16. Wolfe
WOLFE
I saw her before she even walked in.
That scent. That fucking pace she had when she thought no one was watching—half-confident, half-defensive. Like she couldn’t decide whether to run or strut.
But I knew.
She wanted to be seen.
Needed it.
And then she stepped through the floor…
And I stopped breathing.
The blouse was sheer.
Not pornographic. Not vulgar.
But just thin enough to turn sunlight into revelation. The outline of black lace traced beneath the silk like a secret barely held back. The corset beneath that? It cinched her ribs with precision. Brutal. Beautiful. Like armor you begged to be broken by.
The skirt? Too tight. Deliberately high. Fitted like temptation. Her hips moved in subtle sway, a whisper of power and performance that she didn’t even try to hide .
I knew the garter lines were under there.
Because I saw the flash of them.
The faint shift in fabric when she turned her body.
A breath.
A glance.
And I was hard.
Painfully hard.
I didn’t move.
Just watched from behind the glass wall of my office. One hand clenched tight around the edge of my desk, knuckles white. The other hovered near my belt. Not touching. Not yet.
She sat at her desk.
Shifted.
Twice.
Her thighs pressed together. Ankles crossed. Back straight like she’d been posed that way.
She was wet.
I could see it in the way her spine refused to relax. In the subtle lift of her chest every time she exhaled like her breath didn’t know where to land. In the sharp little inhale when she reached for her mouse.
I adjusted myself under the desk.
Subtle. Quiet.
Still hard.
Still pulsing.
No relief.
The pressure behind my zipper was starting to throb.
I licked my bottom lip. Bit it.
Don’t .
Fucking don’t.
But my body didn’t listen.
I opened my browser.
Typed the first three letters—P O R?—
Autofill: pornhub.
I tapped.
Scrolled.
Women in fishnets. Red lips. Open mouths.
Gasping. Whimpering. Getting fucked.
Nothing worked.
It all felt wrong.
Because I didn’t want to see someone get fucked.
I wanted her.
Cloe.
In garters.
On her knees.
With mascara streaking down her cheeks and my hand gripping her hair like a leash.
I wanted her sobbing against my thigh, her panties ruined, her mouth full of Wolfe.
And the worst part? I didn’t even want to fuck her. I wanted to own the need in her eyes. I closed the tab. Leaned back in my chair. Still hard. Still pulsing. Still fucking wrecked.
I looked up. And there she was. Still at her desk. Still pretending to work. Her lips parted. Just slightly. She was squirming. Not visibly. Not publicly. But underneath? She was falling apart.
And I knew—because I was doing the exact same thing.
The tension in her shoulders. The way her thighs shifted beneath the desk. The subtle tremble in her fingers every time she hovered above the keyboard like she’d forgotten how to type.
She didn’t need to touch herself. Because her body was already vibrating with the need. And I knew that need. Because I felt it too.
I saw her like this once before. Not in lace. Not in perfume. But in want .
Christ, I shouldn’t be doing this. She was just a kid, a kid we fucking knew. A kid I remembered. I closed my eyes reliving the memory.
Camille’s twenty-fourth birthday.
We rented out a rooftop. Real private. Private waitstaff. Champagne towers. Music so smooth you could taste it.
Camille wore black. Red lips. A crown in everything but name.
And she brought Cloe.
No warning. No announcement. Just walked her in like she’d always belonged.
Cloe wore a black dress that didn’t quite fit. Too tight across the chest. Straps that dug into her shoulders. Secondhand. Borrowed. She smiled too much. Laughed too loud. Nervous. Eager.
Camille gave her the shoes. I remember because the sticker was still on the bottom when she crossed her legs.
She sat beside Camille and looked out at the crowd like she didn’t know where she belonged in it—but hoped someone would give her permission to stay.
And she watched Camille. Not jealous. Not resentful. But wide-eyed. Hungry. Like she wanted to be her. No—like she wanted to be wanted the way Camille was.
She laughed too hard at something Royal said. Camille reached out and touched her hand. Squeezed it. And I remember thinking?—
If someone held her too tightly, she’d shatter.
She didn’t know how to carry wealth. Didn’t know how to wear power. But she wanted it. Desperately.
Now?
She’s learning.
And the hunger is still there.
But so is something else .
She doesn’t wear desperation anymore. She wears desire. She walks through the floor like she knows every man who sees her wants to ruin her. And the worst part?
I want her more now than I ever wanted anything. Even when she belonged to Camille. Even when Camille was the only good thing this family ever had. Even when I swore I’d never touch that kind of want again.
I hadn’t thought about her that night in years. But now, after watching her twist in that chair today, thighs squeezed, lace soaked?
I can’t not remember it. Because it’s the same look she wore that night. The quiet hunger. The ache to be seen. To matter.
The way her eyes tracked the room—not like she wanted to belong, but like she was studying the price of admission.
She looked at Camille like she was art and royalty and God all in one. Not jealous. Not resentful. Just desperate to be touched by something brighter. And now?
Now that hunger had grown teeth. Now she walks like power has started to fit her. And it should make me back the fuck off. It should make me look away. But all it does is make me want her more. More than anything I’ve wanted since Camille.
And that thought?
That thought burned.
Because Camille was the only good thing this family had.
And I was corrupt enough to want the girl who used to orbit her.
I couldn’t stay in the building. Not another fucking second. Not with her scent still clinging to my shirt. That perfume—light, powdery, soft—followed me down the hallway like a hand pressing between my shoulder blades.
