The Heiress Gambit-Chapter 28-"You’re a masterpiece,”

AUTHOR

The three words hung in the air, a confession that seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room.

I want you.

But she hadn’t begged. The bargain, his ultimatum, remained unfulfilled. The victory was only half-won, and they both knew it.

The horror on her face was palpable. She looked like she wanted to vomit the words back up. And then, fueled by that same furious self-loathing, she doubled down, her voice a raw, torn thing.

"I want you," she repeated, the admission ripped from her throat. "And it’s so fucking annoying."

A harsh, ragged breath escaped her. "Because I hate you. And I know you’re just using me. We’re both just using each other. It’s a transaction. I get it. So just... just stop with the games and—"

She cut herself off, her chest heaving, her eyes glittering with a mixture of fury and desperate, humiliating want.

Across from her, Reomen was a statue. Her words hadn’t just shocked him; they had detonated something deep inside him.

The casual, teasing predator was gone. In his place was a man on a razor’s edge.

His own internal battle was a silent, violent storm. Her confession—raw, honest, and laced with hatred—flipped a switch.

His famous control, the icy composure he wore like a second skin, shattered and reformed in the span of a single heartbeat. It was fluctuating wildly between zero and one hundred percent.

The urge to cross the room, to push her back onto the bed and finally take what they both so clearly wanted, was a physical pain. He could almost feel it—the give of the mattress, the heat of her skin, the sound of her gasp.

He wanted to make her scream. He wanted to make her beg not for him to stop, but for him to never, ever let her go.

His hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides. The muscle in his jaw ticked relentlessly. He took one step forward, then forced himself to stop, his entire body trembling with the effort of restraint.

He wanted the win. He wanted complete surrender. But more than that, in that moment, he just wanted her.

The air crackled, thick with unsated desire and the acidic burn of their mutual resentment. They were two opposing forces, trapped in a gravitational pull they both despised and couldn’t escape.

The air in the guest room was too thick to breathe. It was charged with her confession and his silent, raging war against himself.

Paige couldn’t stand it. She needed space. She needed to get out from under the weight of his intense, unblinking gaze.

She moved to stand, to push past him and flee to the bathroom, to anywhere.

But as she shifted, his hand shot out.

It wasn’t a rough grab. It was a soft, almost reflexive capture. His fingers closed around her wrist, his grip firm but not painful. It was a stop. A plea. An anchor.

He didn’t think. His body moved on its own, all the carefully constructed walls of his self-control crumbling into dust.

The promise he’d made last night—the smug ultimatum that he wouldn’t touch her until she begged—meant nothing. It was ash on the wind.

His thumb stroked the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist, right over her frantic pulse. The touch was electric, a jolt that went straight through both of them.

He could feel the fine bones under his fingers, the heat of her skin. He saw her eyes widen, not with fear, but with a shock that mirrored his own.

He was going to touch her. He knew it. The dam had broken. The king was about to break his own royal decree.

A dark, triumphant smile touched his lips, a stark contrast to the war that had just been raging in his eyes. The internal struggle was over. The victor was clear.

"That’s all I needed to hear," he murmured, his voice a low, rough hum that vibrated through her. "At least for now. I’ll oblige you."

The words were barely out of his mouth before he closed the final distance between them. This wasn’t like the exploratory, claiming kiss from the night before in the kitchen. This was something else entirely.

He kissed her with a raw, unfiltered passion that stole the air from her lungs.

It was all-consuming, a wildfire fed by weeks of pent-up tension, frustration, and a searing, undeniable attraction that neither of them could deny any longer.

His hand, which had been gently holding her wrist, slid up her arm, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

It settled on her waist, his grip firm and possessive, his fingers pressing into the soft silk of her blouse as he pulled her flush against him.

There was no teasing now, no games. Only a desperate, hungry need.

The last of his famous control was gone, burned away by the three simple words she’d finally given him.

The king had officially abdicated his throne, and the man—raw, wanting, and utterly captivated—had taken over.

For a heartbeat, Paige froze, stunned by the sudden onslaught. Then, something in her snapped. The weeks of frustration, the anger, the confusing, white-hot attraction—it all coalesced into a single, defiant response.

She kissed him back.

Her hands, which had been trapped between them, came up. Her palms slid up the crisp, expensive cotton of his dress shirt, feeling the powerful, rigid muscles of his chest beneath.

She didn’t push him away. She pulled him closer, her fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulders, anchoring herself to him as the world spun away.

A low, approving groan rumbled in his chest. Encouraged, his own hands began to move. They slid down from her waist, over the curve of her hip, his touch possessive and demanding.

One large hand cupped her buttock, squeezing gently, pulling her even tighter against the hard length of his body.

Then, in one smooth, effortless motion, he bent his knees and lifted her. Paige gasped against his mouth, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he straightened up, holding her suspended against him.

He took two steps and then lowered her, his body following hers down until her back met the soft, yielding surface of the mattress.

The pristine Frette linens whispered beneath her weight. He hovered over her, his dark eyes burning with a fire she had never seen before, finally breaking the kiss to look down at her.

The king was in his element. And the pawn had just willingly let herself be captured.

He didn’t break eye contact. Not for a second. Still kneeling over her, his weight braced on one arm, his other hand went to the knot of his tie.

With a sharp, efficient pull, he loosened it, the silk slithering away. He shrugged out of his suit jacket, letting the expensive Kiton wool fall to the floor in a forgotten heap.

His fingers went to the buttons of his crisp white dress shirt. Each button was freed with a deliberate, agonizing slowness that was its own form of torture.

First one. Then another.

With each open button, more of his chest was revealed—the defined planes of muscle, the faint dusting of dark hair, the powerful lines of his torso.

The air in the room grew thicker, charged with the sound of their ragged breathing and the soft rustle of fabric.

His eyes remained locked on hers, dark and burning with an intensity that stole the air from her lungs. He was completely focused, utterly consumed by the moment and the woman beneath him.

As the last button gave way, he parted the shirt, finally baring himself to her. A low, ragged breath escaped him, his gaze drinking in the sight of her lying beneath him, her lips swollen from his kisses, her eyes wide and dark with a mixture of want and apprehension.

He leaned down, his voice a husky, awe-filled whisper against her lips.

"You’re so fucking..." he began, the words trailing off as if language itself was insufficient to describe what he saw, what he felt. The sentence hung unfinished, a testament to something that went beyond words, something raw and primal and utterly overwhelming.

The hunger in the room was a living thing, thick and tangible. Reomen’s patience, already worn to a thread, snapped.

His eyes, dark and desperate, raked over the delicate silk of her blouse—a frustrating barrier between him and what he craved.

With a sharp, almost savage movement, his hand fisted in the fabric at her collar.

There was a brutal, tearing sound as the silk gave way, buttons pinging softly against the floor.

The blouse fell open.

And there she was.

His breath caught in his throat, any remaining thought evaporating into pure, stunned sensation. She was a masterpiece.

The soft curve of her breasts, the elegant line of her waist, the smooth, flawless skin—it was more devastating than any fantasy.

He couldn’t help but stare, his gaze a physical caress. The urge to touch, to taste, was a roaring fire in his blood.

"God, Paige..." His voice was a ragged, reverent whisper, stripped of all its usual arrogance. He was looking at her like a man seeing a miracle for the first time. "Look at you..."

One trembling hand rose, his fingers hovering just above her skin, as if afraid a touch would make the vision disappear.

"You’re a masterpiece," he breathed, the words filled with a raw, genuine awe that shocked even him. Every curve, every breath, was perfection. And she was his.