11. Autumn

Chapter 11

Autumn

T he Benefield Building was quiet in the early evening. Most of the construction crews were gone for the day. I used my key card to enter through the side door, my heels clicking against the marble floors as I made my way to the main gallery space. The renovations were nearly complete here - crown molding gleamed against fresh paint, and track lighting cast warm pools across the walls.

I spread Denise’s portfolio across a worktable, losing myself in the stories she told. This piece would draw people in from the street. That one would make them pause on their way to the elevator. Another would remind them of home as they returned from a long day.

“Beautiful work.”

I didn’t turn at the sound of Tyson’s voice. I’d known he was there - had felt his presence the moment he entered the room. “She’s incredible. Raw talent like this needs to be seen.”

His footsteps drew closer, and warmth crept up my back. “Like someone else I know.”

Now I did turn. He’d changed from his usual suit into dark jeans and a black sweater that emphasized every sculpted inch of his six-foot-five frame. He carried takeout bags that filled the air with the scent of Thai food.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Starving.” I helped him clear space on the table. “You didn’t have to bring dinner, you know.”

“Yes, I did.” He unpacked containers of pad thai and green curry. “Because I know you, and I know you haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

He wasn’t wrong. We settled into our usual rhythm, passing containers back and forth, stealing bites from each other’s plates. But underneath the familiar comfort grew a gently growing fire. Every accidental touch transported me back to the kiss. Every look lasted a heartbeat longer than usual.

“Tell me about the artwork,” he said, reaching for more rice.

I walked him through Denise’s portfolio, explaining my vision for each piece. He asked thoughtful questions and offered suggestions, but I could feel his attention split between the art and me.

“This one,” I pointed to the girl with the paintbrush, “should go in the lobby. It captures everything we’re trying to do here.”

“Fighting against expectations.” His voice carried layers of meaning. “Standing up for what you want.”

I met his eyes. “Something like that.”

He set down his fork. “We should talk about last Sunday night.”

“Should we?”

“Don’t do that.” He moved around the table toward me. “Don’t pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

“I’m not.” I forced myself to hold his gaze. “But you’ve spent a week not calling, not bringing it up until now.”

“Because I needed to be sure.” He stopped in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to see his face. “Sure that I wasn’t imagining twenty years of wanting you. Sure that when I kissed you, you kissed me back because you wanted me, not because you were caught up in the moment.”

“And now?”

“Now, I’m sure.” His hand came up to cup my face. “I’ve been in love with you since we were kids. Every woman I’ve dated was a placeholder because they weren’t you, and I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to kiss you every time you walk into a room.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. “Tyson…”

“Tell me you don’t feel it, too.” His thumb brushed my cheek. “Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll walk away. We can be friends and pretend that’s enough.”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve been in love with you for so long, I don’t remember what it feels like not to want you.” The words rushed out, unstoppable. “Because every time you touch me, my whole body comes alive. Because you’re the first person I want to talk to every morning and the last voice I want to hear every night.”

His other hand gripped my hip, pulling me closer. “Say it again.”

“Which part?”

“The part about being in love with me.”

I slid my hands up his chest, feeling his heart race under my palms. “I’m in love with you, Tyson. I always have been.”

He groaned, deep and raw. I felt the grip of his fingers at the back of my neck, then his mouth crashed into mine with uninhibited desire. As hot as the kiss was last Sunday - this one was scorching, sending my body’s nerves whacking all over, my pussy thumping, my nipples hard. This was unadulterated fire, and I moaned in his mouth when his tongue swept past my lips as he lifted me onto the table, scattering artwork everywhere. I didn’t care. All that mattered was getting closer and being claimed by him for every second we breathed together.

My legs wrapped around his waist as his hands seeped in my hair. He tasted like spices and peppermint, and every dream I’d ever had about us came slamming into me in this intense, upsurging moment. I tugged his sweater up, needing to feel his skin against mine.

Tyson broke the kiss long enough to pull the sweater over his head, and I ran my hands over the ridges of his abs and the broad plane of his chest. His muscles jumped under my touch. And I reveled at the impact my caress had on him.

“You’re so fine,” I whispered, tracing the tattoo on his ribs.

“And you’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever known,” he nibbled at my neck, his hands working the buttons of my blouse. “Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed about this? About touching you, tasting you?”

“Show me.”

His growl pushed into the back of my throat as he kissed me with fervor, pulling my blouse off my shoulders. Tyson’s mouth tracked hot kisses down my neck, across my collarbone. “I want to take my time with you. Learn every inch. Make you forget anyone else ever touched you.”

“We have all night,” I arched into him as his hands found bare skin. “And tomorrow. And every day after that.”

He pulled back, his dark eyes intense. “Say that again.”

“Every day, Ty.” I framed his face in my hands. “I’m done pretending I don’t want forever with you.”

Something fierce and tender crossed his face. Then he kissed me again, pouring love, want, and need into our connection. My blouse hit the floor, followed by his belt. Each piece of clothing removed felt like stepping closer to something inevitable.

“Wait,” he said against my mouth. “Not here. Not like this.”

“Why not?”

“Because the first time I make love to you isn’t going to be on a table.” He stepped back, chest heaving. “Come home with me.”

I slid off the table on shaky legs. “Tyson...”

“I want to do this right.” He grabbed our clothes, helping me back into my blouse. “I want to take you to dinner properly. Court you the way you deserve.”

“We’ve had twenty years of dinners.” I caught his hand. “Twenty years of friendship and trust and building something real. I don’t need courting. I just need you.”

He pressed his forehead to mine. “Are you sure? Because once we cross this line...”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” I kissed him softly. “Take me home.”