Chapter 14
T wo weeks. Fourteen days. One hundred and twelve hours spent either sitting silently in Lucian Vale’s office or running the world’s most unimportant errands.
I swear I’ve been more houseplant than person lately. Some mornings, he barely even looks at me. Other times, he barks a single word— Sit —like I’m some sort of glorified show dog.
And his little assignments are pissing me off.
Yesterday, I stood in line at a boutique patisserie for exactly four vanilla bean macarons. Not five. Not a variety box. Four.
Earlier this week, I hand-delivered a custom engraved fountain pen to a man who said thank you by staring at my chest for a full ten seconds. Lucian’s assistant asked me how things were going and I told her.
Lucian must has been told because the man’s contract was canceled the next day.
Today, I spent forty-five minutes hand-selecting new silk pocket squares for Lucian’s personal collection, all in his preferred shades of charcoal and black. Because apparently his assistant “folds them wrong,” and this was a task better suited for me.
I think my eyeballs almost detached from the force of my internal screaming.
Now, as I finally leave his office, I feel his presence behind me like a second shadow. His scent lingers in the air—a subtle blend of expensive cologne, leather, and something warm and masculine I can’t quite place. Like cedar and sin.
He never wears a tie. Never. Just crisp shirts that mold to his frame and leave the top button open like an invitation I’m not allowed to answer.
Today, that damn collar gaped just enough to show the edge of one tattoo. Black ink, curved and sharp against his tan skin. I’d spent the better part of an hour trying not to look at it. Not to wonder how far it went. Not to imagine tracing it with my fingers, my tongue.
His sleeves are always rolled up to his forearms, and every time his hand tightens into a fist—usually in response to something I do—I catch the flex of his forearm muscles. The way his veins pop just slightly. The hint of another tattoo curling toward his elbow.
It’s torture.
And that’s not even the worst of it.
At the end of each day, he sits with me and tells me what I did well. Not kindly, not gently—but directly. Specifically. Thoughtfully.
Like he sees me.
And it’s pathetic, but I live for those few minutes. The moment his eyes actually lock onto mine. When his voice drops, low and steady, as he delivers his verdict.
“Good instincts.”
“Well done today.”
“You’re learning.”
He probably doesn’t even realize it, but it lights something up inside me every time. A spark I try so hard to douse because I know better.
But today? I nearly short-circuited.
I caught myself watching his mouth as he sipped his espresso, completely tuned out to the rest of the world.
What would it feel like to have that mouth on mine?
Or elsewhere.
I shake the thought loose as I step into the elevator, pressing the button for the lobby with more force than necessary.
It’s not even frustration anymore—it’s desperation.
Lucian didn’t even look up when he released me. Just that quiet, firm, “You’re dismissed for the day.” Like I was one of his meetings. One of his checklists.
Like I didn’t just spend six hours playing statue.
With my earbuds in place, I pull out my phone and dial the one person who’ll understand exactly how maddening this is.
“Tell me you’ve either stabbed him or kissed him,” Harper answers on the first ring, no greeting required.
“I’ve done neither,” I mutter.
I shift my bag to the other shoulder as I dodge around a stalled food cart. “I swear to God, Harper, if I have to run one more errand that involves dry cleaning, espresso orders, or picking up cufflinks from some boutique I can’t even afford to breathe in?—”
Harper’s laugh rings through the speaker. “Oh no. Not the sacred cufflinks. How dare he.”
“I’m not joking,” I mutter. “He sent me to pick up these custom-made ones from this appointment-only place in SoHo. The guy at the counter looked at me like I was either a sugar baby or a thief.”
“Oh. Maybe both. I love role playing.” Harper chirps. “Honestly, though? If the man sent you to SoHo, the least he could do is take you to dinner after. Feed you. Rub your feet. Apologize for being a control-freak daddy dom in denial.”
I roll my eyes, ducking into the stairwell leading to the downtown platform. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting, I’m helping. Sienna. Babe.”
“I’m not?—”
“Here’s how you solve this. Push him back on his desk and ruin his entire day,” Harper cuts in, matter-of-fact like it’s a viable item on my to-do list.
I snort, descending the last step. The platform is busy but not packed. It smells like heat and metal and faintly like pretzels. “Harper!”
“I’m serious. One shove, straddle him like a goddess, and just grind until he breaks.”
“You’ve thought about this way too much.”
“Oh, I have. Many times. In vivid detail. Pull his tie and?—”
“He doesn’t wear a tie,” I mutter under my breath, scanning the arrivals board.
“Ugh. Of course he doesn’t.” Harper groans. “That’s how the truly dangerous ones get you. Open collar. Barely-there smirk. Forearm porn. You’re doomed, babe.”
I open my mouth, but I’m distracted by a man standing a few feet away. Early-thirties maybe. Tall. Watching me with interest that’s not subtle in the slightest. His gaze drags slowly down my legs, back up to my face, and he smiles like he’s just seen something worth his time.
