9. Skye #2
I raise my chin, breath shaky. “You think I couldn’t handle you?”
“I think,” he says, his voice suddenly hoarse, “you don’t understand what it would feel like to have a man like me come completely undone for a woman like you.”
Oh. Fuck.
The air disappears. I grip the counter behind me, every nerve ending burning. “And yet,” I whisper, “you haven’t walked away.”
He leans even closer, lips brushing the edge of my cheekbone. His voice curls over my skin. “You should eat something, Miss Rhodes.”
I shudder. “Why?”
“Because if I keep standing this close to you, I’m going to stop caring who sees.” Then he steps back, just like that, and walks away, his coffee in hand, his control miraculously intact.
Mine? Shattered.
I stare at his retreating back like it might turn around and devour me. Broad shoulders. Strong hands. A man made of restraint. A man who says I’d ruin you like he’s daring me to say try.
I’m not okay. I’m drowning in something I’m not sure I’ll survive. And worst of all? I don’t want it to stop.
I stare at the pastries for a full thirty seconds before tearing off a piece of croissant and chewing it like it personally offended me. My hands are shaking. My mouth is dry. My heart is somewhere near my toes.
He heard me. He quoted me. And then he said—God, what did he say? He said I look at him like I want him to ruin me.
Which, okay. Accurate. I need air.
I walk back to my desk and shut my laptop a little too hard, grab my phone, and make my way toward the executive terrace.
I know it’s technically off-limits, but I also know the code scribbled on the back of the Wi-Fi card tucked in my desk drawer.
Occupational hazard of being nosy and emotionally unstable.
The air is crisp. Clean. The wind whips through my hair like it’s trying to pull me back into reality. I lean against the wall and close my eyes.
Just breathe. Just be. Just exist for five goddamn minutes without making it about him.
“You know this terrace is technically off-limits.”
I don’t turn. I don’t even flinch. His voice is already embedded in my bloodstream. “What now, Mr. Blackwood? Come out here to fire me this time?”
“Came out for some air on my private executive terrace. What are you doing here?”
“Maybe you should have told Leann she shouldn’t leave the code scrawled on company property,” I reply.
“You checked?”
“I told you. I’m nosy.”
A beat passes. “That’s dangerous. I believe there’s a phrase about that, curiosity killing the cat?”
I finally turn. He’s shed the jacket again. Open collar. Casual, except nothing about him ever feels casual. He’s a storm with all of the warning signs and alarms going off and I’m the idiot standing on the rooftop, begging for lightning.
“I thought you left,” I say.
“I did. Then I saw you walk out.”
I tilt my head. “So you followed me?”
He doesn’t deny it. Just shrugs one shoulder, eyes never leaving mine.
“I needed air,” I say.
“Is that what you call fleeing the scene?”
“I wasn’t fleeing and besides, you walked out of the kitchen before me.”
“You turned white as a sheet.”
“Wouldn’t you if your boss repeated the words daddy issues back to you in a break room?”
He chuckles. Low. Rough. “Probably.”
I cross my arms. “So what, you’re here to make fun of me some more?”
“No.” He takes a step closer.
“Then why are you here?” I ask, voice quieter now. “Really.”
His eyes flick over my face. “Because I needed to see your expression when I said this.”
Before I can ask what, he steps in, closing the distance between us with devastating precision. He raises one hand, letting it hover near my jaw. Not touching. Just close enough to feel the heat of him. But he doesn’t touch me.
Instead, his fingers curl into a fist. He drags that hand back down, not to me—but into his pocket. The other he plants flat on the stone ledge behind me, like he’s anchoring himself. Like if he moves even an inch closer, he’ll snap. His voice is quiet, dark, lethal.
“You’re young and beautiful, Skye. Men fall at your feet without even trying. You’ve got half the damn office tripping over themselves to make you laugh. To catch a glimpse of you.” His gaze sweeps over my face, down to my mouth, then back up.
“But a man like me?” he says, his eyes darkening. “I’m not the one you should be trying to tempt.”
My breath catches in my throat for a second. “What kind of man are you , Mr. Blackwood?”
“I’m the kind of man who knows damn well he shouldn’t fantasize about defiling his son’s ex-girlfriend.” The air vanishes between us. His tone drops to a lower octave that practically sings to my lady parts.
“But it doesn’t stop me from picturing you on your knees with your lips stretched wide and tears running down your cheeks while I fuck the brat right out of your smart mouth.”
