he asked, “Which one?”

“The strawberries are infusing in cherry brandy.” It was the return of Dominic’s most hard-nosed judging voice. Liam’s grin widened. “Pulse them with the icing. We don’t want it completely smooth.”

“That’s fortunate.” His sous-chef got out a last shot before Aaron tentatively called out to Dominic. “From all I’ve seen so far—it won’t be.”

Dominic’s look was sharp with warning; when it briefly moved to Sylvie, it became a lot more complex.

She watched him walk over and bend to help Aaron. But not before he rested a light hand on his miserable employee’s shoulder.

“He’s a really good boss.”

Sylvie turned. All vestiges of shit-stirring were gone from Liam’s expression. Very seriously, he repeated, “He’s a great boss.”

“I can see that.”

Dominic’s staff viewed him with obvious awe, with a clear desire to meet his very high expectations—but with zero intimidation.

With the exception of one irreverent sous-chef, the atmosphere was more formal than Sugar Fair, but in its way, similarly supportive.

“He doesn’t suffer fools,” Liam said. “But when it comes to mistakes, it’s nowhere near one-and-you’re-done.” A renewed spark of amusement. “Possible exception for incendiary unicorns.” He jerked his head toward the busy stations. “There’s not a person in this building who isn’t exponentially better at their job now than before they stepped through that door.”

There was nothing of the casual, throwaway comment about that information.

He looked at her squarely. “I’m not just his employee. I’m his friend. And it might seem like there’s never been a man less in need of protection—but I’m a pretty protective sort of guy.”

Sylvie didn’t drop her gaze. She didn’t even blink. “Noted.”

A short silence. “You’re pretty badass with a piping bag yourself.”

“That is what they write on the bathroom walls,” she agreed solemnly, and took the cupcake that he proffered with a great ceremony.

At one in the morning, while the rain hit against the roof in steady sheets, Sylvie piped another intricate line of curlicues around the bottom tier of the cake. She switched off the bag to Dominic, who completed a delicate ribbon of sugar lace while she used tweezers to set a cascading river of pearls in place.

“Even?” He made a minute adjustment to the lace.

She scanned the effect. “Slightly more on top.”

They switched places, swapping tools again, and Sylvie stepped up on a low stool to reach the utmost tier. She started piping. “Tell me when.”

“Yeah. That’s good.” Dominic’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the cake in all its crisp, white, beautiful dullness. Without looking away from the pearl drapery, he reached up a hand and balanced her as she hopped down. “Well?”

She took a few steps back, joining the few remaining members of their staff. Most had left with the completion of the cupcakes and chocolates, Mabel so quickly that Sylvie had literally blinked and she’d gone, winking out like I Dream of Jeannie.

“You know those DIY craft kits for kids, where they supply the blank ceramic base and it’s just screaming out for the paint and glitter?” She relented when he cast his eyes ceiling-ward. “It’s lovely. Elegant, chic, and perfect for the brief. And inspiringly executed. If I had my Operation Cake crown coin, I’d award you the thousand quid.”

He addressed her with typically crisp brevity. “Your ingenuity was never in question. But your technical ability now—”

“Is neck and neck with yours.” Sylvie lacked confidence in several areas of her life; this wasn’t one of them.

When the moment between them drew out a little too long, Liam cleared his throat loudly. “And now I’m clocking out and toddling home to my lonely bed.” He stuck out his hand to Sylvie; she took it. “Without the neighborly assistance, we’d still be racing against the clock at dawn—and I doubt we’d have made it.”

“We wouldn’t have.” Dominic nodded at the assembled members of her team. “Thank you very much.”

Sylvie saw several pleased flushes.

When the door closed behind them, she leaned back against a countertop, a flicker of restlessness igniting low in her belly.

Dominic was securing the order away. He picked up one of the cupcakes she’d decorated, holding it under the light and turning it to see a telltale iridescent shimmer. “Glitter is contraband in these premises.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a little sparkle.”

That dark intent gaze switched to her face. “On a cake? Yes, there is. In other areas—maybe not.” He set the cupcake in the box with the rest. “No sign of your business partner tonight.”

“Jay had a family commitment. I texted and let him know I was offering some unscheduled overtime for the team. And where.”

“And what did he say to that?”

She felt a bit uncomfortable, and she wasn’t sure why. One of her shoulders lifted in a half shrug. “Not much. He thought there might have been an insurance issue. Having the staff working in someone else’s business.”

“Did he.” She couldn’t read Dominic’s voice at all.

There were a few spare scraps of fondant on the countertop. Turning abruptly, she collected them, squeezing and rolling until the strange tension in her muscles eased. As her fingers moved quickly and she reached for a paintbrush, Dominic shut and locked the fridge.

She sensed his body heat before he said over her shoulder, “What are you doing?”

Keeping her wee project concealed in the palm of her hand, she flickered her brush. Changed to a different color.

“Sylvie—”

“Just a second.” A third brush, the addition of a few spiky eyelashes, and she turned to extend her palm. Her fingers opened. “You’re welcome,” she said graciously.