“Hey,” he says smoothly, stepping closer.
“Not in your dreams, honey,” I say, not even slowing my step as I move to the opposite end of the platform.
Harper cackles in my ear. “Oh my God. You didn’t even let him finish!”
“If he had, I might’ve been forced to pull out pepper spray.”
“God, I love this new energy. You’re glowing. Like, dangerous glowing. Like ‘I’ve-been-simmering-too-long-under-Lucion’s-stupid-sexy-glare’ glowing.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, slipping into an empty spot near a pillar as the faint rumble of the train begins to echo through the tunnel. “Harper.”
“You need to let it out.”
“I know,” I mutter. “But I don’t even know what it is. I sit in that damn office, day after day, doing nothing except whatever chore he tosses my way. He barely looks at me. Doesn’t talk unless it’s to give me some cryptic feedback at the end of the day like I’m in some twisted episode of America’s Next Top Companion .”
“Next week on The Black Ledger’s Got Talent ,” Harper drawls, “Sienna breathes too loudly and gets told to sit in the corner and manifest silence.”
I exhale a laugh, pressing my free hand against the pillar. The train is getting closer now. “I feel like I’m going insane.”
“You just need a release. Like—punch a pillow. Or his face. Or, you know, skip on over to the Masq and ride the Devil into the abyss.”
“Harper.”
“I’m just saying, Lucian’s clearly working out his issues with God or whatever, but the Devil? The Devil would know exactly what to do with all that energy.”
“We’re still meeting for hot wings tomorrow night, right?” I interrupt, deadpan.
She sighs. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m fun. I’m just not… sex club punch card fun.”
“Give it time.”
I hear the screech of brakes as the train barrels around the corner, slowing.
“Gotta go,” I say. “Train’s here and you know I get zero reception in the tunnels.”
“Fine,” she relents, dramatic as ever. “But mark my words—by next week you’re either solving your Lucian frustration or letting the Devil rail you into next Thursday. Honestly, go for both. Split the difference. One at each end.”
I bark out a laugh. “Bye, Harp.”
“The Devil would totally get the caboose. You know he’s an ass man.”
“You’re horrible. I love you.”
“Love you too, baby girl. Text me when you’re free.”
I hang up as the doors slide open and step inside, still grinning.
God help me, she might be right.
The Devil probably is an ass man.
The train ride is a blur. So is the walk from the station to my building, my heels snapping against the pavement, every step rattling with residual irritation—and something else simmering beneath my skin. Not anger. Not really.
Tension. That’s what it is. A slow, constant hum beneath my skin, sparking in my blood like a fuse that refuses to burn out.
My apartment is quiet when I step inside, the late afternoon light spilling through the gauzy curtains. It’s warm. Peaceful. Soft. The creams and dusty rose tones I picked for the decor hug me like a favorite sweater. It should settle me.
It doesn’t.
I drop my bag by the entryway and head to my bedroom, but I don’t begin changing my clothes. Not yet. My short black dress hugs my thighs and still clings with the faintest imprint of my body heat. My sheer hose—gartered beneath—give the illusion of innocence and sin stitched into one as my heels lengthen my legs.
I collapse backward onto the bed, my arms spread wide, staring up at the ceiling.
His voice rings in my ears.
Sit.
Eat.
His voice is a command. Always is. But when it turns soft?
Good.
You did well.
Those words—low and gruff, shaped by that perfect mouth—slip into the silence and turn molten inside me.
God, I want to hear him say that with his lips against my skin. Right behind my ear, where it’s most sensitive. I want to feel the scrape of his stubble along the base of my neck. His hands—big and rough, so different from mine—sliding down my bare back. I want to feel those calluses dragging across smooth skin.
My own fingers run up my stomach. Around the curve of my breasts over my clothes.
Chills run up my arms as the thoughts deepen. The images become clearer.
I sit up slowly, breath catching in my throat.
My fingers close around the cool knob of my bedside drawer and grip the matte handle of my vibrator. I pull it out and stare at it for a moment, my pulse ticking in my throat.
I’m still in my work clothes.
Short black dress. Sheer stockings suspended by delicate straps that hook onto lace. No one knows what’s underneath. No one but me.
Except now, in my mind—he does too.
Lucian Vale stands behind me, pressing me forward over the edge of his big desk. My hands brace against it, fingers splayed wide, heart pounding.
I walk to the bed and bend slightly, just enough to lean forward, placing one palm on the mattress. I close my eyes and lose myself in the fantasy.
He’d come up behind me. One hand sliding around my waist, firm and sure. The other gently brushing my hair aside, revealing my neck for his mouth.
“You’ve been such a good girl this week,” he’d whisper—rough and deep, all scruff and sin. The kind of praise that burns.
