Morning light poured in through the tall, linen-draped windows of Andrew Monsiago's penthouse bedroom. The city below had begun to stir: soft horns, distant construction, the hum of life waking from slumber. Outside, the world moved with rhythm, a predictable pulse. Inside, time felt slower, stretched, suspended in a quiet tension.
Bella lay curled beneath the silk sheets, one arm draped lazily over a pillow. Her legs peeked from the folds of fabric, bare and pale in the warm glow of dawn. Her breath was steady, soft, a gentle rhythm that made the bed feel impossibly intimate. The silk clung to her curves, whispering with every subtle movement. Andrew's eyes traced the contours of her body, memorizing them as he had done countless times before, and yet today, the pull felt sharper, more insistent.
And then… he felt it.
Warm. Wet. Soft.
A faint stir, a subtle pressure, a kiss brushing across her shoulder. His lips, slow and deliberate, moved to the base of her neck. Bella shifted slightly, half-conscious, caught between sleep and awareness, her body yielding before she fully woke.
"Mmm…" she murmured, eyes fluttering open halfway. Her mind clung to the last fragments of sleep, desperate to ignore reality, but the sensation returned—insistent, claiming her senses. She didn't have to turn; she knew who it was.
"Andrew…" Her voice was hoarse, soft, intimate.
No words came from him. Not yet.
His lips pressed again, slow, deliberate, moving along the curve of her neck. His hand slid beneath the sheets, tracing her waist, memorizing every inch. Bella groaned softly, a low sound of surrender. She tried to roll over, to create space, but his arm threaded around her, gentle but firm, pulling her back to him.
"Andrew," she whispered again, half-protesting, half-desiring, her body still liminal between wakefulness and dream. "I'm tired."
"I know," he murmured against her skin. Yet he didn't stop.
His hand traveled lower, grazing the inside of her thigh beneath the silk. Bella's breath hitched. She could've pushed him away, could have spoken up, but her body had long since betrayed her reason. The pattern was familiar. She let herself melt, even while her mind whispered rules, friends with benefits. Nothing more.
"This isn't how mornings are supposed to start," she murmured, a ghost of a smile ghosting her lips.
He shifted, lips brushing her jaw, then the spot just under her ear. "Depends who you're waking up next to," he murmured, voice low, possessive, intimate.
Her heart thumped sharply. Not from the words, but from the tone, the ownership, the quiet declaration that this moment, this body, this morning, belonged to him.
She didn't respond. She only let him pull her closer, let his hands roam over familiar territory, claiming what he had already memorized. Again. And again.
Because for now, she was too tired to fight. Too exhausted to resist the magnetic pull he held over her. They had rules, she had reminded him countless times. Friends. Nothing more. And yet, he always needed… more.
The soft hum of her phone cut through the tension. Andrew froze. Bella, still nestled against the silk, picked it up casually, the glow of the screen illuminating her delicate features. Luke.
The name hit Andrew like a sharp wind, curling around his chest with a bitter, unfamiliar ache. The man who had intruded on her boutique, who had laughed with her, who had drawn her smile like a spark reserved for him alone.
She didn't notice Andrew's gaze. She read the message, whispered to herself, smiling faintly. "Good morning, beautiful," she murmured, light and casual. And in that instant, Andrew felt the pulse of something darker coiling within him, jealousy, possessiveness, an unspoken claim he could not ignore.
He remained still, quiet, controlled. On the surface, he was composed, leaning against the bedframe, appearing calm. But beneath, heat and tension licked at his restraint. Every glance, every movement of her fingers, every tilt of her head, all of it belonged, in his mind, to him.
"You're quiet," Bella said, finally noticing him. Her voice was teasing, soft, light, an edge of playfulness dancing across her words. It ignited something low and smoldering in him, a mixture of frustration and desire he could no longer contain.
"I'm thinking," he said carefully, measured. "About… work."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, skeptical but entertained. "Okay."
