18. Reece
Reece
S he hums when she enters. Not loud, not obvious, but I hear it.
A soft melody under her breath as she sets her iced coffee down and bends to tuck a folder into the bottom drawer of the cabinet by my door.
Her heels click against the marble, echoing in the early quiet of the office, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop the thought: I should never have touched her.
But I did. And now I’m wrecked.
I barely look up from my screen when she steps into my office, but I don’t need to. I can smell her perfume. The one she wasn’t wearing in Boston. This one is floral—vanilla, maybe—and it clings to my lungs like it’s marking me from the inside out.
She holds out a paper cup with a crooked smile. "I took a gamble. Oat milk vanilla latte. No whipped cream. You look like a no-whip kind of guy."
I arch a brow but take it. Our fingers brush. My pulse trips.
"How very judgmental of you, Miss Rhodes."
"Just observational," she counters, spinning slowly on her heel like she has all the time in the world. She pauses at the window, gazing out at the skyline like she isn’t driving me completely insane.
I look down at the latte. It’s perfect. Too sweet, slightly nutty. Exactly right.
"You planning on standing there all morning?"
She turns, grinning. "Depends. You planning on yelling at me today? Because if not, I might stick around."
I don’t smile. But the corner of my mouth lifts.
"Not unless you deserve it."
She perches on the edge of the credenza. Her skirt rides up just enough to show the smooth, pale skin above her knee. I force myself to look away.
"I’ve been thinking about going back to school," she says, tone casual but eyes darting like she’s bracing for judgment. “Maybe getting my masters in PR or marketing. Or brand strategy. I don’t know. Something creative but not so sales focused."
I lean back in my chair, folding my hands behind my head. "You’d be good at it. You think fast. You read people. That’s most of the job."
Her lips part slightly. I see it hit her. The weight of that approval.
"You’re not just saying that?"
"I don’t say anything I don’t mean."
She stares at me a beat longer than necessary, then looks down at her nails. "I’ve been playing it safe for so long. It’s scary thinking about starting over."
"Then don’t start over. Start from here. Use what you’ve learned. Build on it."
She blinks, then nods slowly.
I clear my throat. "If you want help talking through options, you know where to find me."
She smiles again—softer this time. "Mr. Blackwood mentoring his son’s ex. Sounds like the beginning of a really awkward sitcom."
"Not if I cancel it after the pilot," I murmur.
She laughs as she stands. Her fingers trail across the edge of my desk. "I’ll let you get back to work."
But when she walks out, I don’t get back to work. I stare at the door like she took every rational thought I had with her. And I already know… I’m not going to survive this.
Archer's text comes in a few hours later.
Archer: Landing at 9. Can swing by the office tomorrow, midmorning. Thought we could go over Q2 projections.
My stomach knots. He's coming here. To my office. Where Skye will be. I rake a hand down my face, sitting back in my chair, dread rising in my throat like acid. It shouldn't matter. She's a temp. Nothing more. Except she isn't. Not anymore. Not to me.
He'll recognize her voice. He'll see the way she looks at me. The way I look at her.
Fuck.
I pace. I consider telling her the truth. That Archer is coming and it’s complicated. That it’s better if she isn’t here. But what would that say? That I’m ashamed of her? That this, whatever the hell this is between us, can’t survive the daylight?
I hate myself for even considering it. But I still pull out my phone and search for the best spa in Chicago. I find it and book the full-day package. Massage. Facial. Steam. Wrap. Lunch. The works. All under her name.
Then I text her.
Me: Take tomorrow off. My treat. No arguments. Confirmation attached.
A moment later, her reply pings.
Me: This is insane. And sweet. Should I be suspicious?
I stare at the screen, thumbs hovering.
Me: I just want to take care of you a little. You deserve that.
My stomach knots tighter when I read the lie.
It’s partially a lie anyway. I do want to take care of her, spoil her, pamper her, but that’s not where the motivation is coming from this time.
She doesn't respond right away. I imagine her curled up on her couch reading it, brow furrowed, cheeks pink. Eventually she texts back.
Me: Thank you. For real.
I put my phone down and stare out the window. I’ve never hated myself more. And yet my chest feels lighter knowing she’ll be pampered. Safe. Unseen. Just for one more day.
The next day, the office feels colder without her.