Dominic looked down at the miniature fondant version of the possessed Betty Boop clown. He was totally expressionless.

With the end of the smallest paintbrush, Sylvie poked the side of the leering mouth, tugged it upward into an even more disturbing grin.

Dominic’s lips pressed together.

She stroked little BB’s head with her pinkie finger.

His chest started to shake.

Carefully setting the ridiculous fondant clown on the counter, Sylvie reached up, slipped her arms around his neck, and brought his smile down to hers.

There wasn’t a scrap of hesitancy this time, no gentle exploration and circling each other. One moment of awkwardness when their noses bumped, before his hands came up to hold her head and they were kissing—long, deep, hungry kisses.

Her hand stroked his neck, sliding over his chest, and she murmured when he tore his lips from hers long enough to drag a jagged breath and kiss her cheekbone, her jaw, her Cupid’s bow. Her lashes fluttered as their mouths were drawn irresistibly back together.

His heart was thumping under her hand as they moved together. Sylvie traced a light pattern over his shirt with her fingertips. Breathing deeply, she whispered, “You don’t taste the way you smell.”

Dominic shifted, his own fingers trailing down her neck, skimming a tantalizing path over her breast that made her legs shake. “I’m not sure how to respond to that.” His voice was deep. Husky.

“The sugar scents cling to your hair and the fibers of your clothes.” She moved her head, gently nuzzling into the silvering hair at his temple. “I thought you might taste like cake twenty-four seven.”

Less husky. “I do brush my teeth.”

“I know. Minty fresh. Delicious,” she assured him. “I’m just saying, I like cake. It would have been nice.”

He shook his head.

She kissed the satiny skin under his ear, and with a sudden movement, he lifted her onto the edge of the counter, parting her legs with his knee. His big hand gripped her hip, pulling her into him. She kissed him, or he kissed her; it was urgent, heated, all shivery sensation, and she didn’t realize she’d hit the point of literally ripping his clothes off until her fingertips were startled by sudden contact with an unfamiliar nipple.

She froze with her hand trapped under the remaining buttons of his shirt. The taut skin over his shoulder joint was hot and smooth; his chest was roughened with hair. It rose and fell quickly beneath her touch. His teeth lightly scraped her neck as his fingers went to her own buttons. “Wait.”

Dominic’s whole body stilled. When he lifted his head, his face was dark and taut with desire—but concern was edging in.

She wrapped her fingers around his forearms, holding him. “We can’t.”

His eyes closed for a second. He breathed in deeply. Twice. “Okay.”

He was still touching her, but she could feel him retreating.

“I’m sorry, but . . .” She bit her lip, and his expression changed. One brow started to lift. Her sigh was an art form of resignation and regret. “No matter how stringent your cleaning regime, it would be very unhygienic.”

She was up and off the counter in seconds, grabbing her purse and bolting for the back hallways. She made it to his office before he tackled her, catching her laughter in his mouth as they stumbled through the door.

With his hand tangled in her hair, he kissed her hard as he kicked it closed behind him.

“You’re a bloody menace,” he said against her lips.

“You can’t say you weren’t adequately warned.”

He groaned suddenly. “I don’t have any protection here.”

She waved her purse before she threw it down to start unbuttoning her shirt. “I do.”

She yanked open his belt, and they kept walking back until they collided with the couch.

Outside of vampire novels, Sylvie had never understood the inclination to involve too many teeth in lovemaking, but the curve above Dominic’s collarbone was so inviting that she had the distinct urge to nibble.

Or just curl up and hang off him like a bat.

As he unclipped the front clasp of her bra and pressed a kiss to the damp skin between her breasts, she asked, “Are we going slightly down or all the way down?”

He stopped kissing. Raised his head. “The latter was the plan,” he said drily. “But I’m happy to take direction if you have preferences otherwise.”

She was standing in Dominic De Vere’s office with her boobs out, he had just expressed an intention to put his mouth between her legs, and she was fully going to laugh out loud. “I meant, couch or floor?”

His forehead dropped against her chest. “This is going well.”

As she laid her hands on his silky hair, any inclination to giggle slipped away.

There was a lovely fluffy white rug on the floor in front of the couch. Slowly, Sylvie lowered to kneel on the ground, tugging on his hands to pull him down with her. Their fingers twisted together. “It is,” she said softly. “Going well.”

An emotion she couldn’t quite read flashed through Dominic’s eyes. And then they were kissing again, and he was pulling away her dangling shirt and bra, tossing them aside. They kicked away the rest of their clothes, and he stretched out at her side, looking at her. The dimly lit office was nicely warm, but Sylvie could feel goose bumps rising on her skin.

She both really wanted to do this and had never felt more self-conscious in her life.

When his fingertips brushed her temple, smoothing back a fallen strand of hair, her shiver was more violent than it should have been.

“Sylvie.”

