Chapter 13 #2
I want your thighs trembling, your hands clutching at me like I’m the only thing anchoring you to this fucking earth.
I want to see if you unravel as beautifully as I think you do.
And I want to split you open with my cock while I watch your mind go blank and my name spills from your lips.
But I can’t tell her any of that.
So, I sip my drink instead, lean back, casual as hell, like my dick isn’t straining against my zipper.
She arches a brow. “Well… start conversing.”
I wave a server over, order her a water—because someone’s got to keep this civil—and a refill of my bourbon. When the server returns, Rorie raises the water to her lips. She sips slow, and I watch her throat work. And this is the first time in my life that hydration looks like foreplay.
“How about a truce.” I step a little closer.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. She lets me come to her. Power play. I respect it.
“Just for tonight,” I say.
“A truce?” She lifts a brow, skeptical. “You were just shooting the shit with the guy who controls the fate of the biggest branding deal of the year. You’re here for the same reason I am. To win.”
“Rorie–” Her name tastes good in my mouth.
“We’re enemies.”
“Not necessarily.” I let my voice dip. “We could be something else.”
Her eyes narrow, unamused. “Don’t flirt your way out of this.”
“I’m not.” I shrug. “I respect you too much to lie.”
She laughs once—dry, almost disbelieving. “Rich coming from the guy who’s team took two of my clients and a prospective third.”
“We’ve been over this. That wasn’t personal.”
“Not for you,” she says, voice softer now.
And there it is.
A flash of honesty. Vulnerability wrapped in steel.
I take another slow step forward. There’s less than a foot between us now. Enough for the tension to thrum, but not enough to touch.
I look down at her. Her chin is tilted, her expression defiant, but her breathing’s changed—slightly faster, shallower.
“You know what I think?” I ask.
Her eyes challenge me. “What?”
“You’re terrified you might actually like me.”
She scoffs. “You’re arrogant enough to believe that.”
“Maybe. But I also think you’re standing here instead of walking away.”
She doesn’t deny it.
Silence crackles between us, thick and pulsing. Her gaze moves to my mouth—quick, instinctual—and back.
I want to kiss her.
What would she taste like? Rich, heady, a little spicy, just like her neck.
I move just a breath closer. Her shoulder brushes my chest.
She doesn’t back down.
Her voice drops low and sultry. “If you kiss me right now, I’ll bite.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah. You want soft or one that leaves a mark?”
I smirk. “Oh, definitely a mark.”
Her steady eyes hold mine. “Good. I don’t do soft.”
Christ.
I lean in so our mouths hover, heat brushing heat.
A beat passes. Two.
“Am I interrupting?”
Fuck me sideways.
Asher Goddamn Cross.
She pulls back. Just an inch. But it might as well be a mile.
“Can I steal you away, Ms. Adams?”
My fists clench. Don’t say yes. Don’t fucking say yes.
“Absolutely.” Her lips curve.
“Game’s not over, Rhodes,” she says, stepping away. “Try not to lose track of what you really want.”
“I don’t intend to.”
She disappears into the darkened edge of the terrace with Asher, hips swaying.
And I just stand there.
Burning.
On my rooftop, I sink into a lounge chair, another bourbon in hand. I’m trying to outrun my own damn thoughts.
The amber in my glass catches the city glow, swirling in slow, lazy loops—like it’s got nothing better to do than keep me company.
The city lights glitter—a thousand tiny promises, sirens wail in the distance, tires screech against pavement. It’s all background noise, white static against what’s inside my head.
I should be focused on damage control. On the account. On the moves I need to make to keep Big Stream ahead. But instead?
I’m thinking about her. The woman who walked into my night as a goddamn plot twist.
She didn’t just throw off my game, she took the entire board and flipped it over, then poured herself a drink and dared me to keep up.
And I can’t stop seeing her.
That mouth. That fire. Those fucking eyes—frost cold enough to burn. She looked at me like she already had me by the balls… and she absolutely does.
I tip my glass back and swipe open my phone.
There she is.
Rorie Adams. Brand Strategist. The Laurel Group.
The headshot is businesslike, professional, but the smirk ruins the illusion. Her smile says, I know something you don’t. And I’m not telling you shit unless you impress me.
Beneath that is a bullet-point warpath of wins. She’s not just talented. She’s lethal.
