**Chapter 8: The Deal Closes**

The boardroom smells like polished mahogany, expensive cologne, and the sharp, electric tang of adrenaline. I sit at the far end of the long table, my spine straight, my hands folded neatly in my lap. My reflection stares back at me from the glossy surface of the table: composed, professional, utterly in control. Or at least, that’s what I’m projecting. Beneath the tailored blazer and the silk blouse I carefully buttoned this morning, my pulse is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

Across from me, Liam signs the final page.

The pen glides smoothly, his signature a sharp, confident sweep. He presses down firmly, caps the pen, and sets it aside. The sound echoes in the quiet room. The deal is closed. Twenty-three million dollars. A merger that will restructure our company’s trajectory for the next decade. And it’s all because of me. Because of us. The stepsiblings playing house for corporate optics. The fake romance that kept the board calm, the investors smiling, the press distracted.

I swallow. It’s done. The script is clear. I collect the balance. He shakes my hand. I walk out. He gets his victory. I get my payout. No strings. No lingering. No complicated feelings that have no place in a transaction.

The executives around the table exhale in unison. Cheers break out, low at first, then louder. Hands clap on Liam’s shoulders. A VP raises a glass of mineral water like it’s champagne. Liam stands, shaking hands, offering quiet, measured congratulations. He looks every bit the successful businessman: tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show the hard line of his forearms. His dark hair is perfectly in place. His jaw is set. But when his eyes find mine, the mask slips. Just for a fraction of a second. Something raw flickers in that dark gaze. Hunger. Want. Possession.

I look away quickly. Keep my face neutral. Professional. The arrangement was strictly transactional. I remind myself of that, again and again, like a mantra. The money is already in my account. The final wire was processed this morning. I’m done.

The others file out, chattering, congratulating, already planning the post-merger celebrations. The heavy oak doors click shut behind the last executive. Silence settles over the room, thick and heavy. I stand, smoothing my skirt, gathering my notebook and tablet. I’m ready to go. Ready to collect the final clause and disappear into the life I was supposed to have before this arrangement tangled me up in Liam’s world.

“Zoe.”

His voice stops me. Low. Quiet. It cuts through the quiet like a blade.

I turn. He’s still at the head of the table, watching me. The successful businessman is gone. What’s left is something heavier. Darker. Hungrier.

I walk toward him, heels clicking against the polished floor. “The deal’s closed, Liam. The contingency clause is satisfied. I’ll be at your office at nine tomorrow to finalize the severance paperwork. Or whatever you want to call it.” I keep my voice steady. Professional. But my hands are trembling. I hide them in my coat pockets.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Instead, he steps around the table, closing the distance between us in two long strides. Before I can brace myself, his hand cups my jaw, his thumb brushing my lower lip. His touch is warm. Calloused. Unmistakably male. And it sends a jolt straight down my spine.

“You really think this is about severance?” he murmurs, voice rough at the edges.

I pull back slightly. “It’s what we agreed on. The fake dating. The optics. The payout when it’s over.” My breath hitches. “It’s over, Liam. The deal closed.”

He doesn’t let go of my jaw. His grip tightens, just enough to make me feel it. To make me remember exactly who I’m standing in front of. “You don’t get to walk away,” he says. Not a request. A statement. A claim.

The air in the room shifts. The silence becomes electric. My skin prickles. My stomach drops. I should step back. I should remind him of the contract, the boundaries, the business. But I don’t move. I can’t. Because underneath the words, underneath the sharp edge of his voice, I hear it. Desperation. Raw, unfiltered, terrifying need.

He breaks the silence by kissing me.

His mouth crashes into mine with no warning, no gentleness. Just heat and hunger and the desperate grip of his hands in my hair, tilting my head back so he can deepen the angle. I gasp into his mouth, but he swallows the sound, devouring me like he’s been starving. My hands fly to his chest, pushing, but it’s half-hearted. My fingers curl into his suit jacket, gripping, pulling him closer instead of shoving him away. I want him. God, I want him. I’ve wanted him for months. Through every fake smile, every staged dinner, every late-night phone call where we pretended we weren’t burning for each other.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to rip his tie loose, shoving it aside before his hands are on my waist, lifting me onto the polished table. Papers scatter. The deal’s final draft flutters to the floor. I don’t care. My back hits the hard wood, and before I can catch my breath, his mouth is on my neck, biting just hard enough to make me cry out.