Andrew pressed his lips into a thin line. Yes, she was his beautiful adversary, his irresistible torment. Every instinct screamed to pull her close, claim her entirely, and make her laughter his alone. Yet he stayed seated, silent, controlled, calculating.
The phone buzzed again. Luke. Another message. Bella's fingers danced over the screen with grace, replying effortlessly: "Can't wait. See you Friday." Andrew's jaw tightened. His pulse throbbed in silent fury.
He could imagine Luke's smile, his words, the casual charm that made Bella laugh. And yet… he remained. Observing, silent, controlled. His mind raced, calculating, strategizing. Andrew Monsiago could not allow himself to lose her, even in these quiet, small moments of morning light.
Eventually, Andrew pushed himself from the bed, stepping onto the cool marble floor, each movement deliberate. The soft hum of the city below filled the penthouse, but it was background, distant. He walked to the bathroom, the door closing with a muted click. The silence he left behind was heavy with unspoken tension, unresolved desire.
Bella remained propped against the pillows, sunlight washing over her skin, phone screen dim. Her thoughts were elsewhere, already weaving through the day ahead. Andrew watched from the bathroom door, his reflection mirrored back at him from the glass.
He stood in front of the mirror, jaw tight, eyes dark. He studied his own expression, the controlled composure masking the storm within. He had her mornings, her nights, her body, yet never her attention when it mattered most.
He washed his face slowly, letting the water run over his hands, over his jaw, attempting to cleanse the heat that simmered beneath the surface. But the image of her, the tilt of her head, the curve of her smile, the laugh meant for another man, refused to leave.
Andrew's thoughts spiraled. He remembered every kiss, every touch, every whispered word shared between them. He recalled the warmth of her hand, the soft pressure of her lips on his chest, the subtle dominance of her independence that had always fascinated and frustrated him in equal measure. She was untouchable in ways that mattered, and yet, he wanted more. Always more.
The city outside continued its morning rhythm, unaware of the tension that had consumed him. Every honk, every distant shout, every hum of life was a reminder of the world he ruled—but the world he wanted most was this small penthouse, this bed, this woman who refused to be contained.
He let out a long, controlled breath, one he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He could feel the weight of desire pressing at the edges of his composure. Bella. She wasn't supposed to matter like this. She wasn't supposed to penetrate the walls of his mind, to unsettle the structure of his carefully controlled life.
Yet here he was. Broken in silence, restrained by a fragile semblance of self-control, watching her move through the morning as if nothing mattered.
And somewhere, deep inside, he understood. Not all battles were won with control. Some were claimed with presence, with attention, with moments that lingered, whispered, and refused to be denied.
Andrew Monsiago, emperor of an empire, master of industry, untouchable in boardrooms, had no idea how to command this one thing.
Bella's phone buzzed again. Luke. Another smile, another casual reply. Andrew's fists curled. Every instinct urged him to snatch her attention, to make her feel the pull, the gravity, that he could create in a single look, a single touch. But he held back, breathing through it, pacing, calculating, watching.
Because he knew the truth: she wasn't his. Not yet.
And the more he watched, the more he realized he would not let her slip further. Not in this morning, not ever.
The city continued to stir below, relentless, vast. But here, in this penthouse, time had slowed. Every heartbeat, every breath, every silent moment stretched taut with desire, frustration, and the unspoken tension that had grown between them.
Andrew Monsiago had her body. He had her mornings. He had her nights. But most dangerously of all, he realized he did not yet have her mind, her attention, her surrender, and he would move heaven and earth to claim it.
And in that quiet, golden morning light, he understood something else: he would no longer merely wait. Not for her approval, not for her acknowledgment, not for her fleeting attention. He would find a way to make her see him, entirely, irrevocably, and she would not have the choice to walk away.
For the first time that morning, he allowed himself to feel the storm fully. And it was magnificent.