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Chapter 639
Chapter 639:
She stopped in front of him, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath and the faint trace of cologne beneath it, the essential scent of him that she had come to associate with safety.
“Once,” she said. Her voice was rough, uncertain, nothing like the precision she cultivated. “You said once. That this was the only time. That I should let you handle the dirt p>
“Yes p>
She looked at him — at the gray eyes that reflected her own shattered image back at her. He had chosen her. Not the law. Not his principles. Her. The words moved through her like a key turning in a lock that had been frozen shut for years, and with a quiet, internal crack, something broke free.
She reached out. Her hand found his chest, resting over his heart, feeling its steady beat through the fine wool of his shirt.
“Don’t say that again,” she said. “Don’t ever say that again p>
She rose on her toes. She kissed him.
It was not gentle. It was not tentative. It was the collision of two people who had been moving toward this moment for years, who had denied themselves and each other and the very possibility of this — and who would not deny it any longer.
𝘋іѕс𝗈ve𝗋 𝗵і𝗱d𝗲𝗇 𝗀e𝘮𝗌 𝗼𝗇
When they broke apart, both were breathing hard. Easton’s hands were at her waist, his fingers pressing into the velvet of her dress, his forehead resting against hers.
“June,” he whispered.
“Take me to bed,” she said. “Or don’t. But decide now, because I cannot—” her voice broke, just slightly “—I cannot be alone tonight p>
He did not hesitate. He lifted her — one arm behind her knees, the other at her back — and carried her toward the bedroom.
The city lights painted slow patterns on the ceiling. The sound of traffic drifted up from streets that never slept. And in the darkness, two people who had spent their lives learning to be alone finally, quietly, chose otherwise.
“You’re awake p>
The voice came from the kitchen — low and rough with sleep, carrying none of the polished courtroom precision June had grown accustomed to.
She pushed herself up on one elbow. The sheets were tangled around her waist. The Manhattan skyline bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, gray and gold, the sun still low enough to cast long shadows across the penthouse.
June reached for the silk robe draped over the bedside chair. Her fingers brushed the fabric twice before she managed to grip it. She tied the belt with deliberate slowness. Breathed once. Twice.
Then she walked toward the kitchen.
Easton stood at the stove, his back to her. He wore a white button-down shirt that hung loose on his shoulders, the cuffs rolled to his elbows, his collar open, his feet bare on the heated marble floor. He turned a spatula with the same economical precision he used to sign billion-dollar contracts.
“Eggs,” he said, not looking at her. “Scrambled. I don’t know how you take your coffee p>
“Black p>
“Good.” He glanced over his shoulder. His gray eyes were different in the morning light — softer, perhaps, or simply more exposed. “I don’t have milk p>