The night I almost lost him was the night I finally understood what we were.
Not a mistake.
Not a distraction.
Not a reckless temptation born in a hotel elevator.
We were the slow burn of something forbidden that refused to die.
Three months had passed since that first meeting at the Grand Meridian. Three months of late-night strategy sessions that turned into stolen glances. Of business dinners that stretched into lingering walks. Of tension so thick it felt like silk wrapped too tight around my lungs.
Adrian Vale was a powerful man in every room he entered.
Except when it came to me.
With me, he was controlled—but never cold. Careful—but never distant. And somewhere between contract negotiations and midnight confessions, the line we swore we wouldn't cross became invisible.
We hadn't named it.
But we both felt it.
The sweet sin between us.
It happened the night the deal closed.
The project we had worked on for weeks was finalized, signatures inked, champagne poured in celebration. The board members left one by one, their laughter echoing down the hallway until only silence remained in the executive suite.
Only him.
And me.
City lights shimmered through the glass walls, casting silver shadows across the room.
"You did well," Adrian said quietly, loosening his cufflinks.
"So did you."
His jacket rested over the back of a chair. His sleeves were rolled slightly now. Less untouchable CEO. More man.
"Are you proud of yourself, Miss Carter?" he asked softly.
I smiled faintly. "I am."
He stepped closer.
"And of us?"
The question stole my breath.
There it was again.
Us.
Dangerous word.
"We handled this professionally," I replied, though my voice lacked conviction.
A corner of his mouth lifted. "Is that what we did?"
My heart pounded as he closed the distance completely. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of his body without him touching me.
"Adrian," I whispered, a warning and a plea all at once.
"Yes?"
"If we do this… there's no pretending after."
His eyes darkened, not with lust—but with something deeper.
Intent.
"I don't want to pretend," he said.
And for the first time since I met him, I realized something powerful.
He wasn't playing with me.
He had been waiting.
Waiting for me to choose.
"You once told me I didn't look at you like I was afraid to walk away," I murmured.
"You don't."
"But I am afraid."
"Of me?"
I shook my head slowly.
"Of how much I don't want to."
Silence.
Heavy.
Honest.
His hand lifted—slowly, giving me every second to stop him.
I didn't.
His fingers brushed my jaw, gentle despite the tension burning beneath his skin. Not possessive. Not forceful.
Reverent.
"You are the only risk I've ever wanted to take," he said quietly.
The words broke something open inside me.
All the restraint. All the careful distance. All the rules I built to protect myself from men like him.
This wasn't about power.
It wasn't about dominance.
It was about surrender.
Not weakness.
Choice.
I reached for him first.
My hand sliding against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my palm. Real. Certain. Beating just as hard as mine.
When he kissed me, it wasn't rushed.
It wasn't wild.
It was deliberate.
Slow.
Like he was learning the shape of me with patience instead of hunger.
And yet the hunger was there.
Sweet. Deep. Consuming.
Months of tension unraveled in that single kiss. The elevator glances. The hallway challenges. The restrained conversations that carried too much meaning beneath the surface.
His hand settled at my waist, pulling me closer—not to claim me.
But to anchor us.
I broke the kiss only to breathe.
"This is reckless," I whispered.
"Yes."
"Complicated."
"Very."
"Worth it?"
He rested his forehead against mine, his voice softer than I had ever heard it.
"More than anything."
The city lights flickered behind us, but I no longer felt small in his world.
I felt chosen.
Not because he could have anyone.
But because he wanted me.
And I wanted him.
The sin we tried to avoid was never about scandal or secrecy.
It was about desire meeting restraint.
Power meeting vulnerability.
Two people who understood the cost—
—and chose each other anyway.
Later, when the world outside that glass office continued spinning, unaware of the shift that had just happened inside it, Adrian held me like I was something precious.
Not fragile.
Precious.
"You know this changes everything," I said quietly.
"I hope it does."
His fingers intertwined with mine.
"No more pretending," he added.
"No more pretending," I agreed.
The sweet sin between us had never been about falling.
It had been about resisting.
And when we finally stopped resisting—
It wasn't sinful anymore.
It was love.
Dangerous.
Intoxicating.
Earned.
And as he kissed me again, softer this time, I realized something undeniable.
The sweetest sins are the ones you never regret.
And I would never regret him.