Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
War
Olivia Baker is easy.
Easy to command.
Easy to redirect.
Easy to make come.
She’s also the most enticing woman I’ve ever met.
She thinks she’s overwhelmed. Thinks this is all too much. But I know better.
I felt the way her hips rolled for me, the way she sucked my fingers like she was made for it.
She’s spiraling.
Overthinking.
She always does.
I lean back in my chair, phone pressed to my ear, pretending to check a message that doesn’t exist. My eyes track her as she rises from my desk; unsteady, flushed, wrecked in the prettiest fucking way.
She smooths her skirt. Adjusts her blouse.
But she doesn’t know I can still see her panties, the back of her skirt still up. Showing my lace across that plump gorgeous ass.
She crosses the room toward the bathroom like she’s walking into a courtroom, her shoulders squared, mind racing.
She’s thinking too hard again.
I put the phone down without a word and follow.
Her hand is on the bathroom door when I catch up.
She turns, startled. “Warren—”
I don’t let her finish.
I nudge her inside, shut the door and grab a cleansing wipe from the counter top.
“Lift your leg,” I say.
She blinks. “What—?”
I don’t repeat myself.
I just drop to a knee in front of her.
Her mouth opens, maybe to protest. Maybe to plead.
But she swallows it.
Good girl.
She lifts one leg, heel anchored on my shoulder, skirt sliding up automatically.
The lace is soaked. Ruined.
“You made a mess, Olivia,” I say, voice low, hands already sliding the fabric aside.
She gasps, just once, as I drag the wipe through her.
Slow. Precise. Thorough.
“Warren—”
“Shh.”
I clean her like it’s my right. Like it’s expected.
Because it is.
She let me take her apart, and now she’ll let me put her back together.
When I’m satisfied, I slide the panties back into place and smooth her skirt down.
Then I rise.
Toss the wipe and then turn back to her.
Her eyes are wide. Breath uneven.
Like she’s not sure whether to slap me or drop to her knees.
I tilt my head.
“You ready for lunch now?” I ask, my eyes dragging down her perfect form. “Or do you need another minute?”
***
She eats like she’s being hunted.
Fast. Small bites. Eyes down. Shoulders tight.
Like a baby deer caught by a predator.
I lean back in my chair, sip my espresso, and watch her in silence.
God, she’s beautiful like this. Wrecked and pretending she’s not.
“Slow down,” I say.
Her eyes lift to mine, wide and startled.
I can’t help it, I chuckle.
“Yup,” I murmur to myself, “definitely a little doe.”
She swallows hard, cheeks pink, and lowers her fork.
A beat of quiet passes between us. She fidgets with her napkin before finally asking, “The Parker Building… is it really back on?”
I nod. “Construction starts next week.”
“I’ve never seen you smile like that before,” she says softly. “You looked… happy.”
Something in me stills. A need takes over.
A need to tell her.
“It’s where my best friend died,” I say simply.
Her shoulders drop. “What?”
“Noah,” I murmur. “He and I used to sneak into that building as kids. It was our little fortress before it became a Beaumont asset. One day we dared each other to get close to one of the windows. He beat me to it, leaned too far. The window cracked and he fell.”
Olivia’s eyes soften. “Warren…”
“Don’t,” I say, voice sharper than I mean. “It was my fault.”
Her brows knit. “It wasn’t. You were a kid. You were both kids. No one could have known.”
I shake my head, but she leans in slightly.
“If you had beaten Noah to that window,” she says gently, “it would’ve been you. That’s not your fault. That’s an accident.”
I freeze.
No one’s ever called it that before.
Not the police. Not my father. Not even me.
An accident.
My parents called it a scandal.
Said I embarrassed the family.
That I shouldn’t have been anywhere near a run-down building on the “poor side” of town.
Not as a Beaumont.
And here she is, brushing crumbs off her napkin, talking about accidents. Like I’m still innocent.
I look away. Just for a second.
Then I collect myself and move on.
“With renovations back up,” I say smoothly, “I think you’d be perfect as my permanent assistant.”
Stunned, she hesitates. “But…what about Brody?”
