Sweet Love 2x: Miss Ruthless CEO for our Superstar Uncle-Chapter 184: You Like My Face? How About My Body?

The house was too quiet when Franz got back.

Lights dimmed to that low amber glow that meant the staff had clocked out hours ago. Heat humming in the walls, that constant pulse he usually tuned out. Somewhere a clock ticked—loud in the silence, like it was the only thing still moving.

He shut the front door soft. Shrugged off his coat. Hung it without looking, his hands moving on autopilot.

His head was still half in the car, half in the conversation he’d walked away from.

He shook it off.

Went upstairs.

The study light was still on.

That stopped him halfway up the staircase.

Arianne didn’t stay down here this late. Not unless she was working. And when she worked, the door sat half-closed, the light burned brighter, the whole room felt like something being handled.

Tonight the door was open.

He took the last few steps slower. Not hesitating. Just reading what he was walking into.

He stepped in without knocking.

She wasn’t at her desk. She was on the couch.

That threw him for a second. Arianne on the couch meant she wasn’t working. Arianne not working at midnight meant something had changed.

She had a glass in her hand, tilted, wine sloshing lazy against the rim as she turned it. The bottle sat uncapped on the table beside her. Not hidden. Not offered. Just there.

Her spine was straight—it was always straight—but her shoulders had dropped. Just a little. Just enough to tell him the alcohol had done something.

Her cheeks were flushed. Not the kind she’d admit to. Just the kind that stayed.

She looked at him when he entered. Tracking. No delay in her eyes, no slur in the way she held herself. But something in her grip on that glass was too still. Like she was holding herself in place.

"You’re late."

Franz crossed the room. His shoes made no sound on the rug. "Conversation took longer."

She turned the glass again, watched the wine climb the side and fall back.

"Did I overstep?"

No preface. No softening. Just the question, dropped into the space between them like she’d been waiting to ask it since he walked in.

He reached for the glass. She let him take it. Fingers brushed—warm, a little too warm—then he lifted it to his mouth and drank. Red. Bold. Half the bottle gone.

He gave it back.

"No."

Her eyes stayed on him. Waiting.

"I should have let them handle it." Her voice came lower, still formed, still precise, but something underneath it hadn’t settled. "It wasn’t my place."

He didn’t move away. Standing close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to keep his eyes.

"He didn’t know."

"That doesn’t make it mine to address."

"It makes it unaddressed."

She exhaled. Not a sigh. Just a release. Her fingers pressed into the couch cushion beside her thigh. Not gripping. Just pressing, like she needed to feel something solid under her hands.

"I acted before deciding."

No regret in her voice. Just the fact of it.

Franz watched her. The pause before she spoke. The way her spine stayed straight but her fingers kept pressing into that cushion. The flush on her cheeks that she probably thought she was hiding.

"You decided. You just didn’t wait."

Her eyes narrowed.

"That’s not the same."

"It is. You just prefer the order reversed."

She stared at him. For a second he thought she was going to argue. Then her head dropped back against the couch—just an inch, just enough to show the line of her throat, the way her pulse moved under her skin.

"I don’t like reacting without deciding first."

There it was. Not contained. Not fully. The words came out rougher than she meant them to. He could hear it.

Franz stepped closer. His leg almost touched the couch.

"I couldn’t take my eyes off you these days."

No frame. No polish. Just the words, bare and direct.

She looked at him. Something flickered behind her eyes—something she didn’t name.

"I should be the one saying that." A beat. Her throat moved as she swallowed. "Seeing a handsome superstar isn’t exactly common."

Her voice hadn’t changed. But the pause before the end had. Just a fraction of a second where she almost said something else.

Franz held her gaze. Didn’t blink.

"You like my face?"

She didn’t look away.

"How about my body?"

The question sat between them. Naked. No joke underneath it, no escape hatch.

Her expression didn’t move. But her fingers curled into the cushion. He saw it.

"How can I comment on something I haven’t seen?"

Franz stepped closer. Close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to keep his eyes. Close enough that she could feel his body heat without touching.

"Want a preview?"

Her breath caught. Just a hitch. Just enough for him to hear it.

"I don’t mind giving you one."

He watched her throat move again. Watched her hands. Watched the way her chest rose and fell under her blouse.

Arianne’s fingers curled tighter into the cushion. The fabric bunched under her grip.

"Are you suggesting that because I’ve been drinking?"

