Chapter Four
Gabriel
I could still smell her perfume, something calculated that toed the line between feminine and strong, floral notes with a hard edge like the air on a snowy day. And I maintained control for approximately fifty minutes, a shamefully short stretch of time.
My silent phone might as well have been holding its breath, not offering any distractions from my mind, from thoughts of Eliza.
I held out until Eliza’s laugh rippled through the glass wall, right when my thumb hovered over the send button for a high six-figure transfer.
The sound vibrated through my skull, sweet, clean, and razor-bright.
The fresh memory of her right by my side, verbally sparring with me, sharp and witty and keeping me hot and bothered.
I pressed my thumb and index finger into my eyelids and pressed until I saw dancing flashes behind my eyelids. No effect. The distraction burrowed deeper.
Releasing pressure, I watched the blue-black of my laptop screen, waiting for my vision to go back to normal.
The reflection, my own face, severe and flushed, annoyed me.
So I glanced at the frosted band of hallway glass where she passed, forearms parallel to the ground, jaw set at an angle engineered to drive me insane.
“Get a grip,” I hissed, but the words did nothing to bring me back to reality.
I knew how this would go. I’d seen it play out in weaker men, all the ways desire made idiots of the supposedly brilliant. I was not immune. The proof: my left hand already closed in a fist with enough force to leave bruises.
With an abrupt movement, I abandoned my desk, closed the office door, and hit the privacy lock with a thumbprint.
The security LED bled red, a warning, but I ignored it, sweeping the room for visual and auditory holes.
Safe. No one would interrupt. No one ever did.
Because I was Gabriel Valor, and I did not get distracted.
Except for her. Especially for her.
I stalked to the glass wall and watched her. She wasn’t aware, or she pretended not to be. More likely the latter. Eliza possessed the kind of awareness you can’t teach; she always knew the temperature of a room, who was looking, and how to make them stop. Or want more.
And fuck, her navy suit, fitted within a millimeter of indecency.
It would be a violation on anyone else, but on Eliza it was a calculated dare.
The top button of her blouse was open, the line of her collarbone as pale as the moon, interrupted by a single freckle, a north star in an otherwise starless ocean night.
I wanted to touch it with my tongue, memorize the coordinates, ruin her with attention.
I closed the privacy blinds and stepped back.
I had to stop thinking about her. I had to stop wanting her.
Still, some part of my mind imagined her silhouette on the other side of any of the frosted glass windows in the office.
In mind’s eye, she’d tease, moving like flowing water as my body heated up in real life.
Damn it, I wanted her, wanted to touch her.
My palms tingled, thinking about her skin and curves.
I pictured my mentor’s face, the way he looked at men who lost to their vices: with clinical detachment, and a hint of pity.
I forced my thoughts toward numbers, arbitrage, tomorrow’s meeting with the new Singapore hedge fund.
But Eliza invaded every calculation, an error code impossible to debug.
Her wide, white smile. Her sparkling eyes.
The way she moved like a dancer who’d missed her calling.
I lasted another few minutes before the pressure broke me.
In my private office bathroom, I set the faucet to full cold and splashed water over my face, then my neck. I gripped the counter, knuckles white, and ordered my reflection to behave. The only solution was to get her out of my system by any means necessary.
I locked the door, undid my belt, and pulled my cock out; half-hard, angry, leaking onto my fingers as I fisted tight around the shaft. I’d imagined this scene enough times for my body to run ahead of me.
The friction was almost painful, and I found myself biting the inside of my cheek to avoid any sound. I imagined Eliza kneeling in front of me, that perfect suit jacket off, hair coming loose from its tie, her mouth open and eager and filled with contempt and cutting commentary.
“You’re so fucking predictable,” I muttered to myself.
But the image of her still left me growling in anger and need. I pumped my cock, thinking about her lips around me, the bob of her head, gripping that slick hair of hers in one hand while thrusting my hips into her.
I could almost feel her hands on my thighs, pulling me in, not pushing me away. Could feel the breath through her nose on my groin. Feel the warm, soft wetness of her welcoming mouth taking every aching inch of me.
But her eyes, the anger, rage, hatred, under all of it, a challenge that made me want to put her on her knees, or better yet, under me.
My breaths came hard and hot, my hand locked in a death grip around me as I tugged out that need and desire burning through me.
The length of me swelled in my hand and I grabbed a handful of paper towels. Pleasure flooded through me as I doubled over the sink, vision whiting out at the edges.
The wave of release felt more like collapse.
The shame arrived second; clinical, instant, total.
I hated myself for the weakness, for the confirmation that I was just as animal as every other man.
I wiped the evidence away, washed my hands twice, and buttoned up.
On the way out, I caught my own eyes in the mirror, bloodshot, slightly wild.
She was my best friend’s little sister. She was half my reason for buying into this company, though I’d rather jump out the twenty-seventh-floor window than admit it to her or anyone. I was supposed to be her mentor, her boss, her protector. Not the guy jerking off to her voice from two rooms away.
I exhaled until my lungs hurt and returned to my office. The air felt cleaner, or maybe I was just empty. I went back to work, slamming through emails, burning through a backlog of investor questions that would have taken others days.
I buzzed for coffee. My assistant responded instantly, trained to avoid pleasantries unless initiated.
I sensed her in the hallway again. She’d paused outside my glass, holding a sheaf of folders in one hand and her phone in the other, thumb moving in precise flicks. She looked up, caught my gaze, and didn’t blink.
She smirked, a minimal, surgical movement of one corner of her mouth. Then she raised her phone, thumbed a message, and walked away, hips swaying just enough to confirm she knew I was watching.
The notification appeared on my screen instantly.
-Lunch, Valor? Or are you going to hide in your cave all day? E.
