The Billionaire's Secret Bump-Chapter 22: The ride home
The elevator doors slid open on the ground floor with a soft chime that felt too loud in the quiet lobby. Fiona stepped out first—legs shaky, lips still swollen, skin buzzing from the heat of Martin’s mouth and hands. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. One more glance at him and she’d unravel completely.
But Martin moved faster.
His hand caught her wrist—firm, warm, not bruising but impossible to ignore.
She froze.
He stepped in front of her, blocking the path to the revolving doors, rain still drumming against the glass facade outside.
"I’ll take you home," he said.
His voice was low. Rough. The same tone he’d used when he’d growled *don’t run again* against her lips minutes earlier.
Fiona’s heart slammed against her ribs.
She tugged her wrist gently. He let go immediately—but didn’t step back.
"I’m fine," she whispered. "I can walk."
His eyes darkened. Raindrops clung to the shoulders of his coat, glistened under the lobby lights. He looked like a man who’d just remembered how to feel something and hated how much it hurt.
"It’s pouring," he said. "And I’m not letting you walk in this."
She hesitated..
She glanced toward the doors. The street outside was dark, wet, empty. No cabs in sight. And the thought of walking alone after what had just happened—after the way he’d kissed her like he was starving, after the way she’d kissed him back like she’d been dying of thirst—made her feel exposed. Raw.
Martin waited.
No pressure. No command. Just that steady, burning gaze.
She exhaled.
"Okay."
He nodded once—sharp, relieved—and turned toward the side exit that led to the private garage. She followed, heels clicking behind him, the sound echoing in the empty corridor.
The garage was dimly lit, cool, smelling of concrete and motor oil. His car waited—a sleek black sedan, low and predatory, parked in the reserved spot nearest the elevator. The driver’s side door opened before they reached it.
Victor Kane stepped out—tall, broad, expression unreadable.
"Evening, boss. Ms. Flare."
Martin gave him a curt nod.
"I’ll drive."
Victor’s brows lifted a fraction, but he stepped aside without comment. Handed Martin the keys. Slid into the back seat like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Martin opened the passenger door for Fiona.
She slid in leather cool against her thighs, the scent of him already filling the car: cedar, leather, rain, and something darker. Something hers.
He closed the door gently.
Walked around.
Got in.
The engine purred to life—low, smooth, vibrating through the seat.
They pulled out of the garage in silence.
Rain streaked the windshield. Wipers moved in slow, hypnotic arcs.
Fiona stared straight ahead.
Martin’s hands flexed on the wheel.
Neither spoke for the first few blocks.
Then he broke the quiet.
"You’re shaking."
She looked down. Her hands were trembling in her lap.
She clasped them tighter.
"I’m fine."
He glanced at her brief, sharp.
"You’re not."
She swallowed.
The baby fluttered gentle, steady.
She pressed her palm to her stomach, hidden under her coat.
Martin’s eyes flicked down caught the movement. He didn’t ask. But something shifted in his expression something softer, something protective.
The silence stretched again.
They turned onto the quieter road that led toward Lunara Cove.
Streetlights blurred past in wet streaks.
Fiona risked a glance at him.
His profile was sharp in the dashboard glow jaw tight, lips pressed thin, eyes fixed on the road like it owed him answers.
She remembered the way he’d kissed her in the elevator slow at first, then desperate, hands sliding under her blouse, thumbs brushing her nipples until she’d arched and moaned into his mouth. The way he’d whispered filthy promises against her ear *I want to fuck you until you forget how to run, until you’re dripping down my thighs, until the only name you know is mine*.
She shifted in her seat.
Heat pooled low in her belly.
He noticed.
His knuckles whitened on the wheel.
"You’re thinking about it," he said quietly.
She didn’t deny it.
"Hard not to."
He exhaled—rough, almost pained.
"Me too."
The car slowed at a red light.
Rain drummed on the roof.
He turned to her.
Looked at her—really looked.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Hungry.
Tender.
"I meant what I said," he murmured. "Don’t run again."
Fiona’s throat tightened.
"I’m not."
The light turned green.
He accelerated slowly.
They drove the rest of the way in silence but it wasn’t empty anymore.
It was full.
Of everything they weren’t saying.
Of everything they both wanted.
When they reached her building, Martin pulled up to the curb.
Shifted into park.
Turned off the engine.
The rain softened to a drizzle.
He got out.
Walked around.
Opened her door.
She stepped out careful, slow.
He stood close.
Too close.
She looked up at him.
He looked down at her.
The streetlamp caught his scar small, silver, intimate.
He reached out slow, careful and tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear.
His thumb lingered on her cheek.
"Goodnight, Fiona."
His voice was rough.
Soft.
She swallowed.
"Goodnight, Martin."
He stepped back.
She turned toward the building.
Then stopped.
Looked back.
He was still watching her eyes burning in the dark.
She smiled small, real, shaky.
Then walked inside.
Up the stairs.
Unlocked her door.
Stepped into the quiet apartment.
Elara had gone to bed.
The magazines still lay on the coffee table.
She closed the door.
Leaned against it.
Hand on her stomach.
Outside, in the rain, Martin stood by the car for a long moment.
Watching her window light turn on...
