The hours between his phone call and six o'clock had stretched and contracted with a strange, anxious energy. I had called Carlos back, my voice steadier than it had been in days, to ask if he could pick me up at six. He'd agreed with a simple, "I'll be there, Tesoro." The term of endearment had sent a fresh wave of warmth through me, a stark contrast to the cold dread of the impending trip.
As the minute hand on my analog clock finally clicked into place, marking 6:00 PM, my doorbell chimed. A small, incredulous smile touched my lips. He was such a precise timekeeper. It was both intimidating and deeply reassuring; in a world of chaos, Carlos Blackwood was a man of his word.
Taking a steadying breath, I slung my oversized tote bag onto my shoulder and gripped the handle of my two suitcases. I had already made a final sweep of the apartment, unplugging appliances and drawing the blinds, sealing away my life here for an uncertain amount of time. I opened the door.
And there he was. Carlos. He filled the doorway, a vision of impeccable, dark power. My heart did that now-familiar flip, and the impulse to simply step forward and throw my arms around him was so strong I had to physically still myself. I settled for a soft, grateful smile.
"Thank you," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. He didn't reply with words. Instead, he simply reached out, his movements efficient and sure, and took the heavy suitcases from my hands and the tote bag from my shoulder as if they weighed nothing. He handed them off to a waiting bodyguard who materialized from the periphery. As he leaned in, his scent—that intoxicating blend of amber, sandalwood, and clean, crisp cotton—wrapped around me. It was everything. It was the scent of safety, of a bizarre, wonderful fantasy, and I wanted to bottle it.
Then, he did something that stole the air from my lungs. He turned back to me and slipped his bare hand—I noticed the gloves were tucked away—into mine. His palm was warm, his grip firm yet gentle, his fingers lacing through mine with a natural possessiveness that made my head spin. We walked hand-in-hand down the path to where his black G-Wagon was parked, a sleek, formidable beast positioned like a king at the center of its dark SUV retinue.
He was, of course, perfection itself. A black suit that looked like it had been tailored directly onto his frame, his hair flawlessly styled, every inch the untouchable mogul. I, on the other hand, felt painfully ordinary. I'd opted for comfort with a touch of my signature style: a cozy, oversized cashmere-blend hoodie in a soft heather grey,a chic blue denim mini skirt,and my favorite pair of ankle boots.—because even in a crisis, a girl has to show a little skin. The contrast between us was almost comical.
He opened the front passenger door for me, his hand a gentle guide on my lower back as I climbed in. The interior was a sanctuary of quiet luxury, smelling of rich leather and, faintly, of him. He closed my door with a soft, solid thud before rounding the hood and sliding into the driver's seat. This was the first time I would see him drive, and the sight of his large, capable hands resting on the steering wheel, his focus shifting to the road, was unexpectedly and intensely attractive.The engine purred to life, a deep, vibrating hum, and the small motorcade began to move,The city lights began to blur past the tinted windows.
"Are you comfortable?" he asked, his gaze flicking from the road to me.
"Yeah, I am," I said, my hands fidgeting in my lap. The silence in the car was heavy, filled with everything I wasn't saying. "I'm just… really tense. I don't know why."
I expected a platitude, a simple 'it will be okay.' I did not expect his next move.
Without a word, he slowly placed his warm, bare hand on my lower thigh, just above my knee. The contact was electric, a brand of comfort and claim that short-circuited my nervous system. Instant, dizzying butterflies erupted in my stomach. He left his hand there, a grounding, heavy weight, as he continued to drive with effortless skill with just one hand on the wheel.
A few moments later, he gave my thigh a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "You better now?" he asked, his eyes flicking from the road to me for a heartbeat.My gaze, which had been fixed on his profile, dropped to the sight of his black-gloved hand resting so possessively on my leg, then traveled back up to meet his ice-blue eyes. The tension didn't vanish, but it transformed, melting from anxious dread into a thrumming, thrilling anticipation.
"Yes," I whispered, the word full of more meaning than I could ever articulate. In that single word was gratitude, surrender, and the thrilling, terrifying realization that I was falling for this complicated, powerful man who knew exactly how to quiet the storms inside me without saying a word.
