Damn it!
Liam hadn't expected this. He came to rattle her, to remind her she was in his orbit now. But here she was, in the morning light of her condo, barefoot and bare under white silk that betrayed every secret curve. Vulnerable. Uncovered. Achingly close.
His breath caught before he forced it out slow. His fists curled at his sides, nails pressing into his palms as if pain could tether him. Control, Alcaraz. Control.
But control was slipping. His body ached to push her back against the cool marble wall, to cage her in with his weight, to crush his mouth to hers until she forgot the word no.
Her scent wrapped around him—warm skin, shampoo, a hint of coffee lingering in the air. His pulse hammered. He wanted. He wanted too damn much.
"You can't just barge in—" she snapped, cheeks burning as she grabbed for her suitcase.
His gaze pinned her. "If I hadn't, you'd still be running late," he said, voice low, measured. But inside he was burning, every second a test. "You want to play professional, Mia? Then act like it."
She muttered something sharp under her breath, turning away, trying to ignore him. The hem of her gown shifted with her movement, flashing the lace beneath, and Liam nearly swore aloud.
Because the truth was brutal.
He didn't want to leave.
He didn't want to pretend.
He wanted her—bare, raw, his.
Leaning against the wall, his body taut with restraint, he dragged his gaze away long enough to keep from snapping. His voice came out rough, husky, dangerous. "Get dressed, Mia."
Her head whipped around, her eyes sparking fire.
Liam's lips curved into a faint smirk, though his jaw remained iron-tight. He let his voice drop lower, intimate, a warning and a promise all at once.
"Because if you don't... I swear to God, I won't be able to keep my hands off you."
The air froze.
Her chest rose and fell sharply, her pulse stuttering in her throat. He turned then, giving her the illusion of space, his broad back to her as he forced himself to focus on anything but the image of her half-bare behind him.
But they both knew the truth.
The space between them was already gone.
Christ.
Liam dragged a hand over his jaw, willing his mind to blank, willing himself not to look again. But it was useless. No matter how hard he tried to shove Mia Villaruiz to the edges of his thoughts, she seeped back in—like smoke curling through cracks, like fire licking under a locked door.
She was exactly as he remembered.
Except worse.
Except better.
The nightgown clung to her curves with the kind of careless intimacy that no designer dress could match, the morning light making her glow in ways that made his chest ache. Everything about her was sharper, more refined than the girl burned into his memory—her posture, her voice, the defiance in her eyes. She'd grown into the kind of woman who carried her scars like armor, and God help him, it only made her more irresistible.
His throat went dry. How the hell am I supposed to do this?
Every part of him screamed to close the distance, to press her against the glass wall of her condo, to taste her again until she shattered beneath him. The memory of her lips, the heat of her skin, the way she used to tremble under his touch—they all came roaring back, vivid, relentless. He ached with it.
But then her voice cut sharp through the air, laced with venom he'd earned, and it gutted him.
She hated him. He knew it. Felt it in every pointed glare, every clipped word. She'd built her walls high, made sure he could see them, touch them, but never breach them again. And if he wasn't careful—if he let himself slip—he'd prove her right.
So he clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms until it hurt. He forced his breathing even. He told himself to focus on business, on anything but her bare skin and the lace teasing beneath that flimsy gown.
But even as he stood there, battling with himself, he knew the truth.
Mia wasn't just a ghost from his past.
She was a storm he couldn't outrun.
And this time, she was more perfect, more dangerous than ever.
And God help him—he didn't know how long he could keep his hands off her.
The jet gleamed on the private runway, sleek and predatory, a mirror of the man who owned it. Inside, the hum of the engines filled the silence, steady and low, while leather seats gleamed under soft light.
Mia slid into the cabin with her chin held high, a sharp contrast to the fact she'd nearly missed the flight. She wore simple jeans and a blouse now, her hair hastily tamed, but Liam saw through it. He always did.
He leaned back in his seat, feigning calm, though every nerve in his body was strung tight. She wouldn't meet his gaze at first, busying herself with her bag, her phone, the safety belt that didn't need adjusting three times. But when her eyes finally flicked to him, it was like a blow to his chest.
Christ, she's perfect.
Sharper than the girl he remembered, softer than the woman she wanted to pretend to be. And right now—sitting across from him in a cabin that felt far too small—she was close enough to touch. Close enough that he could almost imagine leaning forward, closing the gap, and tasting the defiance off her lips.
But he couldn't. Not when her glare burned with the memory of every mistake he'd made.
"Comfortable?" he asked at last, his tone cool, deliberately detached.
Mia's gaze snapped to his, and for a second he saw it—the flicker of the girl who used to look at him like he was the only man alive. Then it vanished, smothered beneath ice.
