Chapter Thirty-Two

Hunter’s POV

Chicago’s skyline was showcased outside the hotel suite window, city lights reflecting on Lake Michigan. I loosened my tie, watching Grace spread documents across the coffee table. She’d been keeping a careful distance since we arrived yesterday, speaking only about work. I wondered if she was still pissed about me asking about Max. She didn’t know I was only trying to protect her.

“The numbers look solid,” she said, not looking up. “But these projections for the second quarter seem optimistic. Don’t you think?”

I nodded, rolling up my sleeves. “We need to make sure they are spot on before presenting tomorrow.”

It was nearly eight, and we’d been in meetings all day, and we were both tired. But it had been a good day. We should have been celebrating. Instead, tension stretched between us, thick enough to touch.

“We should eat,” I said, reaching for the room service menu. “No point working hungry.”

Grace hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. But we need to finish these revisions tonight.”

“They can wait until morning.”

“I’d rather finish now.” Her voice was clipped, professional. The wall she’d built between us growing higher by the hour.

I sighed, picking up the phone to order. Steak for me, salmon for her. A bottle of Cabernet. Maybe alcohol would ease the strained atmosphere, help us find our way back to something resembling normal—and it wasn’t like we knew if she was pregnant or not. One glass wouldn’t hurt.

“Wine?” she asked when I hung up, eyebrow raised.

“We worked hard today. A drink won’t hurt.”

She didn’t argue, just returned to the papers. I watched her work. She tucked her hair behind her ear when it got in her way, the slight furrow between her brows when she concentrated. My dick twitched in my pants. Shit.

Food arrived, a welcome distraction. We ate at the small table by the window. The wine helped, slowly softening the edges of our conversation. I could see Grace relax around me again. Good—I didn’t like this wall she had built.

“Remember that disaster in Denver?” I asked, pouring us each a second glass. “When the projector died mid-presentation?”

Grace smiled, a real smile that reached her eyes. “And you did the entire thing from memory. Forty-seven slides, without missing a beat.”

“You’re the one who saved it. That quick sketch of the growth projection—on a napkin, no less.”

“We make a good team.” She said it casually, then seemed to realize the implication, her smile fading.

“We do,” I agreed, watching her over the rim of my glass.

Silence fell again, but different now. Less tense, more... expectant. Dangerous.

“We should finish those revisions,” she said, standing.

We moved back to the couch, papers spread between us. The wine had relaxed us both, closing some of that careful distance. I could smell her scent now—something light. When she reached for a document at the same time I did, our fingers brushed.

Time stopped.

Neither of us moved, our hands barely touching on the paper. I heard her breath catch, felt my own pulse quicken. I should have pulled away. Should have apologized. Should have done anything but what I did next.

I turned my hand, capturing her fingers with mine.

“Hunter...” Her voice was barely a whisper, warning and question all at once.

“I know.” I couldn’t look at her, couldn’t stop touching her. “I know all the reasons why we shouldn’t...”

She didn’t pull away. “We can’t.”

“I know.”

But I was already moving closer, drawn by something beyond my control. Her eyes were wide, uncertain, but she didn’t back away. When my free hand cupped her cheek, she leaned into it, almost imperceptibly.

“This is a mistake,” she whispered, but her eyes dropped to my lips.

“Yes.”

And then I was kissing her, and nothing had ever felt so wrong or so completely right. Her lips were soft, hesitant at first, then responding with an intensity that matched my own. Days of denial, of restraint, of wanting—all of it channeled into this one moment.

I pulled her closer, one hand tangling in her hair. She made a small sound against my mouth, her hands gripping my shoulders, neither pushing me away nor pulling me closer. Was she caught up in the same war I was fighting?

“We should stop,” she murmured against my lips, even as her body melted into mine.

“We should,” I agreed, trailing kisses down her neck, feeling her pulse race beneath my lips.

Her head fell back, giving me better access. My hands moved to her waist, slipping beneath her blouse to find warm skin. She gasped, fingers tightening on my shoulders.

“Hunter—” My name on her lips was half-warning, half-plea.

I knew we were crossing a line. Knew we couldn’t take it back once crossed. Knew all the reasons this was wrong. But the wine, the long-denied attraction, the tension of the past weeks—it all conspired against better judgment.

I eased her back against the couch, my body covering hers, kissing her deeply. Her hands were in my hair now, her body arching into mine. Through the haze of desire, some small part of my brain screamed that this was madness—she was my wife’s sister, my employee, possibly carrying my child.

But then her legs parted, allowing me to settle between them, and rational thought fled. I ground my hard cock against her, drawing a moan from her lips that I captured with my mouth. My hand slid higher beneath her blouse, finding the lace edge of her bra, tracing it. I wished we were both naked so I could just slip inside. I knew I would find her tight but oh so ready for my cock.

“Please,” she whispered, though whether she was asking me to stop or continue, I wasn’t sure.

I pulled back enough to look at her—lips swollen from my kisses, eyes dark with desire, hair spread across the cushion. Beautiful. Perfect.

“Tell me to stop,” I said hoarsely. “Tell me, and I will.”