Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
War
The way her lips close around the fork, slow and soft, like she’s savoring every bite, makes my blood thrum with heat.
In want.
I want to wreck something.
Tear this place down to give her more.
The food.
The view.
The kind of pleasure that makes her moan just like that, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted, completely unaware of what she’s doing to me.
She sits across from me in a restaurant that costs more than her entire apartment building, and somehow she’s still trying to disappear. Shoulders tucked. Hands folded. Legs crossed tight under the table like she’s afraid to take up space.
And all I want is to give her the whole fucking room.
Her fork clinks against the plate again as she slices a piece of the sea bass. Every move careful. Quiet. Practiced.
A woman who was taught to behave.
A woman, that a man like me, was taught to control.
I sip my wine, watching her as she chews. She’s still wearing that cheap foundation, the kind that tries to mask what shouldn’t be hidden. I can see the freckles underneath. Just a trace. The kind most women laser off.
She has no idea how pretty she is.
No idea how her lips look when she bites them between thoughts.
How her brow furrows when she reads something dense, like she’s trying to conquer it by force of will.
No idea how the picture on her nightstand, the graduation one, wrecked me for a full thirty seconds.
“You have siblings?” I ask, too abruptly.
Her eyes meet mine and she brightens like a goddamn sunrise.
“Three brothers,” she says, smiling. “Logan, Chase, and Dean. Logan’s the oldest. He’s basically my second dad.
Chase is the town heartbreaker who also makes everybody laugh.
And Dean’s the baby, well I’m the baby, but he’s the youngest of the boys, thinks he runs the place. ”
I don’t smile.
I just watch her smile.
That joy doesn’t belong in this place. It’s too clean. Too soft. Too good for the uptight swank and the pressed shirts that say status instead of soul.
But I like it here now.
Because she’s here.
“They all stayed back home?” I ask, voice smooth.
“Yeah. We grew up in a small town. My parents run an inn. They all help out with maintenance, stuff like that. Chase is in renovation, but does freelance,” she shrugs, “whatever keeps the lights on.”
She says it like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t cost her something every day to be so far from them.
I nod once. “Sounds like a tight knit family.”
“We are.” She sips her water. “Sometimes too tight. Dean used to go through my phone just to make sure I wasn’t talking to anyone the family wouldn’t approve of.”
I almost smile at that.
Almost.
But the thought of her texting some college boy with baby hands and soft thoughts makes my knuckles itch.
I glance at her plate. “Eat. Don’t let that get cold.”
“Are you always this demanding?” Her brow twitches, the corner of her mouth pulling up like she’s deciding whether I’m serious or just an asshole.
“Yes.”
She smirks, but takes another bite. When she swallows, she wipes delicately at her lips with the napkin. Still trying to be so fucking poised.
“There’s a gala next Friday,” I say.
She looks up, surprised. “Like… tuxedos and ballgowns kind of gala?” she asks, her voice light, but I catch the flicker of nerves behind it.
“Yes.”
She tilts her head. “You often go to things like that?”
I lift a brow. “You don’t think I own a tux?”
“I think you’d wear one like it offended you.”
Fair.
Her eyes sparkle with the tease, and suddenly I want to give her every invitation I’ve ever turned down. Just to see what she’d wear. Just to see how she’d look under chandeliers and too much money and the greedy stares of men who’d never deserve her.
“You’re not wrong,” I say slowly. “But this one’s different. It’s at the Halston Estate. Fundraising for the new waterfront development. I’m expected to attend.”
She nods, then glances up. “Who are you bringing?”
A question laced with curiosity, not jealousy.
Which should settle me.
But it doesn’t.
It coils tight, something hungry twisting behind my ribs, ugly and possessive.
“No one.”
Her brow lifts. “That’s strange. Usually you have a model. Or some actress. I’ve seen in the tab—”
She freezes, eyes widening. Her fingers tense around her napkin, twisting the edge like she’s trying to undo the words.
“Not that I’ve… read about you, Mister—Warren. I-I’m sorry.”
I blink once.
Then let it settle.
The implication.
She watches.
She reads.
Maybe not religiously.
Maybe not always.
But enough.
Enough to know who I’m usually seen with.
Enough to notice that this time, I won’t be seen with anyone at all.
Not unless I change that.
Not unless I want her there.
My mouth curves, slow and deliberate.
Dangerous.
Inviting.
She won’t know which until it’s too late.
“Didn’t peg you as the tabloid type, Ms. Baker.”
She flushes deeper. “I’m not. I mean, I don’t, it just popped up in a headline once, when I was—”
“Researching the company?”
