15. Cloe
CLOE
The knock came just after six.
No one ever knocked that early.
I opened the door to find no one there—just a black garment bag draped over my doorframe, like it had been hung with care. Like a gift.
Or a trap.
A velvet-wrapped box sat beneath it. Tied with a deep red ribbon. A cream-colored envelope perched on top, my name written in bold strokes, no signature.
I carried it all inside like it might vanish if I blinked. Set it on the bed like it might bite. I opened the envelope first.
No note.
Just a card.
Wear this. No excuses.
My pulse kicked.
The ribbon came undone with one pull—sliding like silk between my fingers.
Inside the box: lingerie.
But not just lingerie.
A corset of black lace and satin—boned, delicate, and obscene in its elegance.
A whisper of matching panties, more suggestion than coverage.
Stockings. Garter clasps with gold accents.
A blouse—blush pink, so sheer I could see the curve of my palm through it.
A high-waisted black pencil skirt, perfectly tailored. Expensive. Precise.
There was no signature.
But I didn’t need one.
I knew.
Barron .
I should’ve been furious. Should’ve thrown it back in the box. Should’ve said no. But instead, I touched the lace like it might moan for me. Slid my fingers down the curve of the corset and imagined how tightly it would hold.
And something… shifted.
Not shame.
Not fear.
Desire.
Raw and slow and new.
I stripped slowly. Laid my clothes on the chair with trembling hands. Paused. Looked down at my bare skin. The small curve of my stomach. The subtle dip of my waist. The bruises that still lingered on my thighs from nothing but tension.
I stood in front of the mirror in nothing but the morning light and bare skin. Then reached for the corset. Lacing it was hard. Brutal. Every pull drew my waist tighter. Every pass of the silk ribbon sent a new flush to my cheeks. My breath shortened.
And I liked it.
The restriction. The heat. The reshaping of myself into something other.
Not a woman.
A weapon .
The corset cinched me in and made space for something dangerous.
I rolled the stockings up my thighs. Clipped them to the garter with shaking fingers. The clips clicked into place like the loading of a chamber.
Stepped into the skirt. Felt it hug my hips like a promise.
The blouse was last.
Thin as breath.
I slid my arms through, let it fall over the black lace like fog curling through iron. My nipples hardened instantly under the sheer fabric. I didn’t cover them. I buttoned the top without hesitation.
No necklace. No perfume.
I didn’t want to hide a single thing he wanted to see.
I walked to the mirror. And I looked. I didn’t breathe.
Because the woman staring back? She didn’t flinch. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t beg. She wasn’t even asking to belong. She was the moment. And she would be remembered.
The corset curved my waist in brutal elegance. My breasts were full, high, flushed where the lace grazed them. My thighs touched. My heels lifted everything. And for the first time, I didn’t want to look away.
I wanted to be watched.
No.
I wanted to be studied.
Admired.
Worshipped even.
I lifted my hand and brushed my fingers over the lace. Upward. Until I found the peak of one breast. I traced the curve. Felt the tight swell of heat in my belly respond to the soft friction. The nipple was already hard.
I ran my thumb over it. And gasped. The sound came too easily. Too sharp in the quiet. My body lit like a fuse. Flushed. Tight. Lit.
I didn’t touch myself again. Didn’t need to. Because I’d already unraveled something deeper than arousal. I’d found hunger.
Mine .
This wasn’t obedience. It wasn’t submission. It was transformation. A claiming—from the inside out.
I picked up the card again. Read the words one more time.
Wear this. No excuses.
I didn’t argue.
I didn’t hesitate.
I tucked the note into my purse like a vow I had every intention of keeping.
The sidewalk should’ve felt cold beneath my heels.
But I didn’t feel the chill. I felt the corset.
Every step tugged at it. Pulled my breath short.
Reminded me with every footfall that I was wrapped in someone else’s desire—and I had put it on like a crown.
The sheer blouse shifted with every movement. The lace beneath it visible in the sun like a sin. The skirt clung, high and tight, brushing the tops of my thighs like a promise.
The stockings whispered.
The heels sang.
And me?
I was no longer Cloe from the shadows.
I was a siren made of satin and ache.
The Lawlor lobby gleamed with polished marble and polished people. But when I walked through the doors? The world stilled.
Heads turned. Not all. But enough. A pause at the front desk. A flicker from the man holding a paper. The woman waiting for her oat milk latte blinked too long. And I felt it .
The quiet shock of being looked at not like a mistake—but like a problem someone wanted to solve with their hands.
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t slow. I walked. Poised. Composed. Even as my pulse knocked hard against my ribs. The elevator doors opened with a whisper.
And there she was.
Me .
Reflected in mirrored glass.
A full-length reminder that I wasn’t playing a role anymore. The woman in the reflection? She didn’t just look beautiful. She looked dangerous . And no one in that building would forget it.
I fixed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. And smiled. When I stepped onto the executive floor, the shift was immediate.
The air was different. Charged. Still. Like the floor had taken a breath—and forgot to let it go.
Eyes lifted. Not just assistants. Not just admin. Security. Executives. People who hadn’t noticed me before.
Now?
They noticed.
Because I looked like I didn’t care if they did. And that kind of confidence? It smells like blood to men who like to bite.
Royal was the first to speak.
He spotted me mid-conversation—some polished man in a navy suit suddenly forgotten. Royal turned like I was gravity.
Grinned.
Stalked.