Her laugh doesn’t echo from the front desk. Her perfume isn’t laced into the air. The corner of her jacket isn’t slung over her chair, tempting me with the fantasy that maybe this could ever be simple.
It’s not. It never was.
Archer walks in fifteen minutes late, casual as ever, in dark denim and a navy Henley like he didn’t just throw my entire emotional equilibrium into a blender with one goddamn text message last night.
“Dad.” He nods, dropping onto the leather chair in front of my desk like he owns the place.
“Morning,” I say, voice low. My tie suddenly feels too tight.
He glances around. “Where’s the assistant? She ditch you already?”
My jaw tightens. “She took the day off.”
“Already?” He lifts a brow. “Damn. That’s a bold move for a temp.”
“She’s been helping with the quarter-end reconciliations,” I deflect. “She earned it.”
He lets it go for now. We launch into projections. Numbers. Strategy. He flips through spreadsheets, clicks his pen, questions my allocations like he always does. And I answer because this, at least, is still familiar.
But somewhere between supply chain margins and expansion projections, I feel it. His eyes on me. Studying.
“You seem different,” he says after a beat of silence. “Lighter. Weirdly zen. Did you finally take up meditation or start microdosing mushrooms?”
I look at him flatly. “No.”
He leans back, arms crossing. “You sure? Because the last time we talked, you were basically a human thundercloud. And now… you almost smiled when I walked in.”
I shrug, flipping a page in the report. “I’m getting more sleep.”
“Bullshit.” He laughs. “You’ve got that glowy post-fuck energy.”
I freeze. For a beat, my blood doesn’t move. Doesn’t flow. Doesn’t exist. He’s joking. He has to be. But my silence gives me away.
Archer narrows his eyes. “You seeing someone?”
“Jesus,” I mutter, standing. “Can we focus on the numbers?”
He raises both brows, mock innocence etched across his face. “Hey, I’m just saying it’s a good look on you. You seem… happier.”
I want to tell him it’s not like that. That I’m not seeing anyone. That this thing between me and Skye isn’t casual or simple or anything I can name. But I don’t. Because I’m lying.
To him. To her. To myself.
We wrap up an hour later. He heads toward the elevators, phone already out, talking about dinner plans. And I’m left standing in the quiet, airless space of my office, where her absence feels like a shadow I can’t outrun.
I step into the front office. Her desk is clean. Tidy. Impersonal. But her coffee mug is still here. Pale pink, chipped at the rim, with a little cartoon cat on it. She left it by the monitor.
I pick it up and turn it in my hand. My chest aches. I should have told him she was here. Should have told her that Archer was coming. Should have set boundaries before any of this started.
But I didn’t. Because I didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to let her go. Didn’t want to give up the way she looks at me like I’m worth unraveling for. I set the mug down, then I walk away, guilt clawing through me like a punishment I’ve earned a thousand times over.
I make it until 6:42 p.m. before I cave.
The office was a wasteland without her. I sat in meetings I don’t remember, nodded at conversations I didn’t hear.
Everything was noise, static, filler until I could get to her again.
Now I’m pacing my living room like a lunatic, fists clenched at my sides, trying to convince myself not to get in the car.
She needs space. You need control.
But neither of those things wins out. I’m at her apartment by seven. I don’t even remember the drive. She opens the door wearing tiny shorts and an oversized t-shirt that’s falling off one shoulder. No makeup. Hair in a messy bun. Glowing. And smiling.
That’s all it takes. My last thread of self-control snaps.
I step inside and close the door behind me without a word.
She opens her mouth, maybe to say hello, maybe to tease, but I don’t let her.
I grab her face in both hands and kiss her hard, backing her up until her spine hits the wall with a soft thud.
Her moan is instant, desperate, like she’s been waiting for this just as long as I have.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” I growl, voice rough against her lips. “I’ve been hard for you all fucking day, baby.” She gasps as I lift her, her legs instinctively wrapping around me.
“No panties?” I reach between us, confirming what I already knew. “You knew I’d come crawling.”
“I hoped,” she pants, nipping at my jaw. “I wanted you all day.”
“Say it again.”
“I wanted you.”
“Louder.”
“I wanted you, Reece. I fucking missed you.”
