Chapter Eight #3
It was a good fantasy. Too good. I snapped back to the present with my cock straining, my nails biting crescents into my palms, and the heavy, inescapable certainty that I was one wrong move away from ruining both our lives.
The worst part was knowing she wanted it, too.
She wasn’t subtle, not anymore. She lingered at my office door, let her hand drift across my shoulder when she handed over files, looked up at me through those dark lashes like she knew exactly what she was asking for.
She played it off-always professional, always measured, but the hunger was there, vibrating in every word, every glance.
If I had any sense, I’d cut her loose. Fire her, pay her for her time, send her as far from this house as money could manage.
Instead, I watched her through the day’s security feed in my phone, pausing the frame when she thought no one was looking and let her face go soft, unguarded.
I wondered what it would take to break her, to make her admit she wanted more than just a line on her resume.
I poured a whiskey, neat, and downed it in a single swallow.
The burn cleared my head for exactly three seconds before the fantasy came roaring back.
I let it ride this time, let my hand drift to my belt, and palmed myself through the fabric, rough and efficient.
I pictured her on her knees, lips around my cock, eyes locked on mine as she took me as deep as she could.
I imagined her gagging, then swallowing, then smiling like she’d won a prize.
I worked myself, slow at first, then harder, faster, until the edge was sharp enough to draw blood. I gritted my teeth, bit down on her name, and came with a force that left me shaking, slumped in the chair, pulse stuttering. It was almost enough.
Almost.
After, I sat there in the dark, pants undone, whiskey gone, and wondered how long I could keep pretending I was in control.
A soft knock at the door. Not urgent. Just a warning. I tucked myself in, righted my shirt, and called out, “Enter.”
She stepped in, hair mussed from sleep, no makeup, eyes watery as her satin pajamas accentuated every curve and told me she wasn’t wearing a bra.
She held her phone, but I barely noticed.
All I could see was the way her mouth was swollen, lips bitten through, like she’d been thinking about the same thing I had.
“Sorry to bother,” she said. “I forgot earlier. Maribel said you needed these before tomorrow and I wanted to make sure you got them.”
Leaning forward, I glanced at her phone at the sent email, then opened my email to confirm. “Thank you, Eden.”
She lingered, then, “Is there anything you need?”
God, yes.
“No,” I said. “That’s all. Get some rest.”
She hesitated, then turned to leave. I watched her go, memorized the sway of her hips, the bare skin of her arms and neck.
When the door closed, I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
I was fucked, and not in the way I wanted.
I finished the whiskey, set the glass aside, and forced myself to stare at the ledger until the numbers blurred into meaninglessness.
Sleep was out of the question. But there was always tomorrow.
And tomorrow, I’d either have to break her, or let her break me.
I didn’t know which would be worse.
Deciding I needed to get some rest before I lost my mind, I made my way out of the study.
Knowing the rumor mill never rested, I turned toward the kitchen.
The staff had no idea I prowled the halls at this hour, collecting stray threads of gossip the way my ancestors collected pelts.
Maybe they thought I was asleep, or away, or too insulated in my own world to care what they whispered in the dark.
They were wrong.
I hovered outside the door, invisible in my own house, and let the voices wash over me.
“…see the way he looks at her? Like he’s about to devour her whole.” Maribel sounded gleeful, as if she’d won a bet.
The other, male, older, with a voice like gravel, chimed in, “It’s not just that. I’ve seen them alone more than I ever saw him alone with his last five assistants put together.”
“She’s not even his type,” another woman said, “Too smart, too… I don’t know. Not desperate enough?”
“Maybe that’s the new type,” he said. “Or maybe he’s just losing his edge.”
A clatter, the shush of a refrigerator door, then the sound of glass against marble.
“I heard he kissed her,” she stage-whispered, as if the very walls might be listening.
The man whistled, low and dirty. “She tell you that?”
“She didn’t have to. You ever see two people try so hard not to touch, they look like they’re about to break something? It’s obvious.”
“Obvious enough to get her fired, if she’s not careful.”
Silence, then, “Maybe that’s what she wants.”
I slipped away before they could catch me eavesdropping.
