Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-Eight
T he newspaper crinkles in her hands, loud in the silence of the room.
“NYPD are still searching for missing District Attorney Aiden Daniels. The man was reported missing two weeks ago after missing several appointments with officials…”
Cassie’s voice trails off as I scan the screen in front of me, not really listening to her. I know what’s in the tabloids. I wrote the ending myself. But I feel her eyes on me. She’s staring hard enough to pierce skin, and I know the question’s coming before she even asks it.
“Did you have anything to do with this?”
I don’t look up.
“With what?” My voice is cool, even, measured. But she’s spent enough time in my space now to hear the subtle shifts when I’m being evasive. When I’m playing dumb. Cassie’s smart like that. Dangerous, in the way a woman gets when she knows you better than you’d like her to.
“With Daniels going missing?”
I finally lift my eyes to meet hers. She’s not accusing. She’s pleading. That’s worse. That means she’s still holding onto hope. Still believing I might have kept my hands clean just this once .
“Do you really want me to answer that question?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Axel,” she scolds.
“Cassie,” I warn.
She slams the paper down and moves across the room like she owns it—like she owns me . There’s nothing tentative in the way she steps between me and my desk, wedging herself between my control and my patience.
She perches on the edge of the surface, bare thighs brushing the cool wood, wearing nothing but my stolen shirt. It’s a distraction, one I’m not above indulging in. My eyes flicker downward. She sees it. She always sees it.
“There is an order to things, Axel,” she huffs. “The police can arrest him for what he did, but you won’t let me speak to them.”
Her voice is firm, but soft in the places she knows I’ll feel it most. She thinks this is about justice, but it’s more than that.
Seeing the state she was in when Daniels had attacked her, it broke something inside of me.
Something I didn’t realize was there. And I dealt with it the only way I knew how.
“Let the city deal with it,” she pleads.
I let the corner of my mouth curl upward, just slightly. “I am the city, Cassie.”
That makes her scowl. She crosses her arms, digging her heels in. “Return him, Axel.”
I lean back in my chair, exhaling slowly, eyes never leaving hers. I could lie. I’ve lied to more powerful people than her. But I don’t lie to her .
“That’s going to be difficult,” I admit.
And just like that, the light in her eyes dims. It’s a small shift, barely perceptible to anyone else, but me. She knows what I’m not saying. Daniels isn’t missing. He’s not waiting to be found.
He’s dead.
“You’re no better than him,” she whispers, and starts to turn away.
I catch her wrist before she can escape, pulling her gently but firmly toward me. I press my forehead to hers, grounding myself in her warmth.
“That may be so,” I murmur. “But the difference between me and him is, I don’t pretend to be anything other than what I am.”
She flinches, just slightly. Not out of fear, but out of the truth in my words. That truth cuts deeper than any lie.
Still, I see the weight settling on her. Guilt, disappointment, the war between who she wants me to be and who I really am. So I cup her chin, force her to look at me, to see the fire I’ve never hidden from her.
“No one threatens you and gets away with it. No one hurts you and walks away whole. The man had it coming. He wanted the best of both worlds. The clean image, the dirty money. But it doesn’t work like that.”
I feel her breath catch, and I ease my grip, my thumb sweeping over her jaw. She’s listening now, not to argue, but to understand .
“He was in deeper than you realize,” I say, softer now. “He played with the wrong men, took money from the wrong hands. And unlike you, Cassie, I have no limits. I’ll do whatever it takes. My hands will always be dirty, but they’ll never let anyone touch you again.”
She doesn’t respond. Not at first. I can see the thoughts racing in her head. I wonder if she’s imagining those same hands—bloodstained, violent—cradling her in bed. Calming her panic. Cleaning her wounds.
She knows what I’m capable of. But she also knows what I’m capable of for her .
“Ax—”
“You look hot as fuck in this shirt,” I cut her off, my voice rougher than I intend. I need the shift—I need to steer us away from everything simmering just beneath the surface. The tension is suffocating, electric, too charged to be ignored. I need a release. I need her .
I reach for the hem of her oversized shirt— my shirt—and tug it gently, watching the fabric inch higher up her thighs like it has a mind of its own.
It clings to her in all the right places, teasing curves I already know by heart.
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shy away. Of course she doesn’t.
She meets my gaze with a smirk that’s pure, cocky confidence.
“I look good in everything,” she replies, voice syrupy and smug.
God, she does. She knows it. She weaponizes it. Cocky. Smart. Fucking beautiful in a way that wrecks me every time I try to keep my head straight.
Stepping closer, I let the heat roll off me in waves. My voice drops to a whisper, low and deliberate, meant just for her. “How about putting that smart mouth to some use?” I murmur.
