Chapter 9
I storm down the hall, tension rolling off me in waves, my pulse a violent drumbeat in my ears.
My hands flex at my sides, aching to grab something.
To touch her.
To pull her back into my arms and finish what she started in the living room.
Behind me, I hear her—soft footfalls, the click of her heels as she finally retreats to her own room.
I exhale hard, shoving a hand through my hair as I step into my bedroom and slam the door shut behind me.
A whisper of ambient light intrudes on the darkness.
It’s quiet.
But it does nothing to ease the storm in my chest.
My jacket is the first to go, hurled at the closet wall. It slides down in a heap. I don’t care.
Next is my tie. I yank it loose with a sharp pull, the silk sliding over my fingers before I fling it aside.
But it doesn’t help.
I can still feel her—the warmth of her skin against mine, the way her scent wrapped around me, heady and sweet.
I rip open the buttons of my shirt, my breath heavy, my chest rising and falling as cool air finally touches my overheated skin.
I sit down hard on the edge of the bed, my head dropping into my hands as I drag in a breath that does nothing to steady me.
How the fuck am I supposed to survive two weeks of this?
Her proximity .
Her body wrapped in fine silks that were made to worship her.
Those little gasps she makes when I catch her off guard.
The way her pulse flutters in her throat when I get too close.
She’s intoxicating.
Infuriating.
And my cock is hard as fucking marble.
I drag my palms down my face and groan.
I should have never agreed to this contract.
I should have told Lucian to fuck off .
Should have carried Elena out of his office like a goddamn caveman, thrown her over my shoulder, and taken her straight to my penthouse—contract be damned.
I grit my teeth, my jaw clenching so tight it aches.
Instead, I agreed to this .
This charade .
This torture .
I think of her in that tight, short red dress at The Ledger. The way it clung to her like a second skin, teasing with every step, every shift of her hips.
How her lips were painted a deep crimson, that perfect red just begging to be smeared along my cock.
I exhale hard, my pulse pounding as the fantasy unspools behind my closed eyelids.
She would have let me push that dress up the second we got in the limo.
Would have gasped when my hands parted her thighs, baring the softest part of her to me.
Would have shivered when my tongue dragged along the silk of her panties, my breath hot, my hunger impossible to miss.
She would have been wet for me.
I know it.
I remember it.
My steps are slow, deliberate, as I move to my dresser.
The top drawer slides open with barely a sound, and my fingers find what they’re looking for.
A delicate scrap of black lace.
The panties my little troublemaker left in my pants pocket as a token of her goodbye.
Unwashed. Untouched. Still carrying her sweet scent.
I bring them to my face, inhaling deeply, and my cock throbs so hard it’s painful .
Fuck.
My free hand moves to my belt, unbuckling, unzipping, shoving my pants just low enough to free my aching length.
I fist my cock, the soft lace brushing against my skin as I stroke from base to tip, a slow, torturous drag.
She was soaked for me that night.
I imagine that wet heat against my tongue, imagine pressing my face between her thighs and licking her through this lace, teasing her with the promise of my mouth.
I tighten my grip, sliding my hand down my shaft, slow and firm, a growl rumbling in my chest.
In my mind, she’s in my lap in the limo, straddling me, those soft moans spilling from her lips as I shove her panties aside and slide into her—deep, raw, bare .
I groan, my pace quickening, my other hand holding the lace, pressing it against my nose as my body tenses, my release so fucking close.
I tighten my grip, stroking harder, faster, as my mind drowns in the fantasy.
I could rip that fucking dress open.
Spill her perfect tits into my hands. Into my mouth.
I’d suck one deep, my tongue flicking against her hardened nipple while she rode me, her thighs gripping my hips as the limo carried us through my city.
Driving her to orgasm. Pleasuring her like no one else ever could.
She’d arch for me. Whimper for me. Her fingers fisting in my hair, holding me to her breast as I bit down just enough—just enough to pinch and send her spiraling .
And she would sound so fucking beautiful as she called out my name.
My name.
Her body clenching around me, pulsing, tightening, milking every last drop of pleasure from me as she shattered in my arms.
The thought alone is enough to send me over the edge.
A guttural groan rips through me as my orgasm crashes over me, my cock jerking, pleasure rolling through every muscle, the scent of her thick in my lungs.
I barely manage to grab a handkerchief from my dresser before I spill into it, my strokes slowing, dragging out every last wave of bliss.
Her name slips from my lips.
Quiet.
Reverent.
Wrecked.
"Elena."
She has no idea.
No fucking idea what she does to me.
If she knew—if she even suspected how deep she’s sinking into me?—
Would she use it against me?
Would she push me just to see how far I’d let her go?
Would she press her lips to my ear, whisper my name in that same breathless way I remember, just to watch me unravel?
Or worse?—
Would she exploit it?
Would she look at me the way so many have before—calculating instead of captivated?
Would she realize that my desire—this obsession clawing under my skin—makes me just as vulnerable as the men who have spent their fortunes trying to claim her?
Would she test how far she could bend me?
How much deeper she could sink her nails into me?
Not just for the contract.
Not just for the ten-million-dollar payout.
But for more.
More access. More power. More of me.
Just like all the others who have wanted to use my name to cement their place in this city.
To take what they could before I inevitably cut them loose.
That thought—that fucking thought—is what kills me the most.
Because if she tried—if she looked at me and saw nothing but another mark to conquer?—
I don’t think I’d let her.
Not without proving exactly who holds the leash in this game.
And that?
That would be dangerous for both of us.
The second it’s over—disgust claws up my throat.
I exhale harshly, my grip tightening around the lace in my hand.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
She’s just a contract. Just a means to an end .
And yet here I am—fisting my cock to the thought of her like a fucking obsessed man.
Like I have any fucking claim.
I yank open the drawer and shove the lace inside, slamming it shut so hard the wood rattles.
Two weeks.
I drag a rough hand down my face, my chest still heaving.
How the fuck am I supposed to survive two weeks of this?