21. Barron
BARRON
I saw them.
Not clearly. Not fully.
Just a flicker as I crossed the mezzanine and glanced down through the glass railing.
Wolfe’s door was half open. Cloe was stepping out. Her head was down, her hair hiding most of her face, but I caught the way her hand brushed his arm. A silent thank-you. A soft linger.
Wolfe said nothing. But I saw his fingers slip something into his pocket.
Black. Small. Familiar.
The pouch.
He always carried one. Always had. I’d seen him hand it to assistants who didn’t want to ask. Women on our floor who’d been caught off guard. He never spoke about it, never acknowledged it. Just offered it with a kind of brutal efficiency that made me want to tear his face off.
And now he’d handed it to her .
Her walk was slower than usual. Not weak. Just… restrained. Careful. Her arms crossed slightly under her chest, as if she was holding herself together from the inside.
I watched her adjust her blouse at the hem. Tug it down like it didn’t sit right. Like something underneath had shifted.
Something had.
The ache between her legs? I knew it. Wolfe knew it. But neither of us could do anything about it now.
Except I didn’t believe that.
Not really.
Because I saw the look in her eyes when she passed my office.
The shame. The heat. The need that hadn’t been satisfied, just redirected.
She didn’t glance in.
Didn’t give me the flicker of deference she usually did.
But I felt her.
Like a storm passing just overhead. Just enough static to lift the hairs on my arm.
She reached her desk. Sat carefully. Her jaw was tense. Her hand moved to her lower stomach and stayed there a moment too long. Rubbing. Pressing. Trying to hide the fact that she was trying to ease something she didn’t want to name.
I knew what it was.
And I knew what she needed.
I left the door open.
Didn’t call her name. Didn’t need to.
The second she looked up, I saw the flicker. The pause. The weight of her pulse behind her eyes.
She rose slowly. Adjusted her corset at the side. Smoothed her skirt like it made a difference .
It didn’t.
Not to me.
She stepped inside.
Didn’t speak. Didn’t fidget. Just closed the door behind her and stood with her hands clasped in front of her like she already knew why she was here.
I stayed behind the desk.
Watched her.
Watched how carefully she held herself. How tight her breath was. How the flush that lingered across her cheeks hadn’t dulled since Wolfe’s hands left her.
“You’re not bleeding because of him,” I said.
Her eyes widened—but she didn’t move.
I rose.
Walked toward her. Slowly. Measured.
I stopped just short of touching her.
“He gave you the pouch.”
No answer.
But I saw it—the tremble in her throat, the way her jaw shifted like she wanted to deny it but couldn’t. She’d been seen. And she knew it.
I reached out.
Pressed my palm to her lower belly.
She gasped. