Chapter 17 Olivia
Chapter seventeen
Olivia
This is the moment.
His meeting is over, War’s in his office.
Perfect.
Now I’ll talk to him.
Now I’ll say it out loud: we kissed, but I didn’t say yes to dating you or being in a relationship. This… us, it’s not anything.
I step into his office, nerves twisted so tight I can barely breathe. He’s standing at the window, back to me, phone to his ear.
“Yes.”
A pause.
Another.
And then he laughs.
The sound is rare enough to make my breath hitch.
“Send the confirmation to my email and Olivia Baker’s. Yes. I want the crew mobilized by next week.”
He hangs up, turns around, and smiles.
Smiles.
And I feel it like a punch to the sternum. That rare, easy joy on his face. That lightness. It softens something brutal in him and slices something fragile in me.
“What happened?” I ask.
“The Parker Building,” he says, voice rich and warm. “It’s back on. Your summary notice… it worked.”
I blink. “Wait. Really?”
My heart leaps.
I did it.
He nods. “We’re clear to move forward. Construction resumes next week.”
I smile before I can stop it.
Pride swells in my chest. Not just for the work. For the way he’s looking at me now, like I genuinely helped.
Then he’s moving.
Fast.
I let out a yelp as he grabs me by the waist and lifts me off my feet like I weigh nothing. He spins me once, laughing under his breath, and I can’t help but laugh, too, sharp and surprised.
“Warren!” I gasp.
“You smiled,” he says, like that’s justification enough. “I like when you smile.”
He kisses me.
Not rushed. Not gentle.
Just sure. Like I’m already his and I just haven’t accepted it yet. His mouth claims mine, tongue sliding deep before I can protest. My heels wobble when he lets me go, and I stumble back against the desk.
I blink, dazed, mouth parted. He scrambles my brain when I know what I need to do. I should end this.
Even if I don’t want to.
“We need to—”
“Get on the desk,” he says, low and certain.
My brain stalls.
“What?”
“I said,” he steps in, hand wrapping around my waist, voice like a fucking commandment, “get on the desk.”
I hesitate.
He tsks.
“You were doing so well before,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Listening.”
And then he lifts me again, sets me down on the edge of his desk.
My breath catches.
No one lifts me.
The wood is cool beneath my thighs. My skirt rides up with the angle of my legs, the slit sliding high on one side. His eyes drop to it.
To what’s peeking just under.
The lace panties he bought me. The ones from the gala. I wore them without thinking.
His eyes flare when he sees them. “Oh, sweet girl.”
I flush, humiliated. “I washed them over the weekend and I—”
“You wore the panties I bought you.” His voice is pure gravel. “That little nervous stammer you do is fucking adorable.”
His hand slips under the skirt, fingers skating up my inner thigh, slow and torturous.
“Warren—”
“Shh.” He kisses my neck. “I’ve been thinking about this since the second I left your office this morning.”
My whole body locks.
“You were sitting there, legs crossed, trying so hard to stay professional… when you were already soaked for me, weren’t you?”
I shake my head, breath shaking. “I wasn’t—”
“Tell me to stop,” he says, his finger tips grazing the lace.
I don’t. I can’t. I don’t want to.
He hooks a finger under the lace, dragging it aside.
“See, you were,” he growls, sliding two fingers through the mess of me. “And fuck. You are now.”
I moan, helpless, soft, broken.
He kisses me again, harder now, mouth devouring mine as his fingers start to circle my clit, slow and controlled. Not teasing.
Training.
“You like this,” he murmurs against my lips, “being touched as I watch every reaction?”
I nod, gasping. “Warren—”
“Say it.”
“I-I like it,” I whisper.
He grins. “Of course you do. You’re perfect like this.”
Two fingers slip lower, slick with me, and presses inside.
“War!” I gasp, my hands shooting to his shoulders.
“Shh, I’ve got you.” He kisses my jaw, thumb brushing my clit now while his fingers pump slow and deep. “You’re doing so fucking good for me. So good when you say my name.”
My thighs tremble.
“That’s it. Just like that. Let me feel you.”
His other hand spreads across my stomach, holding me still as I start to shake.
“I can feel your pussy fluttering already. Gonna come for me like a good girl?”
My hips jerk. My body spirals.
I bite my lip to keep from crying out, but he doesn’t let me hide.
“Don’t hold it in,” he growls. “Let go. Right here. On my fingers.”
I fall apart, utterly, fully, violently, back arching, breath shattering, thighs shaking. My moan escapes, hot and raw as my orgasm crashes over me like a goddamn tidal wave.
His fingers stay deep until I stop pulsing.
Until the last tremor fades.
Then, slowly, his fingers leave me.
My head falls forward, forehead resting against his chest, skin flushed and aching.
He brushes his lips against my temple, one hand cupping the back of my head.
“You’re mine now, Olivia,” he whispers against my skin.
“That kiss wasn’t a mistake. That was a fucking promise.”
I pull back to look at him, my lips part, a breathless sound catching in my throat.
“War—”
Before I can finish, his slick fingers slide up, pressing against my lips.
Then past them.
Slow and deliberate, his fingers brush against my tongue.
I don’t pull away. I don’t want to.
“Suck.”
A single word.
Dark velvet. Commanding.
I do.
I close my lips around his fingers, tasting myself on his skin, warm and dizzy and too far gone to pretend anymore.
His icy eyes lock on mine.
“Good girl.”
The praise is low, rough, and it sinks straight between my legs.
Then softly, almost gently:
“Tell me to stop.”
I freeze.
Everything in me screams that I should.
That this is wrong. Dangerous. Inappropriate.
That I work for him. That he’s my boss. That this isn’t how things are supposed to go.
But I shake my head.
Small. Subtle. Barely there.
Because I don’t want him to stop.
I want more.
More of this.
More of him.
His fingers slide from my mouth, slow and sticky, and he wipes them across my lips like he owns the moment. Like he owns me.
“You can freshen up in my bathroom,” he says, stepping back just far enough for me to breathe again. “We’re going to lunch.”
I blink. “Lunch?”
His mouth curves.
“Yes. You’ve earned it.”
He walks around his desk, already picking up his phone like nothing happened.
I sit there for a moment; wrecked, panting, soaked through, with my panties still twisted beneath my skirt, trying to understand how this became my life.
And somehow, lunch with Warren Beaumont feels more intimate than the orgasm he just gave me.