“Mine,” he growls against my skin. The word vibrates through me. “You’ve always been mine.”

I arch into him, a broken sound escaping my throat. “Liam—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in, but it’s not cruel. It’s possessive. Desperate. His hands are everywhere. Rough but controlled. He hooks his fingers into my belt, yanking it free with a sharp clink. I help him, my fingers trembling as I unbutton my blouse, shedding it. His eyes drop, dark with need, tracing the line of my collarbone, the swell of my breasts, the lace edge of my bra. He doesn’t speak. He just stares like I’m a feast he’s been denied for too long.

His hands slide down my waist, pushing my skirt up, riding it higher until it bunches at my hips. His palm slides over my thigh, then higher, slipping beneath my lace. I gasp as his fingers find my clit, stroking in firm, relentless circles. I’m already wet. Dripping onto his hand. I clench my eyes shut, my hips instinctively rocking against his touch.

“Christ,” he curses, voice wrecked. “You’re so fucking responsive for me.”

He pulls his hand away, and I whine in protest, my thighs trembling. He doesn’t give me time to adjust. He sinks to his knees, his mouth on me like he’s been dying to taste me. The sound of his belt buckle is loud in the quiet room. His hands grip my hips, spreading me open. Then his tongue is on me, long and flat, sweeping over my swollen clit. I cry out, my fingers tangling in his hair. Two fingers slide into me, curling, stretching me open. My back bows off the table. I grab his shoulders, nails digging into his suit jacket.

“Liam—”

“Shut up,” he breathes, but it’s not a command. It’s a plea. “Let me feel you. Let me have you.”

He works me like he’s trying to map every nerve ending. His tongue is relentless, his fingers curling just right, his grip on my hips firm enough to anchor me while he unravels me. I’m close fast. My thighs tremble. My hips buck against his face. I try to slow down, try to keep some shred of control, but he doesn’t let me. He pushes me over the edge, holding me through the waves of pleasure until I’m shaking, breathless, utterly undone. My climax crashes through me, violent and bright, milking his fingers, leaving me gasping, my forehead pressed to the cool table.

He stays there for a moment, his mouth still pressed to my center, his breath hot against my skin. Then he stands, shedding his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt. His eyes never leave mine. The successful businessman is gone. What’s left is raw. Unfiltered. Mine.

“Turn around,” he commands.

I do, bracing my hands on the edge of the table. The polished wood is cold against my palms. He steps behind me, his hands on my hips, spreading me open. He doesn’t rush. He teases me, the broad head of his cock pressing against my entrance, rubbing slow, maddening circles. I whimper, desperate for him inside. My thighs shake. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps.

“Please,” I beg, the word falling out before I can stop it.

He curses, a raw, ragged sound. “You don’t get to beg and not get it.”

He thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, devastating stroke. I cry out, my forehead dropping to the polished wood. He’s thick. Stretching me wide. Filling me completely. He stills, letting me adjust, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. “Breathe,” he murmurs against my back. “I’ve got you.”

Then he starts moving.

Deep. Relentless. The table groans beneath us. The sound echoes in the room, mixing with my ragged breathing and his low, controlled curses. I push back against him, meeting every thrust, my nails scraping the wood. He’s perfect. Exactly how I imagined. Exactly how I’ve fantasized about in the dark, alone, telling myself it was just stress relief, just physical need, just a byproduct of the arrangement. But it’s not. It never was.

“Liam,” I gasp, my voice breaking.

He grabs my hair, tilting my head back against his chest. His lips brush my ear. “Say it,” he growls. “Say you’re mine.”

The question hits me like a physical blow. My breath catches. My body tenses. I think about the contract. The money. The stepsister dynamic that’s supposed to keep us apart. But then I feel him, inside me, moving with that desperate rhythm, claiming me like he’s been starving for this, and all the walls crumble.

“I’m yours,” I choke out. “Only yours.”

That breaks him.

His thrusts become frantic, desperate. One hand slips around to circle my clit, matching the pace of his hips. The pressure builds, coiling tight in my belly, wrapping around my spine. I’m close again. Faster this time. Harder.

“I’m close,” I warn, my voice trembling.

“Come for me,” he orders. “Now.”

