Chapter 5 Cydney
cydney
The second my front door clicks shut, I don’t waste one second. My workout clothes hit the laundry basket in record time. I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror, seeing wild hair, flushed cheeks, and lips kinda swollen from nervously biting them during my run.
I crank the shower to scalding hot and step right in. Steam rises instantly, fogging up the glass and making every square inch of my skin tingle.
God, it feels so good. My tense muscles finally start to unclench, the heat kneading away every last knot and leftover anxiety.
Water runs in rivulets down my neck, over my shoulders, and in that blissful moment, I let my head fall back and just breathe.
For five glorious seconds, I pretend my body’s not wound so tight that it might snap if you so much as poked it.
But then, a traitorous part of my brain does what it always does: rewinds straight to Oliver.
I close my eyes and conjure up the way he looked in the gym earlier—sweat-damp hair, biceps bulging under that inky tank top, eyes dark and zeroed in on me like I was a five-star dessert and he’d skipped dinner.
And the way his mouth curved up when he caught me watching him.
Just the memory alone threatens to knock me off my feet.
I let my hands wander. Slow at first, then faster, hungrier, sliding over my curves the same way I’ve been dying for him to do. I imagine it’s his hands on me instead of my own.
Oh, God. I squeeze my eyes tighter and bite down on my lip. One hand cups my breast, thumb flicking over my nipple until it’s tight and oh-so-sensitive. The other trails lower. I’m already slick and needy and, honestly, shame left the building the moment I laid eyes on Oliver Burkhardt.
The fantasy freaking consumes me, fast and filthy, like a wildfire licking up dry timber.
Oliver’s body is plastered against my back, solid and unyielding, his heat searing through me like I’m nothing but tinder waiting to burn.
The tiles are cool and slick against my palms, but his skin is everywhere else.
His chest pressed into my spine, his cock a hard, demanding line against my ass, and his hand wrapped tight around my waist, pinning me in place like he owns me. And let’s be real, he does.
His other hand slides between my legs like he’s claiming territory, his fingers rough and insistent, parting my folds with zero hesitation.
I’m already dripping, my pussy clenching around nothing, begging for him.
He growls in my ear, low and guttural, his breath hot and wet against my skin.
“Live dangerously,” he says, and it’s not just a suggestion but a promise.
His voice is a dark, heady mix of promise and punishment, and it makes me shiver.
My hips buck forward, desperate for more friction, but he holds me still, his grip like iron.
“Oliver—” I choke out, my voice raw and wrecked, not even close to a whisper.
Instead, his fingers move faster, rougher, rubbing tight, relentless circles over my clit like he’s trying to carve his name into me.
I’m gasping, panting, my knees wobbling like I’m about to collapse, but he doesn’t let me fall.
My fingers are working too, frantic and messy, trying to keep up with the firestorm fantasy Oliver is lighting inside me. I can feel it building, coiling tight in my belly. My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape while I moan Oliver’s name, ragged and desperate.
But he’s not done. His fingers dip lower, sliding through my slick heat, teasing my entrance before plunging inside without warning.
I cry out, my body jerking against the tiles while his fingers plunge deeply and relentlessly.
He curls them to hit the spot that sets off fireworks behind my closed eyelids.
His thumb stays on my clit, rubbing circles that are almost cruel in their precision while I tremble so close to the edge that I can taste it.
“Come for me,” he growls in my ear. His voice is pure dominance, and I can’t fight it, don’t want to.
My orgasm crashes over me like a wave, deep and all-consuming, and I’m screaming his name, over and over, until my voice breaks.
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, just keeps working me through it until I’m limp and boneless, held up only by his grip on my waist.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear, and I shudder, still trembling from the aftershocks.
The wave of release nearly topples me, and I press my forehead to the glass, panting, letting the aftershocks roll through me until the entire world narrows to the feel of water and heat and the echo of my own wild, shameless pulse.
Holy cinnamon rolls, did I need that.
After a good sixty seconds of recovery, I rinse off, savoring the heat and the tingle lingering in my fingertips. I towel off and wrangle my hair into a not-horrible wet bun. Then it’s time for my panic dressing.
I tear open my closet and stand there, dripping, half-naked, for longer than I’d ever admit under oath. “Dress to kill, not to confess to a felony,” I mutter, rifling through my options. Too casual, too businessy, too blah.
Finally, I settle on dark yoga pants that hug every inch of my hips and thighs, paired with a ridiculously soft pale blue sweatshirt that dips just enough in front to hint at cleavage without screaming, “HEY, LOOK AT THESE.” I step into my favorite turquoise flats, because a girl’s got to keep it real, and swipe on cherry lip balm and a hint of mascara for a “I totally woke up like this” look.
I snatch up the keycard and stare at it for a second, pulse thundering in my ears. I’m really going to do this.
It’s the longest elevator ride of my life.
