Chapter Eight #2
Her head rested against my shoulder, knees tucked to one side of the club chair.
I kept my hands at her waist, careful not to slide any higher, even though every cell in my body was screaming for contact.
We didn’t talk. We just listened to the fire wind down, the snaps and hisses, the rain pounding windows like it was demanding entry.
I could feel the outline of her body through the cotton and wool, the way she relaxed into me with total, boneless trust. Every so often, she’d tilt her face up and look at me, pupils wide, and I’d have to resist the urge to taste her again.
She smelled like damp desire, heat, and sugar, like her entire body had caramelized in my arms.
If she’d asked, I would have torn her open. I would have made her come apart, right there on my lap, nothing between us but heat and want.
I imagined it in vicious detail, pushing her skirt up, feeling the muscle in her thighs tense as I lifted her, settling her so she straddled me, knees bracketing my hips.
I’d make her look at me, hold her jaw so she couldn’t hide, and kiss her until she forgot her own name.
She’d wriggle, squirm, grind down on my cock until I lost every ounce of discipline.
I’d rip open the buttons on her blouse, bury my face in her chest, leave marks she could feel the next morning.
She’d gasp my name, low and hoarse, and I’d slide my hand under the waistband of her panties and find her slick and desperate, all for me.
I’d slip fingers into her as she rode my palm, desperate for release, until she was a mess, until she was shaking and moaning and clawing at my back.
Then I’d undo my belt, push my pants just low enough, and fuck her like I’d been starving for it all my life.
She’d ride me, wild and untrained, breath hot against my neck.
I’d wrap my arms around her, crushing her against me, feeling every twitch, every pulse, every frantic thud of her heart.
She’d come first, hard, nails raking the back of my neck and shoulders.
I’d follow, helpless, emptying into her until my vision went white.
She’d collapse against my chest, panting as she melted, and I’d hold her there, fingers tangled in her hair, swearing to myself I’d never let her go.
I blinked, and the fantasy dissolved. Eden was still in my lap, but she was very real, very gentle, and very much not fucking me. Her face was soft, sleepy, mouth just a little redder than before.
If she could read my thoughts, she didn’t show it. But her hand drifted lower, tracing slow circles on my thigh, and I felt my pulse spike, raw and savage.
“Gareth?” she whispered, a little drowsy.
“Mm?”
She nuzzled into my neck, voice muffled. “Can we do this again? Tomorrow night?”
I wanted to say yes, wanted to say every night, but my throat locked up. All I could do was stroke her back, slow and steady.
She didn’t say more or ask for an answer, and I was glad for that. Because if she’d pressed, if she’d really wanted it, I would have destroyed every rule in the house for her.
We stayed until the fire went out, until the room was cold and blue and the only light was the moon outside the window. She pulled herself upright, hair falling around her shoulders, and looked at me like she was afraid to break the spell.
“I should go,” she said, but didn’t move.
“Only if you want to,” I replied.
She laughed, quiet. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
“Only if provoked.”
She stood, stretching, skirt riding up her thighs. I caught a flash of pale skin and nearly groaned. She didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she did, and was daring me to say something.
She gathered herself, but hovered at the door. “Good night, Mr. Wolfe.”
I stood as well and crossed the room in two strides. I braced a hand against the doorframe, blocking her exit. Not trapping her, just a reminder that I could.
“Eden,” I said.
She turned, eyes wide. I cupped her jaw, brushed my thumb across her cheek.
“Tomorrow night,” I promised, and then kissed her again, harder this time, letting her feel the edge of my hunger.
She melted into it, sighing, and I nearly lost it. But I pulled back, just before I crossed the line from gentleman to animal.
She left, legs a little unsteady, and I watched her go.
As soon as the door closed, I leaned against it, head spinning. My cock was so hard it hurt. My hands shook with the effort of not dragging her back and having her right there on the carpet, the desk, my leather office chair.
I wanted her. Christ, I wanted her so badly I could barely think.
But I wanted her safe, too. Wanted her happy, unafraid, still Eden in the morning.
So I let her go.
But tomorrow… tomorrow, I wasn’t sure I’d have the strength.
So I made my way to bed. What else was I to do?
The house never truly slept. Not even at 3 a.m., when most of the staff had retreated to their alcoves and the heating system rattled like distant artillery.