My breath stutters, my thighs clenching automatically. He’s close. So close. But not touching. Like he wants me to feel just how much restraint it’s taking.
“And the worst part?” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even feel guilty about it anymore.”
I swallow, the air thick, then I glance down at his hand that’s still shoved in his pocket, still not on me. I find my voice again, hoarse and shaking as my pulse slams into overdrive.
“Why won’t you touch me? What are you so afraid of?” I whisper.
His eyes drop to my mouth, and when he speaks again, his voice comes out like a strained plea. “I’m not afraid of touching you, Skye. I’m afraid of what happens when I do.” The air thickens between us, the pull unbearable.
“You don’t get it,” he continues. “You walk in with that mouth, that skirt, those fucking eyes, and you look at me like you want to know”—he leans in, mouth brushing the shell of my ear—“exactly what it would feel like to have my cock pumping deep inside you over and over again, filling you up until I’m dripping down your thighs while you beg me to stop but I don’t stop… I wouldn’t stop.”
A gasp escapes before I can stop it. My knees threaten betrayal but I refuse to let him intimidate me. I know he’s losing control, just like I am… but I want him to lose control. I want him to know that I want him to lose control.
I tilt my chin, heart pounding. “Or if you’d even fit.”
He laughs, low and dark. “Oh, sweetheart…” His voice is pure sin. “Not at first.” My breath hitches. “But I’d get you there,” he murmurs. “My fingers. My tongue. I’d stretch you open until your body begged me to fill it. Until you didn’t care if it hurt a little.”
I’m shaking now, every cell in my body begging to be touched.
To be claimed. Shamelessly, recklessly, I reach out and trail my fingers down his chest. One button.
Then the next. His muscles twitch beneath my touch.
But he lets me. All the way down… until I reach his belt.
That’s when his hand darts out. He catches my wrist, firm. Not rough, but final.
“Skye.”
Just my name. He says it as a warning but I can’t stop. “Why not?” I breathe. His grip tightens, just slightly.
“Because if I fuck you the way I want to, you’ll never be able to pretend it meant nothing.” My breath stutters. “And you will try to pretend,” he adds, eyes searing into mine. “You’ll convince yourself it was just tension. Just curiosity. That you’re still in control.”
“I’m not trying to control anything.”
“Bullshit,” he growls low. “You have no idea what you’re inviting.
You think this is about flirting in hallways and making me hard in meetings, baby girl?
No. You don’t need a man like me. You need a soft boy who’ll take you to brunch and repost your selfies.
I’ll fuck you so deep you’ll forget your last name and call me sir without thinking. ”
I whimper. Actually whimper.
“I can’t touch you,” he says, voice rough. “Because if I do, I won’t stop until I’ve lost all control.” He lets go and steps back before I can combust, his expression locked down tight. “I can’t lose control,” he says. “Not with you.”
Then he turns and walks away before I can ask what it would look like if he did. And I’m left alone on the terrace, heart in my throat, thighs pressed together, panties soaked, and absolutely no idea how I’m supposed to survive the rest of this job without combusting.
I don’t even remember walking back to my desk.
My brain is still out there on that terrace, vibrating from the way he whispered against my ear like he had every intention of finishing what he started. My skin still tingles where his fingers brushed my waist, a ghost of contact that might as well be a brand.
What the hell was that?
I sit down slowly, like my bones have forgotten how to hold me upright. My monitor glows with unread emails and blinking Slack messages, all of them irrelevant compared to the absolute mess happening in my head.
Reece Blackwood wants to ruin me. No. Reece Blackwood is going to ruin me.
I drag my hand down my face and groan quietly, glancing around to make sure no one’s watching me have a full-blown sexual identity crisis at my desk. But the floor is mostly empty, everyone else already cleared out for the day while I was off playing will he, won’t he?
I click on an email, something boring from HR, and try to read the words. They don’t make it past the surface of my brain. I can’t stop thinking about his voice. The way it dropped. The way he fucking growled .
God, who even does that in real life?
It should’ve sounded ridiculous. It didn’t. It sounded like a delicious, tempting, toe-curling threat.
I shift in my seat and press my thighs together, willing the memory away. It’s not helpful. It’s not healthy. And it’s absolutely going to get me fired.
My phone buzzes on the desk, breaking through the fog of lust and humiliation. I grab it like a lifeline.
Maya: I need an overpriced martini, fries, and a solid hour of talking shit. You in?
God bless her.
Me: You have no idea.