Jaxson reacts before I can process the danger, lifting me off the desk and shoving me toward the floor in one fluid motion. My knees hit the Persian rug as I scramble into the shadowed cavity beneath Father's mahogany desk, folding myself into the cramped space between drawers and chair legs.
The leather chair rolls forward as Jaxson drops into it, and I find myself facing him, my back pressed against the modesty panel, my eyes level with his lap. The fabric of his pajama pants does nothing to conceal the evidence of what we were doing thirty seconds ago, straining in a way that makes my face burn with mortification and involuntary fascination.
The study door swings open.
"Mr. Reid?" Mrs. Wilson's voice carries the practiced neutrality of someone who has worked in wealthy households long enough to pretend she notices nothing. "I wanted to check if you needed anything before I retire for the evening."
Relief and humiliation war for dominance in my chest.
Not Preston. Thank God, not Preston.
From my position beneath the desk, I watch Jaxson's thighs tense, the muscles visible through thin cotton. My pulse hammers against my throat, loud enough to betray me if Mrs. Wilson steps any closer. The proximity to his arousal makes rational thought nearly impossible, heat radiating from his body in waves I can almost taste.
"Just catching up on some of Richard's paperwork," Jaxson replies, his voice remarkably steady. "Couldn't sleep, so I thought I might as well make myself useful."
"Of course, sir. Miss Harper retired early this evening, so the house should be quiet for the rest of the night."
The deliberate emphasis on "retired early" registers through my panic.
Mrs. Wilson knows.
She has to know that I am not tucked safely in my bed, that Jaxson's flushed face and disheveled hair tell a story she is choosing not to read. She is providing cover, and the realization makes my stomach twist with gratitude and shame.
"That's probably for the best," Jaxson says, an edge of dark amusement coloring his tone. "Harper needs her rest, especially with everything that's been happening since the will reading."
"Indeed, sir. The household has been under considerable strain." A pause weighted with meaning settles between them. "Is there anything else you require? A glass of warm milk, perhaps, or something stronger from the liquor cabinet?"
"I think I've had quite enough stimulation for one evening, Mrs. Wilson. But thank you for checking."
"Very good, sir. Do try to get some sleep eventually."
The door clicks shut with soft finality. Her footsteps recede down the hallway, each one marking the distance between almost-caught and temporarily-safe.
The chair rolls backward, and Jaxson looks down at me with an expression that mixes amusement with hunger. "You can come out now, princess. The coast is clear."
I crawl out from beneath the desk with all the grace of a drunk raccoon escaping a dumpster, my tank top twisted, my hair a disaster, my dignity somewhere on the floor with those scattered photographs. The cool air hits my overheated skin, and with that temperature shift comes the unwelcome return of rational thought.
What am I doing?
Minutes ago, I was grinding against my stepbrother on my dead father's desk, moaning into his mouth while my boyfriend slept upstairs, ready to let him do whatever he wanted without a single thought for consequences.
I straighten my tank top with trembling fingers, refusing to look at him. The passion that consumed me moments ago retreats behind walls I have spent years constructing, brick by careful brick.
"This was a mistake," I say, my voice flat and controlled. "A momentary lapse in judgment that will not be repeated."
"Harper." He says my name like something caught between a command and a plea. "Don't do this. Don't retreat behind that ice queen facade when I just had you."
"There is no facade. There is only reality, and the reality is that I lost my head for five minutes." I finally meet his eyes, and I make sure mine are empty. "It happens. It means nothing."
He moves toward me, and I see desperation flickering beneath his usual arrogance. The shift sends warning signals cascading down my spine because desperation in a man like Jaxson does not look like begging. It looks like violence waiting to happen.
His hands close around my upper arms, grip tight, and I feel the tremor running through him—the barely leashed impulse to shake me, to pin me, to force acknowledgement from my body since my mouth refuses to give it.
"You're lying." His voice drops low, almost tender, completely at odds with fingers that dig into my flesh. "I had you, Harper. For five minutes in this room, you stopped fighting. Don't stand here and pretend that woman doesn't exist."
"Let go of me."
"No." His thumbs trace circles against my skin, the gentle motion a cruel contrast to the bruising pressure. "Not until you admit that what just happened was real. That you wanted it as much as I did."
"What I wanted was a distraction from the chaos you've created in my life." I keep my voice steady, clinical, the voice I use in boardroom negotiations when I need to close a deal. "You were convenient, and I was curious whether reality would match the fantasy. It didn't. Now let me go."
His jaw tightens, but his grip only intensifies. I feel the restraint costing him, the way his whole body vibrates with the effort of not slamming me against the nearest wall.
"You almost came in my arms, and you're telling me that I'm just some itch you wanted to scratch?"
"Congratulations on finally understanding the situation."
"Stop it, Harper." The tenderness in his voice cracks, revealing pain underneath. "Stop pretending you don't feel this. I tasted the sounds you made. That wasn't curiosity, and it sure as hell wasn't convenience."
His forehead drops to rest against mine, his breath warm on my lips, and for one treacherous moment I want to close the distance. I want to let the walls crumble and admit that those five minutes felt more real than the last two years of my carefully constructed life.
But admitting that would mean giving him power over me. And I have spent too long building armor to surrender it now.
"You want to know what I felt?" I whisper, and I watch hope flicker in his dark eyes before I extinguish it. "I felt the same thing I feel when I eat too much dessert or buy shoes I don't need. A temporary indulgence followed by immediate regret." I let the words land, watching each one strike. "You're not special, Jaxson. You're just another bad decision I won't be making twice."
His hands fall away from my arms like I have stabbed him.
The look on his face almost makes me take it back. Almost makes me confess that every word was a lie. But I have already lost too much control tonight. I cannot afford to lose any more.
"Goodnight, Jaxson."
I walk out of the study without looking back, leaving him standing among the scattered photographs of my stolen life, and I pretend my hands are not shaking as I climb the stairs toward a boyfriend I no longer want and a future I no longer recognize.