Mirror rivals can’t look away

Rhys’s forearm locked across Cordelia’s collarbone, the muscle jumping tight under sweat-slick skin.

He dragged her upright against the cabin mirror. Her breath fogged the glass in short bursts. She couldn’t look away. The veins stood out along his wrist like ropes—the same wrist that once signed the contract that tanked her last project.

“You sold me out first,” she rasped, hips jerking back into the hard line of him. “That Tokyo deal was mine.”

His thumb hooked the strap of her slip and dragged it down, the silk tearing free of her shoulder, baring one breast to the cabin’s cold draft. He shoved the bunched fabric to her waist. “You fucked my investor to get it.” His voice scraped raw. His free hand dropped, fisting the bottom hem, hauling the skirt up over her hips, then palming her thigh and wrenching it wide.

The mirror showed every twitch of his face, every flicker of old fury. Cordelia’s gaze stayed pinned there, forced open, the reflection stripping her bare. She heard the rasp of his zipper behind her, the rough shove of fabric, and then the hot, heavy drag of him sliding free against the cleft of her ass.

Rhys hated that he couldn’t stop looking either. Not at her—at them. At the proof of how thoroughly they’d ruined each other and kept crawling back for the wreckage. Her nipple tightened in the chill and his whole body answered, traitorous, starving.

His forearm flexed harder against her collarbone, the pressure a brand. She watched the tendons shift, watched her own throat work under it, and hated how wet it made her.

“We wrecked each other,” she whispered, voice shaking as he notched himself against her and pushed inside in one thick slide. The stretch stole her next breath. Her palms slapped the mirror. His reflection stared back, eyes dark, mouth set hard like he wanted to devour the sight of her taking him.

His hips snapped forward. The rhythm broke open. Frantic. Skin on skin. Snow hissing against the glass. She fluttered tight around him. Every thrust tore a broken sound from her throat. She saw it all in the mirror—the flush climbing his neck, his forearm trembling now with the strain of holding her still.

The hand on her thigh slid up. Rough fingers found her clit, the same hand that had wrenched her open now circling slow against the building ache. Her body jolted. She couldn’t close her eyes. The mirror held her there, made her watch her own mouth fall apart.

“You leaked the photos,” he growled against her ear, teeth grazing. “My board dropped me the next day.” Another deep thrust. The accusation landed wet and ragged—and even as he said it he felt the lie of it, felt the way blame had stopped being a weapon somewhere in the last sixty seconds and turned into the only language they had left.

Her climax built too fast, a tight coil low in her belly. His breathing turned ragged behind her, his pace stuttering. The flex of his forearm softened just enough for her to feel the tremor running through him.

It clawed up out of him before he could stop it. He hated this part—the part that broke. The part that still wanted to be forgiven. He watched her watch him in the glass and the words came anyway.

“Cordelia,” he gasped, voice cracking open. “I’m sorry. For all of it. The lies. The careers. Us.” The words spilled raw against her neck as his hips drove deep one last time, pulsing hot inside her. The mirror caught the exact moment the ice went out of his stare—his eyes blown wide and wrecked—and it forced her to witness it. She couldn’t close her eyes. She had to watch him fall apart.

She came with a choked cry, walls clamping around him, the orgasm ripping through her while the apology still hung in the air. Her legs shook. She couldn’t pull away. Her hand reached back blindly, fingers locking onto his hip, nails digging in.

Rhys stayed buried deep, his head dropping, mouth finding the curve of her shoulder—not resting there, biting, teeth closing on the muscle until she hissed. His palm slid down to grip her hip, hard, anchoring. Cordelia tipped her head back against him, dragged her open mouth along the sharp line of his jaw, breathed him in. Neither moved to separate. His fingers tightened like he was starving, already rolling into a slow, greedy grind that promised more.

The mirror caught every clinging touch, every fresh bite of need that refused to end.