The sound of it in my head makes me shiver.
I click the vibrator on.
Slow at first. Teasing. I slip it beneath my dress, up along the edge of my stocking. I imagine it’s his hand. The low growl he’d let out when he discovers the suspenders, the lace, the heat.
His palm would drag along my thigh. Fingers push aside the thin fabric of my panties and find me already wanting.
“So wet,” he’d murmur against my skin, voice reverent. Like he’s in awe. Like he wants to devour me for it.
My mouth parts at the image. I work the toy in slow, deliberate circles over my clit, my hips rocking on instinct.
I smell him. His cologne—smoke and spice and desire—clings to my imagination like a second skin. I feel him, too. The weight of his presence behind me. Not touching. Just there. Always there.
Silent. Watching.
"You’re doing so well… just like that."
My breath catches as I press the toy more firmly against myself, the pulsing vibrations syncing with the throb building inside me. My legs part a little wider. My back arches.
The movement is instinctual, involuntary.
"That’s it, beautiful. Let me see how pretty you play with my pussy."
A whimper escapes me at the thoughts I’m putting into my own mind.
How he would talk to me. How he would talk me through playing with myself. Making myself come simply for the pleasure of him watching me.
I roll my hips in slow, steady circles, dragging the pressure along the place I need it most. Every nerve in my body feels wound tight, every stroke drawing me closer. Closer.
"Such a good girl. You always obey when it matters."
My mouth parts as I moan. Louder this time, not holding back the pleasure warming my body.
I imagine his breath on my neck.
The warmth of his body behind mine.
The rasp of his voice, low and commanding—so close, I could feel the words slide across my skin.
"Come for me. Right here, in my hands. Show me who you belong to."
The line hits like a spark to dry kindling.
My body tenses—pleasure coiling, tightening, ready to explode.
"I want to feel you fall apart—so do it. Come for me, beautiful."
The thought sends me over the edge.
My orgasm rushes through me like a wave I didn’t see coming. It punches the breath from my lungs, makes my knees tremble, forces my mouth open on a soft, broken moan. His name dances on the edge of my tongue—but I don’t say it.
Not out loud.
My body melts forward, chest pressing to the comforter as the last aftershocks ripple through me.
But I’m not done.
Because now I imagine his voice again, softer this time.
“That’s it,” he says, “but I’m not finished with you yet.”
Sitting up, I put one foot on the edge of the bed and hook my panties aside with my finger. I run the toy down my pussy, gathering the slickness on the head of the vibrator.
"Such a filthy little thing… wanting more."
It’s not Lucian in my head anymore.
It’s the Devil.
Dark mask. Hard hands. Warm breath that runs down my neck as he breathes me in.
"Look at you—dripping. Beautiful. You want the Devil to ruin you, don’t you?"
I release a shuttered breath in response to the man in my imagination.
Mouth wet and hungry as he drops to his knees in front of me.
"I bet your sweet cunt is clenching so tight right now—wishing it was my cock.”
The pressure in my core tightens again, fast and sharp. I rub the toy in tight, rhythmic strokes and grind against it, chasing that second high with abandon.
"Keep rubbing that pretty clit for me. Just like that. Don’t you dare stop."
I picture him moving my hand out of the way—slowly, deliberately—claiming me with his mouth.
Tasting me like he’s starved.
Like he’s waited for this moment. For me.
I’ve never felt that before.
Never had someone want me like that. Not like that.
My ex wouldn’t even try. Always had an excuse, a complaint.
But the Devil?
He devoured that woman like worship. Like sin. Like pleasure was his only god.
And now I want to know what it feels like to be opened up like that. Ruined by a tongue and a growl and the weight of him holding me still while I come undone.
"This mouth was made to taste you, little one. So let me."
I imagine it—the warmth of his breath, the scrape of his stubble. What his hot tongue would feel like swirling around my clit, sucking the pleasure from me as his rough voice like a caress, just before he wrecked me.
"Come for me, little one. Right here, right now—make the Devil proud."
And then I’m gone again—head thrown back, mouth open, hips moving shamelessly, legs shaking as the orgasm crashes into me like a wave breaking against rock.
It takes everything in me to stay upright until the last of the waves subside.
My fingers tremble as I turn off the toy and toss it to the bed beside me. I collapse back into the pillows, breath ragged, heart still stuttering in my chest.
God.
I stare at the ceiling.
What the hell is happening to me?
I grab a tissue to clean off the vibrator, and carry it to the bathroom to rinse. My legs are still shaky but that was fucking amazing.
It’s the best orgasm I’ve ever had, and it was only to thoughts of what these two men could do to me.
Fuck.
I need a cold shower.
And probably an exorcism.
Definitely some holy water. But maybe I’ll just pour myself a large glass of wine.
Maybe two.
Maybe… one for me and one for the Devil.