The Stranger

Chapter 11 - Alex

The day was a tightrope walk, a balance between stolen glances and the everyday demands of work. Across the office, Cassandra and I exchanged silent messages—flickers of smiles, glances that held just a second too long. In the controlled chaos of deadlines and projects, those moments were enough to remind me that tonight, she'd be mine in a way she hadn't yet realised.

I told her I'd pick her up at her apartment in Canary Wharf. Driving the A1203 was smooth, the city blurring past as I approached her building. Hampton Tower loomed above, still part construction site, part sleek residence, and it felt fitting—new, imperfect, just like this thing between us that I was trying so hard to keep contained.

When she stepped out, I took her in. A red cocktail dress that clung to her like a second skin, heels that made her legs look impossibly long. She'd done her hair, but the effect was effortless, like she'd barely tried. And when she walked toward me, her mouth tugged into a faint, knowing smile, it was a struggle not to pull her close right there, to feel her against me.

"Hi," she said softly, her voice strong but with that edge I liked—unsteady, as if she was almost unsure of herself.

"Hi, Cassandra," I replied, letting my gaze travel over her. "You look stunning."

Her cheeks coloured as she smiled. "Thank you, Alex. Where are we headed?"

"Surprise." I offered her my arm, and she slipped her hand through, warm against my skin. She held my arm as we walked to the car, a small touch but one that felt electric. Every step felt deliberate. Every breath between us—charged.

The drive was easy, the city unwinding around us. Whenever she tried to steer the conversation toward work, I stopped her with a look. This wasn't work. I wanted her to know this was different. This was us.

At Waterloo, we parked and walked, my hand on the small of her back, guiding her to the restaurant. The lights of Cubana spilled out onto the street, a riot of salsa, voices, laughter. It was loud, messy, vibrant, nothing like the polished restaurants she probably expected. Inside, I watched her take it all in, and for a moment, she was silent, her eyes wide.

"This...," she began, almost shouting over the music.

I leaned in, brushing a strand of hair back from her cheek. "This what?"

"I wasn't expecting this, at all" she continued.

"I know"

She laughed, a real laugh, and that sound did things to me. She shook her head as we sat down at a small table against the wall, and I could tell she was surprised. It was good. I wanted to keep her guessing.

When our food was ordered, I pulled her to the dance floor. She protested at first, but I didn't let her slip away, holding her hand, pulling her close. She moved with me, her steps awkward but endearing, and every time she stepped on my feet, we laughed, caught up in something that was growing, something that was moving faster than I'd expected.

"Just feel the music. Don't think," I murmured into her ear. I held her waist, guiding her, and slowly, she softened, falling into the rhythm. Her eyes met mine, and in that moment, the world narrowed to just us. She was letting me lead, letting me hold her. Here, in this crowded room, this strong woman was letting herself be vulnerable, and the realisation hit me hard, settling in places I'd long thought were closed off.

Back at the table, she sipped her wine, watching me over the rim of her glass. "You're full of surprises," she said. "I wasn't sure what I expected tonight. But it wasn't this."

"Were you expecting some uptight restaurant with staff fussing over every detail?" I asked, leaning back, letting her see that I knew I'd caught her off guard.

Her gaze softened. "I don't know what I expected, really. But not this. Why this?"

"My father was Cuban. He met my mother while dancing on the streets of Havana. He used to tell me about it—the music, the rhythm, the way life felt there. My mother was English, from Manchester. She was travelling the world when she fell in love with him, they married and they moved to Madrid together because that's where she had her business, and I grew up hearing those stories."

Her face softened. "She sounds like someone you were close to."

I nodded, looking away. "She passed away a while back. But dancing, feeling that freedom—she taught me that."

She reached across the table, covering my hand with hers. "I'm sorry, Alex."

"It's okay. Dying is part of life."

Her touch was soft, grounding. For a second, I couldn't look away, struck by the weight of her presence. This was supposed to be simple. But she was getting under my skin, finding places I hadn't let anyone in years.

"Tell me something about you," I said, deflecting. I wanted to keep her close but keep the walls up. At least for now.

"There's not much to tell." She smiled, leaning back, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. "My work has been my life. I live alone in London. I'm an only child. My father passed a few years ago—cancer. My mother still lives in the city, always wishing I'd settle down, but..." She paused, her gaze flickering. "I'm not looking for that. I've worked too hard to let anything else become a priority."

"And that's okay. I get it. Parents always want us to settle down, give them grandkids. But that's not for everyone."

The noise of the restaurant faded, the world tightening into something intimate, raw. She was looking at me, her eyes soft, and I could feel it—the pull, the heat. I wanted her more than I'd wanted anyone in a long time. But I wanted it on my terms.

Our food arrived, and we ate, talking and laughing as if there was nothing in the world except us. After a while, we were back on the dance floor, her in my arms, moving as if we'd done it a thousand times. Later, we strolled along the Thames, ice cream in hand, the lights of the London Eye illuminating the skyline in waves of pink and blue.

As we walked, she glanced over at the wheel, then back at me. "Have you ever been on it?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Come on, my treat." She took my hand, pulling me toward it with a mischievous grin, and I let her lead.

Inside the capsule, we stood by the glass, her in front of me, my hands grazing her hips, feeling her breath rise and fall. I wrapped an arm around her, drawing her back against me, the warmth of her skin sending shivers through me. She leaned into me, her head tilting slightly, her voice just a whisper.

"You should feel how wet I am right now, Sir."

The word hit me, low and rough, stirring something primal. I tightened my hold, my hand skimming over the fabric of her dress. Her lips found mine, and for a moment, I forgot where we were. I wanted to push that dress up, feel her softness, hear her gasp in my ear. But we were almost at the bottom, and the quiet command she'd given, that tease, left me wanting.

We stepped off, the tension thick between us. When we were finally outside, I couldn't hold back. I pulled her close, my hand at her neck, and kissed her deeply, our mouths colliding in a way that felt inevitable. Her body pressed against mine, and I could feel her melting into me, letting me take, letting me lead.

Breathless, she pulled back, her lips swollen from our kiss. "My place?" she asked, her eyes dark and filled with promises I wasn't ready to resist.