We barely made it to his bedroom, each step charged with the kind of urgency that made walls, doors, and good sense feel entirely optional.
Titus kissed me like he was starving for it.
No hesitation. No slow burn. Just heat—hot and consuming—his mouth dragging over mine like I was air and he hadn’t breathed in days. His hands slipped under my shirt, calloused palms skating over skin, making me arch into him.
Before I could catch my breath, he lifted me—effortlessly, like I weighed nothing—and carried me across the room. He laid me on the bed so gently it made my chest ache… but then his body followed, and everything got hungry again.
His mouth found my neck, and I gasped as he sucked hard over my pulse. His fingers were already on the button of my jeans, undoing them like he’d done it a hundred times in his mind. Probably had. I know I had.
“Titus—” I tried, but the word melted as he slid my jeans and panties off in one fluid motion.
“I’ve thought about this,” he rasped, voice low and reverent, eyes locked on mine. “About you. Spread out. Mine tonight.”
His fingers slipped between my legs and found me soaked.
He groaned, like he was worshipping, not touching. “Fuck, baby. Look at you.”
Two thick fingers pressed inside, slow and deep. I moaned, back arching. He moved them with careful control, curling them just right, his eyes on me the whole time—watching me fall apart like it meant something.
“I want you to come like this,” he whispered, “before I’m even inside you.”
It didn’t take long. He knew exactly what he was doing, and I shattered for him—moaning his name, thighs clenching around his hand, body trembling.
Then he was naked. God. Perfect. Carved muscle, flushed cock, dark eyes full of fire as he rolled on a condom.
“Look at me,” he said, voice wrecked. “Watch me take you.”
He pushed in slow—thick and deep—and I gasped, grabbing his arms, his shoulders, anything. I’d never felt so full.
“Titus, fuck—”
“Yeah,” he groaned, bottoming out. “Just like that.”
His hips started to move, grinding into me with a rhythm that made stars explode behind my eyes. I wrapped my legs around his waist, dragging him deeper. I needed him closer, all of him.
He fucked me like I mattered. Like this wasn’t just sex—it was claiming.
Every thrust hit something devastating. My name on his lips. His breath on my skin. His praise in my ear, low and hot.
I came again with a cry, nails clawing into his back.
And when he followed—body tight, hips stuttering, moaning into my neck—I felt everything shift.
We collapsed together, tangled in heat and sheets and silence. He pulled me close, breath still ragged.
“Mine tonight,” he whispered into my hair.
And I didn’t argue.
It was sometime after midnight when Titus reached for me again, his touch slower this time—gentler, but no less intense.
There was no rush, no urgency, just the quiet certainty of wanting, of knowing. He moved like he was rediscovering me, and I let him, my body arching into every lingering stroke, every breath he stole from my lips.
The world outside faded until there was only the warmth of his skin, the low rumble of his voice, and the way he made me feel—seen, wanted, unraveled.
By the time we finally collapsed into each other, boneless and breathless, I wasn’t sure where I ended and he began. And maybe, just maybe, I didn’t want to know.
* * *
I woke to the smell of what could only be described as breakfast porn. Bacon, eggs, something that smelled suspiciously like fresh-baked croissants. My stomach growled so loud it probably registered on the Richter scale.
"Morning," Titus said from the doorway, already dressed in workout gear that did criminal things to his shoulders. How the fuck did he look that good on three hours of sleep?
"You cook?" I croaked, voice wrecked from... activities.
"I stress bake," he admitted, which was possibly the most endearing thing I'd ever heard. "I have an early workout, but you're welcome to stay as long as you like. Eat breakfast. Shower. Snoop through my belongings."
"I would never—"
"Top drawer of my desk has my journal from college. Middle shelf of the bookcase has my calculator collection. Bathroom cabinet has prescription strength dandruff shampoo that I'm weirdly self-conscious about."
I blinked at him. "Did you just give me a snooping roadmap?"
"I observe patterns, remember? You were definitely going to investigate the moment I left." He leaned down to kiss my forehead, which felt weirdly more intimate than anything we'd done last night. "Might as well make it efficient."
And then he was gone, leaving me alone in his stupidly nice apartment with what smelled like a Michelin-star breakfast and permission to be nosy.
Best. Morning. Ever.
I wrapped myself in his sheets—thread count so high it probably had its own tax bracket—and padded to the kitchen. The man had made eggs Benedict. From scratch. With hollandaise that looked like it belonged in a food magazine.
I ate like someone who'd been living on ramen and spite, then gave in to curiosity.
His calculator collection was exactly where he said it would be.
Vintage ones from the 60s, sleek modern ones, some that looked like they belonged in the Smithsonian. Each one carefully maintained, organized by era and function. It was nerdy and meticulous and so fucking sweet I actually got a little misty-eyed.
This was Titus stripped of all pretense—a brilliant man who collected calculators and stress-baked and gave terrible social cues because his brain worked too fast for his mouth to keep up.
I left his apartment around noon, after a shower that definitely lasted too long and involved zero percent actual washing and one hundred percent replaying the previous night. My body felt like I'd been through a very specific, very pleasant kind of boot camp.
The workweek that followed was its own special brand of torture.
Productive? Absolutely. The Meridian Tower project was ahead of schedule, the designs were getting praise from everyone who mattered, and I was proving myself professionally in ways that would've made past-me weep with joy.
But also? Sexual tension so thick you could cut it with a protractor.
Stephen flirted like it was an Olympic sport and he was going for gold. Little comments, casual touches, that fucking smile that made me want to either punch him or climb him like a tree. Sometimes both.
Titus was subtler but no less effective. Intense looks across the conference table. His hand on my elbow when guiding me through doorways. The way he'd lean close to point something out on blueprints, his smell making my brain short-circuit.
And Raphael? Raphael was driving me insane with his restraint. Professional to a fault, maintaining distance like he was allergic to me. Which, naturally, made me want him more. Because I'm nothing if not a walking disaster with terrible taste in challenges.
By Friday, I was wound tighter than a virgin at prom. Which is probably why I did something spectacularly stupid.
"Would you like to spend time together over the weekend?" I asked Raphael after our afternoon meeting, trying for casual and landing somewhere around desperate.
His response hit like a slap. "I spend weekends with Lily."
Period. End of discussion. Might as well have added 'you presumptuous child' to really drive the point home.
Heat crawled up my neck like I was thirteen again, asking Chris Bailey to the dance and getting laughed at in front of the entire cafeteria. I wanted to melt into the floor, maybe relocate to another country, definitely never speak again.
But then his expression shifted, something almost soft flickering across his face.
"She's been asking about you," he said, quieter now. "The woman who makes buildings. If you want, you can come along on Saturday. We need to pick out a birthday gift for one of her classmates." He paused, looking almost vulnerable. "I'm terrible at shopping for seven-year-olds."
My brain stalled out completely.
He wanted me to go shopping—with his kid. For another kid.
I didn't do children. They were basically tiny drunk people—sticky, loud, zero filter, prone to emotional meltdowns over things like the wrong color cup.
My experience with kids consisted of actively avoiding them at family gatherings and once babysitting my cousin's toddler, which ended with yogurt in my hair and a newfound appreciation for birth control.
But this was Raphael opening a door he'd kept firmly shut. Showing me a piece of himself that probably mattered more than any physical intimacy we could share. The father, not just the CEO.
And damn it, some part of me wanted to see what was behind this door.
I just didn’t know if I was brave—or stupid—enough to walk through.