I told myself I didn’t care what they thought, but the truth was, I cared more than I should.
Not for myself, my reputation was bulletproof, my bank account ready to grease palms to overlook my behavior, but for her.
For Eden, who’d done nothing but work her ass off and still found herself at the center of the next great manor scandal.
Back in my room, I sat on the edge of the bed and let the darkness settle. I’d tried everything to forget her. Whiskey, work, rage-jogging the perimeter at dawn. Nothing worked. She was in my head, under my skin, an itch I couldn’t scratch.
And now, with the house going to sleep and the rain coming down even harder, I knew I wasn’t going to make it through the night without giving in.
In my room, I tried to distract myself, opened a contract draft, scrolled through headlines, ran inventory on the disaster that was my inbox.
All pointless. I could barely see the screen through the haze of need.
Every click, every keystroke, reminded me of her, the way she leaned over my desk, the flash of her collarbone, the sounds she made when she thought she was alone.
I thought about the exit clause in her NDA, the one I’d drafted personally. If things got ugly, she’d get a severance package and a ticket anywhere in the world, but only if she walked first. If I crossed the line, the penalty doubled.
I’d written the contract to protect myself, but now I wondered if it had only trapped us both.
A wave of guilt hit, quick and hot, but it did nothing to dull the hunger. If anything, it made it worse.
I stripped off my shirt and dropped it to the floor. My chest was tight, the air in the room too thin, like I was breathing through a straw. I lay back, closed my eyes, and let the fantasy take over.
This time, she was under me, sprawled across the bed, arms above her head and wrists crossed like she’d surrendered.
Her hair wild across the pillow, lips red and wet, eyes wide with anticipation.
She wore nothing but a smile and my old button-down, barely fastened, the tails flaring open to bare her legs.
I crawled up between her thighs, planted my knees at the edge of the mattress, and stared down at her, at the flush on her cheeks, the tremor in her chest, the way she tried to keep her breathing even, like she wasn’t dying for it.
She reached for me, but I caught her wrists and pinned them down, hard enough to leave a mark. She arched, desperate, but I held her in place, savoring the way her muscles tensed and released under my hands.
“Please,” she whispered. Just that, one word, a prayer, a dare.
I slid my hand down her body, fingers gliding over her breast, her ribs, her belly, until I reached the heat between her legs.
She was soaking, thighs slick, ready for me.
I stroked her, slow at first, then harder, until her hips bucked off the bed and she let out a sound that was equal parts sob and curse.
I kept her there, right at the edge, refusing to let her fall. She begged for it, my cock, my mouth, anything, but I made her wait, made her feel every second, every heartbeat, every pulse.
When I finally let her go, she came so hard she nearly tore the sheets. Her eyes rolled back, her mouth opened in a silent scream, and I felt her clench around my fingers, milking them for all they were worth.
I didn’t stop. I spread her open, lined myself up, and pushed inside, slow and brutal and unyielding. She clawed at my back, left marks I’d wear for days. I drove into her, over and over, each thrust more desperate than the last.
It didn’t take long. The second I felt her tighten again, I let go. I came hard, almost angry, every muscle in my body on fire. She looked up at me, at my lips, and smiled, smug as a cat.
The release hit, a full-body detonation, but it didn’t relieve the pressure. Not really. I was still hard, still aching, still wanting.
I opened my eyes and found myself staring at the ceiling, sweating and panting, cock in hand and nowhere to put it. I came again, rougher this time, biting down on her name and imagining her face when she saw what she’d done to me.
When it was over, I lay there, spent and raw, but the ache had only gotten worse.
I rolled over, face buried in the pillow, and let the shame wash through me. I’d never needed anyone this badly. Not in thirty-two years of living. Not even close.
The clock on the wall glowed 2:14. In four hours, the whole circus would start again, breakfast, emails, the never-ending parade of emergencies. She’d be there, eyes wide and hair untamed, pretending like nothing had happened.
But I’d know. And soon, so would she.
I tried to sleep, but the image of her, on my bed, on my lap, on her knees, wouldn’t leave me alone.
Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow, I’d let her have me. Or I’d have her. Either way, something would break.
And God help me, I was looking forward to it.