Precise. Dry. But her voice had dropped. Lower. Rougher around the edges.

He shook his head.

"No."

A beat.

"But I think my chances are better."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pressed. Made the air heavier. Made the space between them feel smaller than it was.

She didn’t answer. Normally she would have. Redirected. Closed the loop. Made a dry remark and moved them both to safer ground. She didn’t.

Her hand stayed on the cushion. Her chest kept rising and falling. Her eyes stayed on his.

Franz reached for the glass again. His fingers closed over hers this time—intentional, no accident in it. Her skin was warm. Her hand didn’t pull away.

He held for a second. Just a second. Then he took the glass.

She let go.

But her hand stayed there. Open. Palm up on the cushion. Like she’d forgotten to move it.

He lifted the glass to his mouth. Sipped. Not to drink. Just to do something with his hands. To give her one more second to stop this if she wanted to.

She didn’t.

He set the glass aside.

When his hand came back, it didn’t stop at her wrist. His palm hit her side—firm, guiding. He could feel the heat of her through her blouse. The shape of her ribs under his fingers.

He moved her back against the couch. One motion. Controlled. Certain. Not asking.

Her spine hit the cushion. Her legs parted just enough for him to settle between them. Her hair spread out beneath her head.

She let him. No question. No interruption. But her hand came up to his chest. Fingers spread flat against his shirt.

She pushed. Not hard. Just enough to feel if he’d hold.

He held. Didn’t move.

Then she pulled. Fingers curling into his shirt, dragging him down. Her leg pressed against his hip. Her spine arched before she could stop it—pressing into him, pulling him closer, her mouth parting under his before he’d even kissed her.

Franz didn’t pause.

He kissed her. Not like before. No testing. No brief press to see what came back. This one was deeper. Certain. His hand slid into her hair, fingers threading through, tilting her head back.

The kind of kiss that didn’t ask because the wanting had already answered.

Her nails scraped his chest through his shirt. Her mouth opened wider under his. He felt her tongue against his lip and something in his chest tightened.

He moved above her, one arm braced beside her head, forearm pressing into the cushion. The other hand found her waist, fingers digging into the fabric of her blouse, gripping.

She made a sound. Small. Barely there. But he felt it against his mouth. 𝗳𝚛𝚎𝚎𝘄𝕖𝕓𝕟𝕠𝚟𝚎𝕝.𝗰𝕠𝐦

Her back arched harder. Pressing into him. He felt the heat of her through both their clothes. Felt the way her thigh locked around his hip.

He groaned against her mouth. Couldn’t help it.

His lips dragged from her mouth to her jaw. Not soft. Not teasing. Just the heat of his breath, the scrape of stubble against her skin. Her pulse pounded under his lips. He could see it, could feel it against his mouth.

"Franz—"

His name came out lower than she meant. Rougher. Almost a gasp.

He pulled back just enough to speak. Mouth still close enough that his lips almost touched hers when he talked.

"That’s a fun way to share a drink."

She grabbed him. Hand fisting in his hair, yanking his mouth back to hers. No answer. Just action. Her fingers pulled hard enough to sting.

Franz laughed against her lips. Low. Surprised. Gone fast.

Then his hand slid from her waist to her hip. Fingers pressed into the bone. Gripping. Grinding her against him. Her thigh tightened around his hip. The heat of him settled between her legs and she gasped into his mouth.

He broke away. Mouth dragged down her throat. Lips. Teeth. The rough scrape of stubble that made her nails dig into his shoulder hard enough to leave marks.

She wanted—

Arianne didn’t know what. Just that the space between them was still too much. That her clothes were still on. That his were still on. That she could feel him through all of it and it wasn’t enough.

Her fingers tightened in his hair. Pulling. Demanding.

His hand on her hip squeezed harder. Holding her there. Not letting her move, not letting her pull him closer. Just keeping her pinned beneath the weight of him.

Her nails scraped the back of his neck.

He made a sound—low, rough, swallowed against her throat—and she felt it everywhere. In her chest. In her thighs. In the pulse pounding between her legs.

Neither of them moved to break it.

The glass sat forgotten on the table. The bottle uncapped. The rest of the house stayed still, silent, empty.

Neither of them cared.

His breath came hot against her neck. Her fingers stayed twisted in his hair. His hand stayed locked on her hip.

The clock kept ticking somewhere distant. Time passing because it had nothing else to do.

Neither of them noticed.