"Perfectly," she replied, her voice smooth as glass. She turned her head toward the window, as if the sky beyond could shield her from him.
He clenched his jaw, staring at the delicate curve of her neck. The scent of her shampoo drifted through the cabin, subtle, maddening, pulling him back to every time he'd buried his face there, drunk on her.
Don't think about it. Don't think about her lips. Don't think about how she tastes.
But he couldn't stop. His mind betrayed him, replaying memories he'd fought to bury—her laughter spilling into his mouth, her nails clutching at his back, her body arching into his like it had been made to fit him.
And now? Now she sat just a few feet away, pretending he didn't exist, pretending he hadn't once been everything.
He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. His voice dropped, quiet but sharp enough to cut through the hum of the engines.
"Tell me, Mia... does he touch your hand the way you pretended in that restaurant?"
Her head whipped toward him, eyes wide, lips parting in shock. Color flushed her cheeks, but her glare sharpened like a blade.
"That's none of your business," she hissed.
Liam's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smirk. "Exactly. And yet you wanted me to see it." His gaze burned into hers, unflinching, relentless. "You wanted me to feel it."
Her breath caught, her hands curling tight in her lap. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" His voice was silk over steel, low and raw. "Because from where I sat, it looked like a performance. For me."
The air between them crackled, heavy with everything unsaid. She turned away again, her jaw clenched, but not before he caught the tremor in her hands.
Liam leaned back, forcing his fists open against the leather armrests, every muscle aching with restraint. God, he wanted to kiss her. To shut her up. To remind her who she once burned for.
But he didn't. He couldn't. Not yet.
So instead, he let his words do what his hands couldn't.
"Careful, Mia," he murmured, his tone dark and intimate, curling through the charged silence. "Because the more you pretend you don't want me, the harder it gets to keep my hands off you."
Her chest heaved, her lips parted—but she said nothing.
And for Liam, that silence was the sweetest, cruelest proof.
Because even through her anger, her pride, her carefully built distance—Mia Villaruiz still carried a flame only he could ignite.
And he would make damn sure she remembered it.
The jet climbed higher, the clouds swallowing the windows in a haze of white, but inside, the air burned thick between them. Mia sat rigid, her gaze locked on the endless sky, pretending she didn't feel him watching her.
Liam didn't bother pretending. His eyes traced her—the defiance in her jaw, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers toyed with the hem of her blouse as though she needed something, anything, to ground her.
God, she's stunning. Too stunning. It was torture, having her this close, her legs brushing the leather, her perfume threading through the cabin until it was all he could breathe.
He leaned forward, his voice low, deliberate.
"Why are you fighting it, Mia?"
Her head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. "Fighting what?"
"This." His hand cut subtly through the air between them. "Us."
"There is no us," she shot back, her tone sharp, but her pulse betrayed her, pounding wildly at her throat.
Liam smirked, slow and lethal. "Say it as many times as you want. Maybe one day you'll believe it."
Her lips parted to retort, but he was already moving. One shift forward, his knees brushing hers, and the cabin felt unbearably small. His hand braced on the armrest beside her, caging her in without touching her.
Mia's breath stuttered. She hated herself for it, for the way her body betrayed her even as her mind screamed to push him away. Heat pooled low in her stomach, her heart slamming against her ribs.
"Liam," she whispered, warning threaded with something softer, something dangerous.
He lowered his head, his mouth hovering just inches from hers. His breath fanned her lips, warm and intoxicating, and the memory of his kiss—the taste of him, the way he once consumed her—came crashing back so vividly her hands trembled.
He saw it. Felt it. And it wrecked him.
God help me. I can't stop.
His eyes darkened, the restraint in his body unraveling thread by thread. He ached to claim her again, to devour her, to remind her of every reason she once belonged to him.
His lips brushed hers—barely, a whisper of contact, enough to send fire ripping through both of them.
Then—
The jet jolted sharply, turbulence rattling through the cabin. Mia gasped, jerking back, her hand instinctively clutching his shirt before she realized what she'd done.
The intercom crackled to life. "Apologies, Mr. Alcaraz, just a bit of rough air. Nothing to worry about."
Liam closed his eyes for half a second, fighting to steady himself. When he opened them again, Mia was still clutching him, her fingers fisted in the cotton of his t-shirt. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted—shaken, furious, and something else she wouldn't dare name.
Slowly, deliberately, he leaned closer once more. His mouth brushed her ear, his voice dark silk.
"Careful, Mia. The next time... turbulence won't be what stops me."
Her grip loosened, her hand falling away as though burned. She turned her face to the window, but her reflection betrayed her—cheeks flushed, lips trembling, eyes shining with the truth she didn't want him to see.
And Liam sat back in his seat, his jaw tight, his chest heaving, knowing he'd just pushed them both past a line they couldn't ignore.