And God , he enjoyed every second of it.
He moved behind me, that lazy swagger oozing control, his breath close to my neck like sin pressed to silk.
“Well, well, well ,” he murmured. “Look who decided to make the whole fucking building hard before nine a.m. ”
I didn’t turn.
“Good morning,” I said softly.
“Oh, it is now .”
I left him there. Because I could. Because the echo of my heels said more than his mouth ever could.
Loyal stood by the elevator.
Coffee in hand.
Silent, but never still.
His eyes tracked me like a thread unwinding. Throat. Waist. Skirt hem. And then—my eyes. And that was the part that shook me.
Because in his stare, there was a warning. Not stop. Just... be ready.
Because if I thought this game didn’t have a price? I hadn’t been listening.
Then Wolfe.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t move.
But his gaze?
It stripped .
Layer by layer, from throat to thigh, across the spot where the garter clipped beneath the skirt. And when he passed me? The air broke. Like glass under pressure.
I sat at my desk—heart pounding, corset biting, silk dragging—and tried to breathe like I wasn’t coming apart.
The room didn’t settle.
Not around me.
Because they hadn’t just seen me today.
They’d recognized what they made.
And I wore it like a gift.
I typed a line.
Deleted it .
Typed again.
Deleted that too.
Each keystroke felt like a scream in the silence.
I shifted.
The lace dragged.
My thighs clenched.
My breath stuttered.
The tension wasn’t pleasure anymore.
It was possession.
And I didn’t know how to quiet it.
I gripped the desk edge.
Felt my pulse beat in my palm.
And then?—
I felt him.
Wolfe.
Still.
Across the floor.
Watching. Like gravity.
Like want.
Like he was already imagining how I'd fall.
His eyes tracked from my face to my throat. Down the slope of my shoulder to where the sheer blouse revealed the outline of black lace underneath.
Lower.
To the soft curve of the corset pressing from beneath the silk. To the tight seam of the pencil skirt where my thighs disappeared behind the desk.
His jaw ticked.
Just once.
But it was enough.
My breath hitched. My pulse stuttered. My core clenched.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t move. Didn’t need to. Because that look? That unblinking, unapologetic, slow-burn drag of his gaze? It was the most intimate thing I’d ever experienced without being touched.
It said: I see you.
I own you.
And you wanted this.
And then he turned.
Walked away.
Leaving me shaking.
Trembling.
So close to falling apart I had to bite the inside of my cheek just to keep still.
I shifted.
Slow.
Silk slid. Lace dragged. Heat bloomed.
Five minutes later, I felt it again.
That shift.
That signal the room hadn’t learned to name yet—but I had.
Barron was moving. The floor stilled. He passed behind me like wind over glass. Didn’t look at me. Didn’t speak.
But his fingers?—
They dragged across the edge of my chair. Barely a touch. A brush. A claim. When they reached the top of the backrest?—
They tapped.
Once.
Twice.
Rhythmic.
Commanding.
And I knew.
He had looked.
He had seen.
He knew the color of the lace under my blouse and the shape of my hips in his skirt. And he wasn’t just letting it happen anymore. He was beginning to want it. And worse?
He was beginning to show me.
I sat there. Heart pounding. Skin flushed. Hands trembling. And for the first time since I walked back into their world…
I didn’t want to run.
I wanted to be taken.
I couldn’t take a full breath. Not because of the corset. Not anymore. Because of them. Because I couldn’t stop feeling them. Even when they weren’t in the room. Even when I was alone at my desk, fingers hovering above the keyboard, eyes fixed on a screen that hadn’t changed in ten minutes?—
They were inside me.
Every glance.
Every slow drag of Wolfe’s gaze.
Every time Loyal didn’t speak but watched like he already knew how I’d come apart.
Every brush of Barron’s knuckles against the back of my chair.
Every time Royal smirked like he already knew the color of my panties.
They were everywhere.
Inside my skin.
My breath.
My hunger.
I shifted in my seat.
Slowly .
The friction made my breath catch.
The lace was wet.
The garter clipped tight.
And the corset— oh God , the corset—was biting deep into my ribs like a hand gripping me from the inside out .
Every movement dragged silk across skin that couldn’t take another whisper.
Every inhale pressed lace tighter against swollen nipples that ached like I’d already been teased for hours.
My thighs were slick.
My pulse wrecked.
And I was?—
Ruined .
Without a word. Without a touch. Just from the want.
I gripped the edge of the desk. Hard. My fingernails bit into the laminate. I needed… something .
Anything.
Relief.
Release .
Or someone to step into the room and take it all from me.
I pressed my knees together. Tighter. My stomach clenched. My breath hitched. I blinked at the screen. Nothing made sense anymore. I wasn’t even trying. Wasn’t pretending. I wanted them to see. To know. That I was soaked through and aching and?—
Begging in silence.
The hallway creaked. A door opened. Laughter down the corridor. Too far. Too normal. None of it touched me. I was locked in this cage they’d built and I’d chosen. Corseted. Cuffed in silk. Painted in want. And I didn’t want to leave.
I wanted to be tied tighter. Pushed harder. Watched longer.
I wanted them to take the desk from beneath me and make me the surface. I wanted to be bent and broken and ruined.
I wanted Wolfe’s teeth.
Royal’s mouth.
Loyal’s silence.
Barron’s hands .
I wasn’t a girl anymore. I was a need. And every man in this building was starving. And I?—
I was the feast.