Chapter Nine
Eliza
Gabriel and I argued late, long after the cleaning crew left the building, after the city outside went as quiet as it could.
The conference room echoed our hostility. The words were razor-thin, Gabriel’s voice sanded smooth as always, mine pitched on caffeine and hunger and stubbornness.
I hated how calm he stayed. I hated that I needed to match him, moment for moment, threat for threat, like some fucked-up arms race between two people who didn’t know how to back down.
He wore black: obsidian suit, deep blue silk shirt open, just enough to show the man took damn good care of himself. Every move a warning shot. The outline of his jaw, honed by refusal and self-denial, looked sharp enough to draw blood.
He leaned over the end of the table, fingertips pressed to the mahogany. And he watched me. Watched me pace. That’s what I’d always suspected; Gabriel Valor wanted to see if he could break me, and every day I showed up in tailored armor and red lipstick just to prove he couldn’t.
The final volley was so boring it was tragic.
“We won’t make the deadline, it’s not possible,” I said, already knowing the outcome.
He watched me with that dissecting stare. “Then we work through the weekend. Call in the team.”
“Which team? Half of them are off. You know that.”
He waited for a moment and said, “Find a way. Or tell me you can’t.”
He wanted me to flinch. I set my jaw and glared straight through him. “Fuck you, Gabriel.”
“Noted.” He smiled, just a little. And that’s where it should have ended.
But it didn’t. I caught his scent; something cold, metallic, expensively forbidden.
He was in front of me before I realized he’d moved.
His hand clamped around my wrist, and he bullied me backward to the wall, the wainscoting biting my back as I glared up at him.
But he grabbed my hips and lifted me up, my legs wrapping around him for survival.
He pressed in, his body heat radiating through my clothes.
His mouth crashed onto mine, scorching hot and deliciously wicked like the burn of winter air and crisp mint.
My hands circled his shoulders, nails biting in for fear he’d drop me.
He growled at the sensation and ground his hips into mine.
I could feel him, hard and insistent, through the tailored fabric of his slacks.
An animal need hit me square in the gut, along with total erasure of everything but the urge to win or be ruined.
“You’re such a fucking bastard,” I said into his mouth, teeth grazing his lip.
“And you’re impossible,” he shot back, voice ragged now. “But at least you know what you want.”
He hiked my skirt up and his hand reached my panties.
The movement was brutal, deliberate, exposing my bare ass to the chill of the wood as he removed my panties.
My breath knifed out of me when I heard the sharp slap of his belt unbuckling as he pinned me to the wall with his hip.
His hand was between my thighs before I could process that I was half-naked below.
He didn’t waste any time and he was inside me in few seconds. The head of his cock was hot, blunt, shoving into the slick center of me with zero preamble. It hurt so fucking good, just a sting, and I gasped, but there was no pause. He thrust in hard and forced my body to stretch to accommodate him.
“Don’t you dare fucking stop,” I said, my own hips trying to shift into him more and more, desperate to grind on him and release the deep aching need he’d awoken in me. I’d given up dating. Swore off men. They were a distraction at best, annoying at worst.
His hands grabbed my ass, forced me up, spread me wider. I gripped his waist with my knees on instinct, gripping so tight my thigh muscles burned.
He pumped into me, ruthless and steady, all that businesslike restraint disintegrating in the dark. Every time he bottomed out, I felt it in my core. He bit my neck, not sweet, not gentle, just a mark to show he’d been there. It was possessive and mean and perfect.
I clawed his shoulders, left little crescent moons in the fabric.
He liked that. He sped up, hips snapping into me, breath hitching in my ear.
I couldn’t tell which of us was making the noise anymore; it all blurred into this rhythm, a punishing pace built from friction and anger and years of wanting something you were supposed to hate.
I came first. It blindsided me, tore through my center and up my spine. I shattered around him, nails raking his back, voice gone hoarse and helpless.
He followed with a low, guttural sound, slammed me into the wall one more time and let go inside me, hot and deep and unprotected.
The mess of it was instant, slick and undeniable.
Then he kissed me. And he didn’t stop kissing me, not even as we both started to slide down the paneling, his hands still squeezing my flesh like he thought I might disappear.
I felt his cum leaking around him before I could get my breath back.