I flip over to Facebook. Locked tighter than a vault. Figures. But there are a few public photos.
In one, she’s mid-laugh at some networking event, fingers curled around a glass of champagne. Another in front of a stack of books, head tilted, mouth curled, eyes lit with mischief. That grin is giving off the vibe: I will flirt, fight, and emotionally destroy you all before brunch.
Instagram is where things get personal.
Coffee shops. Skylines. Sunlight slanting through tall windows. There’s a softness here, but no softness around who she is. Her world is controlled. Gorgeous, but distant.
No family. No holidays. No birthday brunches or sleepy-eyed selfies with a sibling.
Just her.
And one strange photo from three months ago—a weathered compass sitting in an open palm. No caption. No context. But it sticks with me.
The post isn’t random. It means something.
What?
Estranged? Grieving? Guarded?
Whatever it is, she’s not offering it freely. Which makes me want it even more.
I scrub a hand down my face and shake my head like that’ll do a damn thing. I’m spiraling.
And I like it.
I flip open my texts. Pull up Tammy.
I need a full work-up on Rorie Adams from The Laurel Group.
Like CIA-level deep dive. Work history. Prior deals. Mentor names. If she owned a hamster in the third grade, I want its dental records.
Also, find everything you can on Jackson. Go all the way back to his Pre-K days if you have to.
Already on it, Jason Bourne.
I toss the phone onto the side table, take another sip of bourbon, and stare out across the rooftops. A man smokes on a nearby balcony. A couple argues on another. Life moves on.
Like Chloe.
She’s probably hanging curtains at Jackson’s place right now, nesting in her new betrayal.
Me?
I’m here. Stalking a woman because she looked at me like I was both the enemy and the prize.
Is it too soon? Is it just my ego talking? Or is this the first thing that’s made me feel anything since I caught Chloe cheating?
If it’s going to be someone…
It might as well be Rorie Adams.
The bourbon sits heavy on my tongue as I drain the glass and set it aside. My skin itches with restless energy, my mind electric with the weight of those lips, her voice, her fucking eyes.
I shift in my chair, legs stretched out, but tension’s coiled low in my gut now—tight, relentless.
I shouldn’t.
But I want to.
Fuck, I need to.
Because this desire crawling through my veins is not casual. Not fleeting. It’s focused.
And every inch of it is hers.
I reach down, palming myself through my joggers just to ease the ache. But the second my hand touches the hard length pressing against the fabric, I’m lost.
Her voice flashes in my head, low and sultry: “Good. I don’t do soft.”
Neither do I.
Slipping my hand beneath the waistband, I fist my cock, already thick and throbbing. I hiss through my teeth, head falling back against the chair as I stroke once.
The first image that comes to mind is her mouth. That smart, smug, wicked mouth wrapped around the tip, eyes locked on mine, daring me to lose control.
She would tease. She’d hum against me, tongue slick and slow, watching me twitch. Then she’d smirk when I begged.
My grip tightens.
Pumping lazily, I groan low as another image hits me: her legs spread out, her back arched, one hand tangled in my hair while I eat her pussy, deep and thorough.
“Tell me how you want it, Adams,” I growl into the dark, half-laughing at myself.
“You want slow and filthy? Or hard and goddamn endless? Say the word. I’ll destroy you sweet and oh so good.”
My hips lift slightly, chasing the friction as heat floods through me, my body burning for a woman I’m not supposed to want, fantasizing about a mouth I’ve never kissed and a cunt I’ve never touched.
This shouldn’t feel real.
But it does.
The way she tilted her chin tonight, challenging me. The heat in her eyes.
Fuck, I’m going to come.
I stroke harder now, eyes shut tight, stomach tensing.
Rorie. I don’t say her name, but it echoes anyway—a curse and a prayer at the same time.
Pleasure tears through me in waves. Hot. Violent. Mind-numbing.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep quiet as I spill over my hand, the aftermath leaving me panting in the chair, chest heaving, head foggy with satisfaction and something somewhat close to regret.
But it’s not regret. Not really.
It’s want. Need.
Raw, and brutal for a woman who’s going to rip me apart.
I wipe my hand on my shirt and go inside to change into a new one. Afterwards, I reach for my phone again. Her profile lights up.
I stare at her smirking headshot for a second. Then I swipe away.
But it’s too late.
She’s already burrowed herself deep under my skin.