That’s it. I take her to the kitchen island that’s cold, unyielding marble. I lay her flat, shirt pressed up her body, tits bouncing free. I don’t waste time. I lean down, suck one of her pink nipples into my mouth, and bite until she gasps.
“You’re mine tonight. Understand me?” I reach down and shove two fingers inside her. “You wet for me already?”
She’s moaning, trembling. “Yes. Please.”
I undo my belt, my slacks, free my cock, and drive into her in one long, brutal thrust. She screams.
“Say thank you for the spa day, sweetheart,” I grunt, hips slamming into her. “Say it while I’m inside this tight little cunt.”
“Thank you,” she sobs, gripping the edge of the counter. “Oh my God, Reece— Thank you.”
“That’s right. You take what I give you. You fucking take it.”
Every thrust is deeper. Wilder. My grip bruises her hips. Her head tips back, mouth open, eyes glazed. I lean in, biting down on her shoulder. “You were made for me.”
She whimpers, back arching. “Reece. Oh God— I’m gonna?—”
“Come,” I order, voice low and lethal. “Now.”
She fucking falls apart for me, crying out my name like a prayer. I don’t stop. I lift her off the counter, still inside her, and carry her down the hall. She’s dazed, trembling in my arms.
When I reach her bedroom, I kick the door open and lay her on the mattress. It creaks under our weight, and for a second, I consider being gentle. But the second passes when she grabs a handful of my hair and whispers in my ear, “I want it rough, baby.”
I flip her onto her stomach, yank her hips up, and sink into her from behind. She screams again, shameless, needy, wrecked, and I grip her hair, pulling her head back so I can whisper against her ear.
“You like when I fuck you like this?” I snarl. “Like you’re mine to use?”
“Yes,” she sobs. “Please don’t stop.”
“I’m not fucking stopping. I’ll fuck you through this mattress.”
On the next thrust, a loud crack echoes around the room and a leg gives out. The bed dips violently to one side. We both freeze for a second.
“Oh my God.” She laughs breathlessly. “You broke my bed.”
“You were the one begging for it harder, weren’t you?” I ask, sliding out and back into her again.
“You were the one”—she moans as I do it again, sliding into her roughly—“fucking me like a porn star. Oh yessss.”
“What was that?” I don’t stop. I don’t give a fuck if her entire building is on fire. I can’t stop. “Are you complaining about the way I can make your tight little pussy quiver and throb with just a look?”
She fists the sheets, pushing her body back against my cock as I drive into her over and over again.
“Nobody has ever fucked you like this, baby girl, and they never will.” I’ve lost all control. I don’t even know what I’m saying but I can feel her pussy clenching me so tight I’m seconds from exploding.
“Not even your son,” she says with that little fucking smile on her face as she looks back at me and that sends me over the edge.
“You are such”—I thrust harder, her body sliding forward so far I have to grab her hips and slam her back on my cock—“a little”—I do it again, and she cries out as she looks down and watches her release start to drip down her thighs—“brat.” I stay still this time after sliding in to the hilt, my release coming out in hot, fast spurts inside her as her thighs tremble and she collapses beneath me.
We’re both panting, our gasps echoing around us.
“I can’t believe you broke my bed,” she finally says.
I grin, still buried inside her. “I’ll buy you a new one. Steel frame. Reinforced. Military grade.”
She turns her head on the pillow, eyes sparkling. “Maybe a sex swing while you’re at it?”
I thrust again. She yelps, laughing and crying all at once.
“Dirty fucking mouth,” I mutter, leaning down to bite her shoulder. “Next time I’ll fuck you in it.”
She moans, biting the sheet, and I echo it with a groan, her name on my lips.
I collapse over her, breathing like I’ve just run a marathon.
I don’t pull out right away. I just lie there, pressed to her back, arms curled around her waist, cock still inside her like I can’t bear to be apart.
She shifts beneath me, stroking my forearm.
“You okay?”
I nod. But I’m not. Not even close. I press a kiss to her spine, then her shoulder, then her neck. I want to stay. I want to stay more than I’ve ever wanted anything. But I can’t.
I gently slide out of her. She turns to her side, watching me dress. When I reach the door, I glance back one last time. She’s naked in the crooked bed, smiling softly, sleepily.
“You ruin me,” I say, voice hoarse. And then I walk out. Because if I stay, I won’t ever leave again.