Chapter 188

His breath was warm against her ear, the words barely forming. "Call me." The sound was swallowed by the space between them, earning only a drowsy hum in response.

His fingers flexed against her waist, a playful warning that made her lashes lift. When their gazes met, her eyes were liquid pools reflecting his own hunger.

The second kiss was softer, deliberate. His lips brushed hers as he repeated the demand with aching clarity. "Call me."

"Adrian," she sighed, the name slipping out in a dreamy exhale.

That earned her a smirk. His thumb traced her jawline, tilting her face upward.

"Say it properly, sweetheart."

A Little Weak

Vivian knew any protest now would be theatrical at best.

"Darling," she breathed, the single syllable cracking with unguarded tenderness.

She'd used that endearment a thousand times—in scripted love scenes, during public appearances, even in moments of genuine affection. But never like this. Never with her pulse fluttering at her throat like a trapped bird.

Water droplets slid from her wet hair along her cheekbone. In the mirror of his dark eyes, she saw herself—flushed, trembling, utterly unraveled.

The bathroom air hung thick between them, charged with every ragged inhale and the deafening drumbeat of two hearts synchronizing.

Adrian knew this craving wasn't chemical.

The spiked champagne had been child's play compared to the hell he'd survived years ago—captured during negotiations in Ashford, injected with enough truth serum to drop a bull elephant. He'd stayed conscious by carving symbols into his own flesh with a belt buckle, the agony his only anchor.

That merciless endurance had carved his empire's foothold overseas, earning him equal parts reverence and terror from boardrooms and back alleys alike.

His grip tightened as he searched her face. "Tell me who I am."

"You're Adrian," Vivian whispered, the words honey-thick. "My husband."

Heat licked through her veins, unbearable and exquisite. Only his touch could quench this fire.

Her answer sent primal satisfaction coursing through him. Here, now, there were no roles to play. Just her skin against his, her breath mingling with his, her surrender as devastating as his need.

His fingers combed through her damp strands, tracing the shell of her ear before claiming her mouth again.

This kiss was different—hungrier, deeper, as if he could devour the very air from her lungs.