“I have other plans for Broderick.”
She tilts her head. “Warren…”
“I’m serious,” I say. “You’re efficient. Precise. Smart. I trust you.”
There’s a pause.
Then her eyes drop to the table. Her voice comes out small. “I don’t want special treatment.”
I arch a brow. “Special treatment?”
She gestures vaguely between us. “Because of… whatever this is.”
I smirk.
“Oh, sweet girl.” I lean forward, voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get special treatment. You’re just mine.”
She flinches.
Just slightly.
“Warren,” she says, her voice a breath, barely above the clink of silverware around us. “I don’t think this is… appropriate.”
Ah. There it is.
The panic.
The guilt.
The urge to be good.
But her pupils are blown wide.
Her breathing is shallow.
I’m sure her thighs just pressed tighter together under the table.
Her mouth says no, but her body?
Her body is already mine.
I stare at her, drinking her in, long and unblinking, watching the way her fingers grip the edge of the table like she needs something to anchor her.
“Tell me you don’t want this, then,” I say softly. “Tell me to stop pursuing you. Tell me to stop.”
She opens her mouth.
Closes it.
“Warren…”
A beat.
“But—”
That’s all she gets out.
Her voice dies in her throat.
I sit back slightly and gesture around the restaurant with a slow sweep of my hand.
“We’re in public, Olivia. I won’t make a scene. You won’t be fired. If you want to go back to working for Wesley again…” I pause, let the weight settle. “I’ll move you back myself.”
Lie.
I’ll bulldoze Beaumont enterprises to the ground before I give her up.
She swallows.
Hard.
Her eyes flick around the restaurant, the linen tablecloths, the couples laughing softly over wine, the weight of my gaze pressing into her from across the table.
Then she looks back at me.
And I see it.
Not fear.
Not disgust.
Not even confusion.
Hunger.
Want.
Buried deep, but rising.
So I say it one more time, voice lower than before, just for her:
“Tell me to stop.”
Her pulse jumps under the weight of my stare. She exhales, slow, deliberate, like she’s making a choice she already decided in her mind.
“I can’t,” she says at last.
“Then stop fighting it, Olivia. Let me show you what being mine means.”
***
She said she couldn’t tell me to stop.
And now she’s unraveling exactly the way I knew she would.
The screen on my desk glows softly.
I watch her pace.
She’s whispering, but the camera still picks up her voice.
“What is happening,” she mutters. “What the fuck did I do?”
She stops. Starts again. Fingers running through her hair, tugging at the collar of her blouse like it’s suffocating her.
Good.
Let it drown her.
That’s how she’ll rise, with my name in her mouth and my rules in her blood.
Her throat bobs. Her fingers fall away. She stares like she’s looking at something indecent, like desire itself snuck in and dared her to touch it.
Because this is what surrender looks like, even if her brain hasn’t caught up yet.
The knock on her office door makes her jump.
She straightens and take a breath before opening the door to reveal Angelique, my personal stylist, expression crisp and pleasant as always, flanked by two interns dragging in tall rolling wardrobes
Olivia freezes.
Angelique smiles. “Mr. Beaumont wanted to ensure you had everything you need for your new role. You’re welcome to pick anything from the collection. We’ll have your selections delivered to your apartment by this evening.”
Olivia’s jaw drops.
She stares at the wardrobe like it might bite her.
My chuckle is low and private.
I lean back in my chair and watch her approach the rack slowly, fingers brushing over silks and cashmeres and pressed Italian collars. Her touch is hesitant, reverent.
She mouths something to herself.
Looks around the room like someone’s playing a joke on her.
But no.
This is real.
She deserves this.
I’ve never loved my money more than I do in this moment.
Then Angelique slides the last panel to reveal the final collection—delicate lingerie in blacks, creams, blood reds. Lace. Straps. My taste. Hand-picked. Made for her.
Olivia freezes.
Completely still.
Not breathing.
Then, without a word, she turns and walks out.
I turn off the feed.
I don’t need to check the hallway camera. I already know where she’s going.
I steel myself.
Fold my hands on the desk.
And wait.
Three…
Two…
One—