The Forbidden Throb Chapter 135

Emma's POV:

"Daniel?" My voice came out smaller than I intended.

The door clicked shut behind us. The suite was dark except for the faint glow from the city filtering through the lace curtains. I heard the privacy lock engage. The sound of the "Do Not Disturb" sign being hung.

Then his hands were on my shoulders, turning me around.

I looked up at him. His face was shadowed, unreadable, but I could feel the tension radiating from his body. This wasn't the composed, gentle Daniel I'd grown accustomed to. This was someone else entirely.

My cashmere coat slipped from my shoulders as he backed me toward the entryway console. The edge pressed against my thighs. I grabbed his neck instinctively, seeking balance, and felt his pulse hammering beneath my fingertips.

"Daniel, what—"

My lips brushed his neck as I spoke. A mistake. I felt him go rigid. When I pulled back, I saw it—a pale pink lip print on his skin, stark against the white of his collar.

"Oh." Heat flooded my face. "Sorry, I'll—"

I reached up to wipe it away, but he caught my wrist. His other hand came to my face, thumb tracing the corner of my mouth where my lipstick had smudged. The touch was gentle. Deliberate. His eyes never left mine.

I thought. *He's different.*

My heart was racing now. All those bold words in the taxi, all that bravado in the elevator—it evaporated under his gaze.

"What's wrong?" I tried again, my hands braced against his shoulders.

He leaned closer, bracketing me against the console. His voice, when he spoke, was lower than I'd ever heard it.

"Baby, help me take off my glasses."

*Baby.*

The word sent electricity down my spine. Dr. Prescott—perfectly composed, eternally polite Dr. Prescott—had never called me that. Not once in all our months of marriage.

My hands trembled as I reached for his titanium frames. I folded them carefully, set them on the console beside us. Without the glasses, his gaze was direct. Unguarded.

And hungry.

His hand tightened on my waist. Then he was kissing me—not the careful, restrained kisses we'd shared before, but something urgent and consuming. I gasped against his mouth and felt the room tilt.

*Oh.*

**This is what I started.**

Before I could process that thought, he lifted me. I instinctively wrapped my arms around his neck as he carried me toward the bedroom. The city lights cast shifting shadows through the sheer curtains, turning everything soft and dreamlike.

He set me on the bed. I watched, heart in my throat, as he shrugged off his wool coat. Unbuttoned his cuffs. His movements were methodical, almost ceremonial, but there was an edge to them—something coiled and waiting.

He loosened his tie. Pulled it free. Tossed it aside.

*Right. The tie is the last chain binding a gentleman.*

I suddenly felt very, very unprepared.

"Daniel—"

He knelt on the bed, one knee on either side of mine. His hand found the hem of my dress. I grabbed his wrist on instinct.

"You said—" His voice was still low, still gentle. But there was steel underneath it now. "In the taxi. You wanted me to show you my love."

"I just—I was just talking—"

"Were you?"

The question hung between us. His thumb traced small circles on my wrist, patient. Waiting.

*He's giving me a chance to stop this.*

But I didn't want to stop. I was terrified, yes. Overwhelmed, absolutely. But I'd meant what I said. I wanted this. Wanted *him*.

I let go of his wrist.

"You're different," I whispered. "You're not... you're not being..."

"Careful?" His hand slid up to cup my face. "Restrained?"

I nodded.

He leaned down until his forehead touched mine. "I've always been like this. You just never let me show you."

The words hit me like a physical blow. All those months of his careful distance. His perfect politeness. The way he'd always stepped back just when I wanted him closer.

It wasn't indifference. It was *control*.

His mouth found mine again, and I felt something inside me break open. Or maybe break free. His kiss was demanding now, possessive, and I met it with equal desperation.

The room spun. Time blurred.

Outside, I was dimly aware of snow continuing to fall past the windows. The street lamps cast wavering shadows. The distant sounds of Paris at night—car horns, laughter, music—seemed to come from another world entirely.

Here, there was only this. Only us.

Only Daniel's hands on my skin and his voice in my ear, low and rough and tender all at once, calling me *baby* in a tone that made me want to cry and laugh and hide all at the same time.

But then he was kissing my throat, my collarbone, murmuring things I'd never imagined him saying, and all coherent thought fled.

"Are you sure?" he asked at one point, pulling back to look at me. His hair was disheveled. His shirt was half-unbuttoned. He looked nothing like the composed professor who'd picked me up from the airport.

He looked *human*. Real. Mine.

"Yes," I managed.

---

I woke to sunlight filtering through the curtains.

I stared at the ceiling, refusing to move. My body ached in very specific ways.

The sheets smelled like Daniel's cologne mixed with hotel laundry detergent.

The memories were fragmented. Disjointed. But certain moments stood out with mortifying clarity.

His voice. God, his *voice*. The way he'd called me *baby* in that low, rough tone. The way he'd coaxed and teased and...

"Are you hungry, baby?"

I nearly levitated off the mattress.

Daniel was sitting beside me, fully dressed in a navy silk robe, hair damp from a shower. He looked completely put together.