I shatter. My body locks. Waves of pleasure crash through me, violent and bright, milking him, pulling him over the edge with me. He follows seconds later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he empties inside me, his body shuddering against mine, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. We stay like that for a long moment. Breathing. Heartbeats syncing. The quiet room filled only by our ragged gasps and the distant hum of the city below.

He slowly pulls out, and I miss the weight instantly. I turn around, and he lifts me off the table, cradling me against his chest. His mouth finds mine, softer now. Tender. The desperate edge is gone, replaced by something quieter. Deeper. Real.

“I can’t let you go,” he murmurs against my lips. His voice is wrecked. Raw. “Not now. Not ever.”

I trace the line of his jaw, my fingers trembling. “The deal’s closed, Liam.”

“The deal was never the point.” He kisses me again, slower. Deeper. “I faked this for the board. For the optics. For the fucking shareholders who needed a storyline. But the way I look at you? The way I touch you? The way I lose my mind every time you smile at me in a room full of people who don’t know you?” He pulls back just enough to look at me, his dark eyes burning. “That was never fake.”

I swallow hard. The money. The arrangement. The contract we signed in blood and business. It all feels like a distant memory now. A script we outgrew. “What do we do?” I ask. My voice is quiet. Vulnerable.

He brushes a stray curl from my forehead. His thumb traces my cheekbone. “We stop pretending.”

He lifts me, carrying me toward the plush sofa in the corner of his office. I let him. I want him. All of him. He sets me down gently, shedding his suit jacket, unbuttoning his shirt completely, tossing it aside. His hands are on my hips, pulling me close. He kisses me slowly, deeply, tasting me like he’s memorizing me. Then his hands move, undressing me with a reverence that contradicts the desperation from before. He peels off my blouse, my skirt, my panties, kissing every inch of skin he reveals. His mouth traces my collarbone, my stomach, the inside of my thighs. I arch into him, a soft sigh escaping my lips.

He lays me back on the sofa, following me down, his weight careful but present. His hands explore, mapping my body like it’s sacred. His fingers slip between my thighs, finding me still sensitive, still wet. I gasp as he touches me, my hips lifting instinctively. He smiles, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. “Still so fucking perfect for me,” he murmurs. “I’ve been dreaming about this. About you. For months.”

I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer. “I’ve been waiting for you to realize it too.”

He thrusts slowly, deeply, his eyes locked on mine. The pace is different now. Intimate. Deliberate. Every movement is measured, worshipful. He’s making love to me, not just taking. The distinction hits me like a wave. I reach up, tangling my fingers in his hair, pulling his mouth to mine. He groans against my lips, his thrusts deepening, his hands gripping my waist, my hips, my back. The friction is exquisite. The connection is intoxicating. I feel him everywhere. Inside me. Around me. In me.

“There’s no going back,” he whispers, his voice rough with need.

“Good,” I breathe, pressing my forehead to his. “I don’t want to go back.”

He kisses me, slow and deep, his body moving with a rhythm that feels like a promise. His hand slips between us, circling my clit in time with his hips. The pleasure builds, but slower this time. Sweeter. More complete. I let go completely, trusting him, trusting us. My climax creeps over me like a tide, wrapping around my chest, my spine, my throat. I cry out his name, my body bowing, my fingers digging into his shoulders. He follows, a ragged gasp tearing from his lips as he buries himself deep, his body shuddering, his mouth pressed to my jaw.

We stay tangled together, breathing, hearts pounding, skin slick with sweat. The boardroom is quiet. The deal is closed. But this? This is just beginning.

He rolls onto his side, pulling me against his chest, wrapping an arm around my waist. His lips brush my temple. “You’re staying,” he murmurs. Not a question. A fact.

I trace the line of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He kisses my shoulder, his hand sliding up to cradle my cheek. “Good. Because I’m done pretending. Done hiding. Done watching you walk away from me.”

I tilt my head up, meeting his eyes. The businessman is still there. The sharp suit, the tailored confidence, the quiet authority. But beneath it is something else. Something real. Something mine. “Then stop pretending,” I whisper. “Stop hiding. Just be mine. Like I’m yours.”

He smiles. Slow. Real. Unfiltered. “I’m yours,” he says. “Always have been.”

The contract is burned. The arrangement is dead. The fake relationship is over. What’s left is real. Messy. Complicated. Ours. And as I lie in his arms, feeling his heartbeat against mine, I know one thing for certain. I never want to go back.