She finally raised her gaze higher than the scattering of hair and freckles on his bare chest—and saw, in that cool, experienced, always imperturbable face, a reflection of everything she was struggling with.

At sea with the intensity of feeling. The uncertainty of the new. The fear of not being enough.

Her eyes closed when their faces touched. For a moment, they just breathed, Dominic’s fingertips tracing a small, soothing circle on Sylvie’s upper arm.

When their lips met, it was so perfectly natural—and her heart started to beat harder. She stroked his chest and felt him shudder, made a small sound in her throat when he cupped her breast.

His mouth closed over her nipple, and she drew in a sharp breath, arching a little as her fingers wove through his thick hair.

His lips returned to hers, their breath mingling, tongues tangling as the intensity deepened. She was already wet by the time his hand slid up the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, stroked inside her.

His groan shuddered from deep in his chest as she closed her fingers around his erection, teasing the length, flirting with the head, before she increased the pressure, gave him the friction he needed.

For long minutes, his muscles were stretched taut, his fists closing, and his legs moving a little restlessly. Abruptly, he loosened her grip and kissed her fingers. It was her turn to tense up as his lips left a burning trail down her abdomen, nuzzling over the stretch marks on her hips, pausing to nip her belly button. His hair tickled her skin and Sylvie squirmed.

She felt a renewed spike of self-consciousness when he parted her legs, but it disappeared into incredibly intense pleasure when his tongue fluttered around her clit. Her breath coming so quickly she was starting to feel light-headed, Sylvie dug her fingers into the rug at her sides, clutching fistfuls of softness when he started to suck.

Two aspects of Dominic’s personality had always been very clear: determination and completionism.

And holy shit, was she reaping the benefits.

She was snapping back, just about bowing in half as she came for the second time, when he at last sat up, breathing hard.

He crouched between her legs, the muscles bulging in his thighs, a thin film of sweat over his chest, as she stared, her arm draped bonelessly over her forehead.

“Okay.” Her voice was a broken mess. “Just give me a second. The condoms are in the zipped pocket.”

While he found one and suited up, she inhaled. Exhaled. Repeated, until her lungs no longer felt like collapsing bagpipes.

“Right.” Swiftly, she sat up and went straight into his waiting arms, onto his lap. And onto his cock. She hadn’t actually intended that movement to be quite so fluid.

They both grunted; there was no other word for it. Dominic swore under his breath, his hands tightening on her. Lengthwise, he was perfectly, beautifully average in size, but he was thick, hard and pulsing, and almost uncomfortably full inside her.

“That was . . . impressive.” He sounded a little strangled.

“That was the single most athletic achievement of my life.” Sylvie couldn’t help wriggling. At the slightest movement, her nerve endings exploded happily, and Dominic groaned again. “Four years on the school netball team and I never shot a single goal.”

She gripped his shoulders as his hands went to her hips, pulling her into him as his hips gave an involuntary first thrust. “Score,” she murmured, shakily teasing against his lips, and his half laugh was cut off as the kiss immediately deepened.

If her life and business depended on it, she couldn’t have said how much time passed as they moved together. His mouth was on her neck, his hands stroking up her waist, cupping her breasts as his thrusts grew harder, faster. She wrapped her arms around his head.

When they stared into each other’s eyes, it was so intense, so intimate—too intimate. She had to look away, burying her head in his shoulder as he lifted her, lowering her to her back. His weight was heavy on her as he pulled one of her thighs around his hips, and she felt the beads of sweat rolling down the backs of her knees. She was caught between sensation and awareness and the sudden shockingness of clarity that this was Dominic moving inside her, bringing her more pleasure than she’d ever had—and that was a judgment formed with the authority of an entire catalogue of toys. It shook her enough that she tensed up at the end, and the building third orgasm slipped out of her grasp.

When he came, his face against her neck, she cupped his head and breathed in the scent of his skin. She couldn’t stop shivering, and his arms tightened around her.

His hand slipped down her belly when he regained his brain cells and motor skills, but she caught his fingers, gave them a little squeeze as she shook her head. “Too sensitive. And too exhausted.” She turned her head, smiling into his eyes. His irises were very, very dark. “And trust me, I did good.”

His mouth tipped up. “I’ll say.”

They were stroking each other’s skin, apparently mutually unable to stop. Dominic tugged her into his chest and they just lay there for some time, sprawled half-dead on the rug.

But a growing, nagging feeling was becoming impossible to ignore. At last, she had to say it. “Dominic.”

A slight rustle as his head turned on the rug. His fingers played with hers. “Hmm?”

“I’m starving.”

He pushed up on one elbow and looked down at her. That expression in his eyes was back, the one she couldn’t quite get a read on. She was distracted from her speculation, however, when he opened his mouth and uttered the sexiest words a man had ever spouted in the history of orgasms. “We have cheesecake in the fridge.”

“I was already ranking you a solid nine and a half, De Vere, but that’s straight up to ten.”

“It is Midnight Elixir cheesecake.”

“And we’re back down to nine and a half.”