The city lights had long since faded into the ink-black tapestry of the countryside when the convoy finally slowed. We turned off the main highway, passing through a discreet, gated entrance that buzzed open silently, admitting us onto a perfectly manicured access road. We weren't heading toward the commercial airport's chaotic glow, but to a place that existed in a world of its own.
We pulled into a private aviation terminal, a sanctuary of exclusivity that made the word "airport" feel utterly inadequate. It was less a terminal and more a low-slung, architectural masterpiece of glass and brushed steel, glowing like a sleek jewel against the dark landscape. The tarmac was a pristine expanse of obsidian asphalt, devoid of the chaotic lines and crowded gates of a public airport. Instead, it was dotted with a handful of gleaming white private jets, looking like a fleet of elegant swans.
And there, parked slightly apart from the rest, was the black swan.
A majestic, obsidian-black private jet, its lines more aggressive and sleek than the others. Emblazoned on the side in sharp, minimalist silver script was the name: BLACKWOOD. It wasn't just a name; it was a statement, a declaration of power that seemed to absorb the very light around it. This was clearly his family's personal vessel.
Carlos had already instructed his bodyguard to stand down. He came to my side, opening my door himself. The moment I stepped out, a sharp, cool gush of wind whipped across the tarmac, biting at my bare legs. I barely registered it. All I felt was the warmth of his hand as he took mine, his grip firm and sure as he helped me down from the tall G-Wagon.
He didn't let go. He laced his fingers through mine and led me toward the jet, our joined hands a stark contrast to the imposing scene. I was in utter awe, my head spinning. The scale of his world was still something I couldn't quite process. Waiting at the bottom of the airstairs were two impeccably dressed flight attendants, their smiles genuine but perfectly measured.
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Blackwood. Welcome, Ms. Reynolds," they chimed in unison.
My breath caught. How did they know my name? I had to stop being surprised by these things, but the reality of his reach, the seamless efficiency of his life, was a constant shock to my system.
A sudden, profound sadness washed over me, cold and heavy. This was it. I was about to fly into one of the hardest moments of my life, and I was leaving the one person who had become my unexpected sanctuary. I didn't know when I would see him again.
We stopped at the base of the stairs. I turned to him, my chest tight. Without overthinking, without a shred of my usual hesitation, I rose onto my tiptoes and wrapped my arms around his neck, burying my face in the crisp collar of his suit. The world, with its roaring jet engines and biting wind, seemed to stop moving. For a heartbeat, he was still, and then his arms encircled me, pulling me flush against him, his embrace strong and secure, a fortress in the middle of the tarmac.
"I'm going to miss you so much," I whispered into his skin, the words torn from a place deep within me I hadn't known he occupied.
"Same here, Tesoro," he murmured, his voice a low, intimate vibration against my ear. The heat of his breath on that sensitive skin sent a shiver down my spine, and I was sure my ears were burning crimson. My heart wasn't just beating; it was a wild, frantic drum against my ribs.
I didn't want to let go. I wanted to stay in that bubble of his arms forever. Slowly, he loosened his hold, but we didn't step apart. We just stared into each other's eyes, the unspoken words between us hanging heavy in the cool night air. Then, he leaned in, his gaze soft, and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to my forehead. It was a chaste gesture, yet it felt more possessive and devastatingly sweet than any kiss on the mouth could have been. The butterflies in my stomach, already in a frenzy, went completely berserk.
As his arms fell away completely, a boldness seized me. I kept my hands on his shoulders, then slid one up to the back of his neck, gently pulling him down just a little. I leaned in, pressing a soft, quick peck to his cheek, the faint stubble scratching my lips. Emboldened by the sharp intake of his breath, I moved my lips to the warm, strong column of his neck, just above his collar, and placed another fleeting kiss there, branding him as mine, if only for a moment.
I didn't wait to see his reaction. I turned and walked up the airstairs, my legs feeling like jelly, escorted by the two attendants. At the top, just before disappearing into the cabin, I turned back. He was still standing there, a solitary, powerful figure watching my every move. I offered a small, shaky wave.
He lifted his hand in response, a silent, steadfast promise in the night. Then I turned and stepped into the jet, leaving a piece of my heart with him on the tarmac.