I found myself prowling the corridors, restless, my own skin too tight.
The study smelled like her now, sugar, perfume, something faintly wild, and that was a problem.
It made every room in the house feel smaller.
I cut through the kitchen, hoping the walk would clear my head, but stopped short at the swing door when I caught voices inside.
“He’s with her again,” said a woman. Young, nasal, new to the night staff. “Two nights in a row.”
“Not our business,” the other replied, in the clipped hush of someone who’d seen enough people get canned to know better.
“But still,” the first insisted. “He never brings anyone to the study, let alone after hours. She must be something special.”
“Maybe she is.”
A rattle of dishes, the squeak of a fridge. I stood motionless in the shadow of the door, listening to my staff try to figure things out.
“I heard he was smiling at breakfast,” the woman continued. “Like, actually smiling. First time I’ve seen it. Maribel said it’s not normal.”
The other snorted. “Maybe she’s just good at her job.”
“She’s good at something,” the first whispered, and they both broke into snickers.
I almost fired them all on the spot.
Instead, knowing I wouldn’t sleep, I went back to the only place in the house that didn’t feel like a padded cell, the study.
If I were a better man, I’d be working. Instead, I sat in the dark with the ledger open and my thoughts running in tight, filthy circles.
Every other breath I took, she was there.
I could smell her on the air, or just the hint of her on my shirtsleeves.
I replayed the memory of her laugh, the curve of her ass in the hallway, the way she’d bitten her lip at the door like she didn’t trust herself to say goodnight.
I’d spent years training myself to forget women the moment they left the room.
Now, it was all I could do not to go down the hall and drag her back into mine.
Instead, I pressed my fingertips to my temples and tried to visualize a world in which I didn’t want her. In which I didn’t ache to touch her, to bite her, to leave marks she’d remember for weeks. It was impossible. The harder I fought it, the sharper the need became.
This wasn’t love. I wasn’t naive. It was something older, hungrier, a chemical imperative. A predator pulse in the blood. All I could do was ride it out and pray I didn’t do something stupid. Or more stupid than I already had.
I closed my eyes, let the memory unfold, let myself imagine how it would feel if I stopped holding back. If, instead of being a gentleman, I just took her the way I wanted. The fantasy was simple and brutal.
She’d walk in, file in hand, maybe a little unsure of herself but holding her head up anyway.
She’d set the folder on my desk and look at me, waiting for approval.
I’d ignore the file, focus only on her, the way her lips parted, the pulse at her throat.
I’d tell her to come around the desk, and when she hesitated, I’d make it a command: “Now.” She’d obey, because she always did.
She’d stand in front of me, eyes wide. I’d reach out, hook my fingers at her hips, and pull her in, slow at first, then all at once so her breath left her in a gasp.
I’d lift her onto my lap, feel the heat of her through my clothes, and press her down so she could feel exactly what she was doing to me.
She’d blush, maybe try to laugh it off, but I’d catch her wrist and pin it behind her, just to see what she’d do.
She’d tense, then melt, the way she always did when someone gave her clear orders.
I’d nudge her legs apart and run my hand up the inside of her thigh, so slow it almost hurt.
She’d try to squirm away, but there’d be nowhere to go.
I’d hike up her skirt, thumb tracing the edge of her panties, and ask her if she wanted me to stop.
She’d say no, or maybe she wouldn’t say anything at all, just bite her lip and rock against me, so desperate she couldn’t hide it.
I’d push the fabric aside, slide my fingers inside, find her already soaked and open and begging for it.
I wouldn’t tease her. Not tonight. I’d unzip just enough to free my cock, then guide her onto me, slow enough to make her whimper, hard enough to make her eyes roll back. She’d grab at my shoulders, nails digging through the shirt, and I’d thrust up, filling her so deep she couldn’t breathe.
She’d ride me, back arched, head thrown back, and I’d lean in to bite the soft skin at her throat, just above the pulse. I’d fuck her until she came, shaking and whimpering, clamping down so tight I’d have to fight not to lose control.
But I would lose it, eventually. I’d slam her down, pull her tight to my chest, and come inside her, hard and unforgiving, until she collapsed against me, spent and trembling. I’d hold her there, stroke her hair, pretend for a minute that the world outside this room didn’t exist.