She tilts her head, crossing her legs with that maddening slowness, like she’s the queen of the goddamn world and I’m just lucky to be kneeling at her feet.
“What are you going to do?” she teases, chin tilted, eyes flashing with heat and challenge. Like she doesn’t already know what she’s doing to me. Like she doesn’t feel the way the room tightens around us with every beat of silence.
I lean in, every move calculated. Predatory. Hungry. My eyes never leave hers. “Do you really want to know?”
There’s a beat—just one—where her breath catches. Then she leans forward, lips brushing mine without touching. “Oh, I know,” she breathes. “I just want it to happen already.”
Fuck . She’s a storm in a slip of cotton, and I’m a man too far gone to seek shelter. She owns me. She has from the start, she just doesn’t know it.
Or maybe she knows exactly how tightly I’m bound to her.
And that’s what makes her so dangerous.
Getting to her knees, she slides her hands up my thighs, coaxing me gently to sit back in the chair. Her fingers move with purpose, undoing my belt with a practiced ease, a mischievous glint dancing in those green eyes. She bites her bottom lip as my cock springs free—and I’m fucking done .
She wraps her hand around my length, stroking in slow, languid passes that toe the line between pleasure and exquisite torture.
My head tips back as she drags her thumb over the tip, smearing pre-cum around the sensitive head, and I groan—low and guttural—because it’s already too much and nowhere near enough.
Then her mouth is on me—warm, wet, perfect.
The moment her lips wrap around the head of my cock, I suck in a breath so sharp it rattles in my lungs.
My fingers curl tight around the arms of the chair as she takes her time, slow and deliberate, like she’s tasting something rare. Something she’s been craving.
“Fuck,” I groan, my hips twitching up before I can stop them. She doesn’t flinch. If anything, she presses down harder, taking more of me, her throat relaxing as she sinks lower. The heat of her, the pull of her mouth—it’s like being devoured in the best way.
Her eyes flick up to mine, lashes fluttering, and I swear to God I see pride there. Power. She knows exactly what she’s doing to me, exactly how far she can push before I unravel.
She pulls back slowly, letting me slip free with a soft pop, her hand never stopping its torturous rhythm. Her lips are glossy, swollen, and she looks up at me like sin wrapped in silk.
“Jesus,” I hiss, threading my fingers through her hair, not pushing, just holding . Needing the anchor. “You’re gonna kill me.”
She smiles against the base of my cock, all wicked innocence. “That’s the idea.”
Then she takes me again—deeper this time. Her throat flexes, and I lose the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My hand tightens in her hair as she sets a pace that’s unhurried, confident, devastating.
I’m trying to hold on, desperately clawing at the last scraps of control.
But the way she looks up at me while on her knees, lips stretched around my cock like she was made for this, like she owns me?
I’m already lost. There’s no winning when it comes to her.
Not when she gives herself like this. Not when she claims me without saying a word.
She moans around me, the sound vibrating straight through my core, ripping the air from my lungs.
My head falls back with a groan, body arching off the chair as my hips buck on instinct.
I can’t stop it. I don’t want to stop it.
My grip tightens on the edge of the seat, knuckles white, and I squeeze my eyes shut as the pressure coils tight and hot in my spine.
She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let me retreat. Her hands are firm on my thighs, grounding me, holding me there like she needs to watch me unravel for her. Like she lives for this.
And fuck , do I give it to her.
My orgasm rips through me, fierce and consuming. I groan her name like a prayer, like a curse, like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the earth. My muscles lock, my chest heaves, my heart races—and she takes it all. Every last drop. Swallowing me down like it’s nothing.
Like it’s everything .
When she finally pulls back, she drags her tongue slowly across her bottom lip, savoring the taste, her eyes never leaving mine. There’s that spark again. That dangerous, knowing glint that always manages to undo me.
“I should wear your shirts more often,” she says, voice thick and husky with satisfaction.
I huff a laugh, still trying to catch my breath, still strung out and wrecked in the best fucking way.
“Yeah,” I manage, reaching down and tugging her into my lap, wrapping my arms around her like she’s the only thing that matters.
“But next time,” I murmur against her skin, “I’ll be on my knees.
And I’m not standing until you forget your own name. ”
She hums in approval, curling into me like she knows exactly what she’s in for, and wants it all the same. “Promises, promises,” she teases, but there’s a tremor in her voice—one that makes my cock twitch again, already greedy for another round .
I tighten my grip, bury my face in her hair, breathing her in like I need it to live. “Not a promise,” I growl, lips dragging over the shell of her ear. “A guarantee.”
She laughs then—quiet, breathless, wicked. And I swear right then, I’d ruin myself a thousand times over just to hear that sound again.