When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 46

Ethan

I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply as I examined the samples Michael had meticulously arranged on my desk. The office was silent save for the distant hum of Manhattan at night, twenty floors below.

Each small container held a different spice and herb, their aromas mingling in the air as I tried to pinpoint what had been nagging at me for days.

Something about that dish at Black Rose Restaurant. Something about the way Amelia had reacted to it. Something about the flavor profile that seemed impossibly familiar.

I lifted the small jar of saffron to my nose and inhaled its rich, earthy scent. The sharp ring of my phone shattered my focus. I glanced at the screen—Noah. Probably calling to gloat about some new conquest or a big deal. I almost let it go to voicemail, but something compelled me to answer.

"What is it, Noah? I'm—"

"Ethan, get to Thompson's brownstone now!" The urgency in his voice made me straighten instantly. "Olivia just called. Amelia's been drugged!"

I hung up Noah's phone and immediately pressed the intercom button. "Michael, prepare the car. We're heading to Brooklyn now."

The drive to Brooklyn passed in a blur of rage and urgency.

I didn't bother knocking after getting out of the car. The door gave way under my shoulder. Following the sound, I heard movement in the corner of the living room.

"Get your fucking hands off her," I snarled, crossing the room in three strides.

My foot connected with his chest, sending him sprawling across the hardwood floor.

A sound from the corner of the room caught my attention—a phone clattering to the floor.

"Check that out," I ordered Michael, who had appeared silently behind me.

I turned my attention back to Amelia, whose pupils were dilated, her skin flushed.

I picked her up and went out.

Michael opened the door, and I carefully settled Amelia in the back seat before sliding in beside her. Noah helped Olivia into his own vehicle nearby.

"Take us home," I instructed Michael as he got behind the wheel. "And raise the partition."

The privacy screen slid up smoothly, leaving Amelia and me alone in the dimly lit back seat. She slumped against me immediately, her head resting on my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck.

"You smell nice," she murmured, her words slurring slightly. Her fingers began to trail up my chest, toying with my tie.

"Amelia," I said firmly, catching her hand. "You've been drugged. You need to rest."

She pouted—actually pouted—and the expression was so unexpectedly adorable that I felt my resolve weaken. "I don't want to rest," she said, shifting her weight until she was practically in my lap.

I tried to adjust her into a more appropriate position, but she took the opportunity to loop her arms around my neck, bringing her face dangerously close to mine.

Then her lips were on mine, soft and insistent. For one reckless moment, I responded, tasting the sweetness of her mouth, feeling the press of her body against mine. It took every ounce of my training to pull back.

"Not now," I warned, capturing her wandering hands. "You need to calm down."

"Don't want to," she said, her inhibitions completely dissolved by whatever they'd given her. "Want you."

Those words hit me like a physical blow.

The car stopped, and I was saved from having to respond by Michael's voice announcing our arrival. I slid out of the car, then reached back to gather Amelia in my arms.

"Michael," I said, my voice clipped, "make sure there's no record of tonight's events at the Thompson residence. Nothing in the press, nothing on social media."

He nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "I'll handle it, sir."

The apartment was dark when we entered, lit only by the city lights streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I carried her directly to the bathroom, my mind working through options. She needed to sober up, and quickly.

I stepped into the shower stall with her still in my arms and turned on the cold water. She gasped as it hit us both, her body tensing against mine.

"What the hell?" she sputtered, trying to escape the spray.

"You need to cool down," I said firmly, holding her in place. "Whatever they gave you, we need to get it out of your system."

The water plastered her dress to her body, outlining every curve. I forced my gaze away, focusing on her face instead, watching as some clarity returned to her eyes.

"Better?" I asked, reaching to turn off the water.

Instead of answering, she pressed closer, her wet body sliding against mine. "I'm cold now," she said, looking up at me through water-spiked lashes. "Warm me up?"

Christ, she was testing my limits. "Amelia," I warned, "you need to behave yourself."

"Or what?" she challenged, her hands sliding beneath my soaked shirt.

"Or I won't be responsible for my actions," I growled, catching her wrists.

Something in my tone made her eyes widen, but not with fear—with anticipation. She leaned in again, seeking my mouth, and it took everything I had to hold her back.

"Amelia, look at me," I demanded. "Do you know who I am?"

She rolled her eyes, the gesture so quintessentially her that it almost made me smile despite everything. "Of course I do. You're Ethan."

"And you're choosing me? Not Julian?" The question escaped before I could stop it.

Pain flickered across her face. "That's not—" she started, then seemed to lose her train of thought. "I just... I want..."

"What do you want, Amelia?" I asked, softening my tone despite myself.

Tears welled in her eyes, mixing with the shower water still running down her face. "I don't know anymore," she whispered, vulnerability breaking through the drug's effect.

I wrapped her in a large towel, rubbing gently at her arms to warm her. She looked small suddenly, a fragility in her that made my chest ache.

"Ethan..." she began, her voice uncertain.

"Shh," I cut her off, not ready to hear whatever she might say. "We'll talk tomorrow when you're yourself again."

I guided her toward the bedroom, my hand at the small of her back. When we reached the bed, she turned to face me, still wrapped in the damp towel.

"Stay with me," she said, reaching for me with an openness that made my resolve waver.

"Amelia," I said, her name a warning to us both.

"Please," she whispered. "I don't want to be alone."

In that moment, looking at her—vulnerable, honest, wanting me despite everything—I knew I was fighting a losing battle. Not just tonight, but in general. I had started this arrangement to investigate her, but somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred.

I lifted her into my arms and laid her on the bed, my heart pounding as I looked down at her.

"This is what you asked for," I said, my voice rough with conflicting emotions. "Don't say I didn't warn you."