I almost barked out a laugh. Instead, I stared at the message, letting my mind replay the last activity I’d had with frame-by-frame clarity.
Was it possible she knew? Impossible. She couldn’t have known. She was just being herself; a lioness, teeth out, waiting for the chase. And I fucking loved every second of her baiting, her teasing, her attacks.
I typed back: Calendar says I’m free at 1:00. Twelve minutes late is on-brand for you, but today try for single digits.
Her reply came a heartbeat later.
-Twelve minutes late is strategic. Builds anticipation. You should try it sometime. You know, building anticipation.
That felt too pointed. I resisted the urge to respond with something cruel, or worse, something honest. I had to keep the balance. The only thing I feared more than wanting her was her knowing how badly I did.
I went back to work, but nothing stuck. My mind kept looping around her, how she’d smirked at me through the glass, how she’d arched her eyebrow like she could see every filthy secret through my skull.
I found myself in the elevator before I realized I’d even stood up. I hated how she rewired my neural circuits, shorted out every plan I made. And I hated how much I liked it.
I stood by the windows in the lobby, watching the city tremble under noon sun, until I felt her approach.
Not footsteps – though those were loud, the woman loved her heels – but her energy.
She radiated it. She wore the same suit, but another button was undone on her blouse, and her hair was down.
She looked more fuckable than I was comfortable with.
“You’re two minutes early,” she said, lips pressed into a line. “Is Valor losing his edge?”
I checked my watch. “You were three minutes early. Math is still hard for you, I see.”
She rolled her eyes, but her dimple betrayed her. She nodded toward the street. “Come on, I’m starving.”
We walked shoulder to shoulder, close enough to feel the brush of her shoulder every few steps. She didn’t talk at first; she liked silence, and I respected that. When we reached the crosswalk, she spoke but never looked at me.
“So,” she said. “Big morning?”
I stalled. “Define big.”
She grinned, sharp as ever. “I heard a rumor. Apparently, you broke your own productivity record for the quarter. Must be all the stress.”
I stopped at the curb, turned to face her full on. She met my gaze, no fear, only curiosity.
“What are you implying?” I asked.
She shrugged, not bothering to hide the smirk this time. “Only that some people work harder when they’re… distracted. Not that I’d know.”
I felt the spike of adrenaline, the itch at the base of my spine. Was it possible she knew? No. She was just playing her favorite game; find the flaw and poke it until it bled.
I forced my tone even. “Rumors are for interns and bored HR people. I deal in facts.”
She laughed, tipping her head back. “Suit yourself, Valor.”
We headed into a quiet little place and she chose a table. The waiter was quick and efficient, nodding as she asked for iced tea and I asked for coffee. When he was gone, she planted her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands, studying me.
“Where’s Calvin?” I asked, figuring questions about her brother might stop her from ferreting out all my secrets.
She shrugged. “Ask him.”
Drinks arrived and our lunch order was taken. She wanted steak, I asked for the same, which made her eyes sparkle.
“Follow the leader, huh?” she asked.
I shrugged. She glanced away finally, her fingers loosening another two buttons.
The curve of her throat and the tick of her pulse had all my attention as my body responded to her.
I glanced away, downing my burning hot coffee in three gulps, welcoming the pain to kill the arousal spiking through me.
When I lowered my cup, I caught her eye as she adjusted her collar, tilting her head to bare more skin.
“Something on your mind?” she asked, sweet and venomous.
If she’d been anyone else, I could have denied it. But with Eliza, denial was just another move in the match.
“I was thinking,” I said, “how unprofessional it is to bait your boss in public.”
She sipped her iced tea, eyes never leaving mine. “You’re not my boss, Gabriel. You’re my brother’s best friend with a superiority complex.”
The old wound flared, but I didn’t let it show. I leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Is that what this is? Old rivalry?”
She shook her head, slow and deliberate. “It’s more fun than rivalry.” She smiled, small and dangerous. “You get bored if people aren’t pushing you. I get bored if I’m not pushing people.”
Food arrived and as we ate, her gaze often locking with mine. But we were quiet. Sizing each other up while I tried not to think about pinning her naked body under mine, pumping into her until we were both breathless.
When we finally finished our food, she seemed to have figured something out. “You always did have a crush on me, Valor.”
I patted my mouth with my napkin, not looking away from her. “You sure thought so.”
But there was a curve at the corner of her lips. “You’re a terrible liar, Valor.”
“I’m not lying.” I pushed my plate away, still locked on her. “If I wanted you, Eliza, I wouldn’t play games. I’d have you.”
She inhaled, the indent at the base of her throat deepening. But she said nothing. Just watched me for a moment, then wiped her mouth with her napkin careful, graceful. “Thanks for lunch, Valor. Try not to self-destruct before three o’clock. I’d hate to miss it.”
Putting her napkin on her plate, she left me at the table, alone, wired, wondering if she had always known, or if she just guessed at the shape of my weakness and found it wanting.
I walked back to the office, replaying every glance, every word, searching for evidence of exposure. My skin crawled with residual want, but the shame had faded, replaced by something sharper: anticipation.
None of what I’d said had been a lie. When I wanted someone, I took them.
And I wanted her.
Back in my office, I opened the privacy blinds. I wanted her to see me, to know I was watching, to up the stakes. I could outplay her. I had to. It was the only way I’d survive.
And there she was with a single sheet of paper in her hand. She paused, rapped twice on the glass with a knuckle without even looking at me, and slid the document under my door. I waited until the echo of her footsteps vanished before I picked it up.
It was a memo, unsigned. Just four words, centered on the page.
Get over yourself, Valor.
There was a little mustache drawn on the L in my name, no likely a callback to me vandalizing that image of her.
She had no idea.
Or maybe she did.
I wasn’t sure which was worse.