I breathed her. Tasted her. Felt her in the gaps between every breath .
The elevator opened. I stepped in alone, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. I punched the ground floor like the numbers could answer for me. I should’ve dragged her into my office. Should’ve slammed the door. Made her say it. Say she was wet. Say she wanted to be touched. Say thank you while she shook.
I should’ve ruined her until she forgot what it felt like to belong to herself. But I didn’t. Because I’m the one who waits. The one who doesn’t cross the line. Not since the funeral. Not since everything I loved bled out and left me hollow.
But now?
Now I was hard. Angry. Ruined from the inside out. So fucking desperate to feel something I could’ve ripped the doors open just to escape the air. Because it still smelled like her.
The elevator opened.
She stepped in like she was built for it.
Tall. Blonde. Tight skirt. Red lips.
I’d had her once.
Or maybe twice.
Her name was... Penny. Or Prue. Something with a P.
Didn’t matter.
She leaned back against the mirrored wall like she belonged there. One foot crossed over the other. Her posture told a story—accessible, practiced, easy.
Her eyes flicked to me.
Curious.
Open.
Inviting.
I stared at her mouth. Imagined grabbing her by the wrist. Turning her around. Pressing her into the corner. Yanking her skirt up. Fucking her fast enough to forget.
I flexed my fists at my sides.
My breath hitched.
Do it.
Just fucking do it.
But I didn’t move.
Because the moment I blinked?—
Cloe’s face was there instead. On her knees. Tears in her lashes. A thank you in her throat.
The elevator dinged. Penny—Prue—whoever she was, stepped off without a word. But she looked back. Once.
Not fear. Not judgment. Just expectation. Like she thought I’d follow her. Like she was disappointed that I hadn’t. And I hated that. Hated her. Hated myself more.
Because I could have had her. Used her. Left her. It wouldn’t have mattered. She didn’t ask for anything. Never looked at me like I was a god she didn’t know how to pray to. She never made me feel like kneeling.
But Cloe?
Cloe made me feel everything.
She made me feel out of control.
Made me want .
Made me need things I’d buried years ago.
Things I swore I’d never want again—not after Camille. Not after the casket. Not after the world cracked down the middle.
But now?
Now I couldn’t breathe without thinking about her thighs spread.
Her mouth open.
Her eyes wet.
The way she trembled in silence in a chair I didn’t think she could survive.
The silence in the elevator wasn’t stillness. It was punishment. I braced both hands on the mirrored wall. Bent my head. Let my breath fog the glass.
I could’ve had her. I could’ve fucked the easy one. But it wouldn’t be Cloe. Wouldn’t be the lace I wanted to rip. Wouldn’t be the eyes I wanted to watch break. Wouldn’t be the girl I wanted to wreck so thoroughly she forgot who she was without me.
I made it home, dropped my keys, and stared at my phone like it might bite me. Didn’t go for a drink. Didn’t take off my shoes. I just stood in the doorway—still dressed, still hard, still ruined—and let the silence close in like punishment.
The city glowed through the windows, reflecting the shape of my body in the glass. Distorted. Ghosted. Like I was already something else.
Something darker.
I was hard.
Still.
Still .
My cock throbbed against the front of my slacks. Every nerve ending straining for contact. For friction. For fucking release. But I didn’t touch it. Didn’t move. Because I didn’t want release. I wanted damage.
I wanted Cloe on my kitchen counter. Her blouse ripped open. Her skirt shoved past her hips. My hand on her throat. My fingers inside her. Her legs trembling around me while she tried not to cry.
I wanted her ruined.
Not just wet.
Shaking.
Obedient.
Destroyed.
Her contact sat there in my phone.
C. Woods.
No emoji. No title. Just the name. Clean. Sharp.
I hovered over it.
Thumb twitching .
Call her.
Tell her to come here.
Make her kneel and say thank you through clenched teeth while her mascara runs.
I pulled up the message box.
Typed a word.
Deleted it.
Typed another.
Come .
Backspaced.
Deleted again.
I locked the phone.
Threw it across the kitchen.
It hit the wall.
Hard .
My chest rose. Fell. Too fast. Too shallow.
I braced myself on the marble counter and bent my head.
My reflection stared back from the chrome of the fridge.
My skin flushed. My jaw clenched. My body ached with restraint.
I could still smell her on me.
Still taste the memory of her at her desk—breath hitching, thighs clenched, soaked in silence.
And I wasn’t angry at her. I was angry at me. Because I let this happen. Because I watched. Because I wanted. And now? Now I didn’t know how to stop.
I paced. Back and forth. Room to room. The pressure in my pants unbearable. The sound of her laugh echoing in my head like a fucking dare.
I could see the shape of her nipples through the blouse. The lace when it clung too tight to hide anything. And I hated that I knew the exact color. Because it haunted me. It followed me here .
Her email was still open on my laptop.
Professional. Polite. Polished.
A perfect lie.
Because I knew she hadn’t been okay today. She hadn’t been calm. She’d been wrecked .
And I let her sit through it—dressed like sex, leaking into lace, pretending to be an assistant while every man in the room imagined what it would take to make her beg.
I opened the reply box.
Typed two words.
You forgot.
Pause.
Then added one more line.
To say thank you.
No name. No signature. Just truth.
I hit send. And when she answered? I’d stop pretending I could stop.