Ding. Top floor. My heart pounds in my chest as I walk down the quiet hallway to the penthouse.
Each footstep on the expensive-looking carpet sounds loud as a drumbeat.
I fidget with the hem of my sweatshirt, palms sweating, and try to ignore the urge to turn around and run for it.
But then I reach the door. His door. I take a deep breath. Just enough air to keep my voice steady and knock.
It doesn’t take long. Maybe five seconds, tops, before I hear heavy footsteps on the other side. A lock turns. The door swings open, and there he is.
Oliver.
He looks… delicious. Even more put-together than usual, if possible.
He’s changed into fitted black jeans and a dark olive sweater that hugs his chest and arms like a second skin.
His blue eyes zero in on me right away, and the intense, hungry heat in them is enough to melt every last molecule of self-doubt.
He doesn't even try to hide how he's checking me out.
His gaze travels from my face down my body, lingering at every curve like he's memorizing it.
Then, slowly, his lopsided smirk that makes my knees turn to jelly appears. “Damn,” he rasps, voice rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “You look… incredible.”
I might actually swoon.
My cheeks flush, but I force myself to keep my chin high and my bravado even higher. “I had to guess what to wear for pizza night.” I try for sassy, but my voice wobbles just a little.
His gaze locks on my mouth as he leans against the doorjamb like he’s contemplating several very illegal activities involving my lips. “You’re fucking perfect,” Oliver growls and steps back for me to follow him.
I laugh, nerves tumbling out of me in a single exhale.
The penthouse behind him glows with warm, golden light, nothing at all like the bachelor caves I’ve seen on TV.
Instead of cold steel and glass, I catch glimpses of buttery tan sofas, textured throws, art on the walls, and books spilling out everywhere.
A big, modern kitchen opens onto a living room that looks made for cozying up.
I blink, stunned. The place isn’t just luxurious. It’s… welcoming. Surprisingly personal. Kind of like the man himself.
“Make yourself at home,” he tells me, and I’m hyper-aware of every breath, every look, every tiny detail as the door swings shut behind me with a soft, decisive click.
And just like that, I’m in Oliver’s world.
The door swings shut behind me, and for one wild heartbeat, there’s nothing but the hush of warm lamplight, the soft sound of my flats hitting the floor, and the thump-thump-thump of my own pulse ricocheting around my ribcage.
“Wow,” I say, not even pretending to be cool. “This is not what I pictured at all. I thought I’d be walking into some sterile showroom straight out of a minimalist magazine, not, you know… this. I love it.”
He lets out a low, real laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m glad you approve.”
I nod, grinning. “You totally shattered my expectations. I’m officially impressed.”
Oliver’s about to reply, but then a chime slices through the moment. He picks up his phone and checks it, mouth curving into a rueful smile.
“Pizza’s here,” he says, leaning close enough that I catch a hint of his aftershave. “Give me two minutes to run down and grab it.”
“Sounds good,” I breathe, but he’s out the door before I can blink, the air still buzzing from where his presence lingered.
And just like that, I’m alone in his world.
I spin in a slow circle, then immediately panic over whether that looks desperate.
I take a hesitant step toward the living room, running my hand along the back of the sofa.
It feels like touching whipped cream—soft, pillowy, inviting.
I finger the edge of the navy throw, admiring the subtle herringbone pattern.
Is it weird to memorize the feel of someone’s blanket?
Probably. Like, I’m ninety percent sure it’s not normal, but at the same time, who freaking cares.
There’s so much more to him than he lets on. The bookshelves against the far wall aren’t just for show. They’re lined with actual, well-loved books. Business, yeah, but also novels with glossy covers, including a whole row of cozy mysteries.
The photographs draw me next. I linger over them, taking in the snapshots of a younger Oliver with his arm slung around a man who must be his dad, both of them grinning for the camera.
Another shows a much younger Oliver, missing teeth and mud on his cheeks, kneeling beside a beaming golden retriever.
The last one is more recent—him and another man, older, sleek suit and all, standing in what looks like a New York City bar.
Suddenly, I realize I’m full-on snooping, so I jerk my hand away from the frames and retreat to the kitchen peninsula, pretending to inspect the potted herbs.
Okay, I feel like a fish out of water. I can’t decide between sitting on his sofa or sitting at the breakfast bar.
I hover between options for a full minute, wringing my hands, until I finally perch on the edge of the couch, just waiting.
I cross and uncross my legs. I smooth my hair.
After what feels like both forever and a whole ten seconds, the lock clicks. Oliver’s back.
He kicks the door shut with his foot, juggling a large pizza box. When the smell hits me, I realize I’m freaking starving.
“Hope you’re hungry.” Oliver’s voice is a low rumble, the kind that settles between my thighs and lingers. He drops the box onto the coffee table, crowding the stack of magazines, and the look he gives me strips me down to bone and nerve.
“Starving,” I mutter. My voice comes out breathy, and his eyes flicker, dark with heat.