“Yes,” she blurts, too fast.
I lean back in my chair, let the silence do the rest.
Because now I know.
She sees me.
And I haven’t decided yet if that makes her lucky…
or damned.
***
Two weeks with Olivia Baker is intoxicating.
Not in the way champagne fizzes in your blood.
No. She seeps under the skin like venom
Sweet. Subtle. Slow.
By the time you feel the burn, you’re already addicted.
It starts in the chest, tight and aching. Then spreads.
She doesn’t even realize it, how she ruins my concentration just by breathing in my proximity.
Today, I don’t need her for much.
But I want her close.
So I make something up.
“Olivia.”
She looks up from her desk, hair tied back, pen between her fingers, eyes too bright for this early in the morning.
There’s a smudge of ink on her knuckle. I want to wipe it off with my thumb. Or my mouth.
“Come to my office.”
She blinks. “A new task?”
“Cross-check these vendor invoices,” I say, dropping a thick folder on her desk. “I want to know who’s bleeding me dry.”
“You’re being bled dry?” she says, brows lifting. “With your net worth?”
My gaze sharpens. My voice drops.
“Researching me again, Olivia?”
I want to see how far she’ll go. How deep she’s already dug.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blush.
She just smiles, soft, smug, wicked.
“No. I just do my job. If I’m going to keep this place afloat, I have to know how much water’s in the boat, right?”
She watches me a beat longer than necessary, then closes her laptop and begins gathering her things, notebook, phone. Her movements are smooth, efficient, but I still see it. The awareness. The way she straightens her spine just a touch. The way she smooths her skirt before standing.
She knows what walking into my office means: Get ready to work.
Good girl.
She follows me down the hall without another word. Heels tapping a beat I already know by heart.
She walks like a song I’ve memorized. One only I get to hear.
Once inside, I don’t move toward my desk.
She goes to sit in the chair across like always.
Instead, I pull my chair back and nod toward it. “Sit.”
Her brows lift. “In your chair?”
“I have a task for you,” I say mildly. “You’ll need the monitor.”
She hesitates, but only for a second.
Then she rounds the desk and sits.
And fuck if it doesn’t do something to me, a twist low in my gut, a possessive thrum in my chest.
Seeing her there, where no one else is ever allowed to be. My space. My command post. And she just perches like she belongs.
I move behind her, standing close enough to feel the heat off her skin. I don’t speak.
I watch.
She moves the mouse. Eyes flicking to the monitor as it flashes on.
A few loose strands of hair fall down her neck. I lean in slightly, breathing in the scent of the perfume I bought her.
She’s wearing it.
Like my own personal brand.
Every breath she takes marks her as mine.
Warm. Soft. Completely at odds with the steel in her spine.
I count seven freckles on her left cheek.
Eight on her nose.
Three more, barely there, dusted across her collarbone where her blouse dips just slightly.
She doesn’t know how seen she is right now.
Her hands move to the keyboard.
Then pause.
“Your password?” she asks, glancing up over her shoulder.
I don’t move.
I don’t blink.
I just give it to her.
“Parker building, no space, capital P.”
She blinks. “Seriously?”
“Type it in,” I say simply.
A longer hesitation this time. But she does it.
My password.
My password.
No one has ever had that. Not even my brothers. Not anyone.
It’s a small thing. A digital key.
But it’s hers now.
I watch her fingers move across the keys. Controlled. Light. Sure.
Dangerous.
She’s so fucking dangerous.
And she doesn’t even know it.
When the desktop loads, she clicks open the folder and starts scanning. She reads quickly; eyes sharp, lips slightly parted as she focuses.
I lean in closer, placing one hand on the back of the chair beside her shoulder.
She doesn’t flinch.
She just leans slightly toward the monitor, instinctively adjusting—making space for me.
Obedient.
It’s not submission.
Not yet.
But it will be.
“I want notes on any discrepancies by end of day,” I say, voice low.
She nods without looking up. “Understood.”
God, I like her.
Too much.
Enough that it’s starting to feel like a problem.
She doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t second-guess. She doesn’t waste time trying to impress me. She just works.
And yet somehow, she’s the most impressive person I’ve met in years.
Her phone buzzes once on the desk, screen lighting up.
She hesitates, but doesn’t check it.
A single second of doubt. Then discipline.
I smirk.
“Something important?”
“No.”
“Then ignore it,” I murmur.
She does.
Just like that.
A woman who listens when I say no. Who obeys without asking why.
Fuck.