There was a satisfaction in it, a kind of territory marked, a reminder I’d let him do exactly what I’d sworn I wouldn’t.
He pulled out, slow and lingering, and set me carefully on my feet.
His belt hung loose around his hips. My skirt was still pushed up, my blouse askew, lipstick smeared across his mouth and probably mine, too. I didn’t fix it. I didn’t look away.
He kissed me once more, not a question, not an apology, just a claim.
Then he zipped up his slacks. Buttoned them.
Refastened his belt and left, no words, just the echo of his footfalls.
The empty conference room swallowed the sound.
I stood there a minute, dizzy, sticky, fighting the urge to collapse.
Then I woke up.
My sheets were twisted around my waist, one hand clenched in the comforter, the other jammed between my thighs. The pulse in my core hadn’t faded. I caught the sweet-sharp scent of my own sweat and sex, hot and raw in the air. For a second, I had to check if I was alone.
No Gabriel. No wainscoting. Just my bedroom, city lights striping the far wall, and a phone buzzing with calendar alerts I’d already missed.
I rolled onto my back, heart pounding. My body throbbed, needy and unsatisfied, but it was the aftershocks that stung the most; shame, delight, and the jagged sense of loss I never admitted to anyone. I dug my nails into my palm, trying to ground myself.
I wanted him. I fucking wanted him. Even when I hated him. Maybe especially then.
I pushed off the covers, padded into the bathroom, and stared at myself in the mirror.
The reflection looked unbothered; clean skin, hair wild from sleep, cheekbones still on point.
I’d dressed to kill yesterday, black blouse and skirt, blood-red heels I could run a marathon in.
Now, though, I was in my sleeping sweats and tank top.
I splashed water on my face and tried to imagine what it would be like to walk into the office and see Gabriel again now, after this dream.
Would he sense it, the static crackle of hunger and desire?
Would he know, somehow, that I’d let him fuck me against a wall in my own head?
Or would he just keep playing his game, cool, calculating, above it all, until I snapped again?
It didn’t matter. I’d spent years clawing my way up this ladder, and no fantasy, no matter how wet and filthy, was going to knock me off the next rung.
But the feeling of him lingered in my mind.
I turned on the shower, stepped in, and scalded myself back to reality. When I stepped out, I laid out my clothes: tailored, severe, unapologetic. I set my lipstick with surgical precision.
The only way out was through.
I’d be ready.
The next morning, I was sitting in front of my screen. I’d have enjoyed the quiet because Gabriel was in a meeting I’d begged out of, but the code on my screen had been rewritten. Again.
A logical person would’ve blamed the coffee. Or the time. Or maybe my own nerves, strung tight from a full day of avoiding Gabriel, because I was afraid he’d smell the dream I’d had like perfume on me. So far, I’d managed to avoid him.
But sections of my codebase kept reverting in a way that no scheduled backup or automation protocol could explain.
I’d documented the anomalies, even looped in IT.
Their response: “No evidence of unauthorized access.” I’d started saving every version like a digital magpie, hoarding timestamps and deltas in my private sandbox.
My code was being edited, but I had no idea by who or why.
Well, I had a theory.
And that theory entered the room.
He looked as fresh as always, tailored charcoal suit unwrinkled, the open collar of his shirt framing a neck that could have modeled luxury chains for men. He wasn’t supposed to be here.
“Eliza,” he said, voice pitched low. As if the building might be listening. He surveyed the damage: the paper blizzard around my keyboard, the two empty Red Bull cans, my abandoned heels resting beside my desk. His gaze lingered at my bare feet for a heartbeat, then climbed, unflinching.
“I see the Valor inspection teams are on a new schedule,” I said, not bothering to hide my annoyance. “Is there a memo I missed?”
Gabriel’s lips twitched. A controlled upward shift, like he was humoring a child. “I needed to check the forecast pipeline.”
“I’ll leave once I solve my own murder.” I gestured at the monitor, pulling up the latest commit logs. “If you’re here to audit, might as well witness the latest attempt on my sanity.”
He stepped inside. Not close enough to touch me, but close enough that the space between us felt charged.
He leaned over my chair, hands braced on the desk so the sleeves of his jacket pulled tight against his forearms. His aftershave, some subtle, cedar thing, made the office air smell like forbidden fruit.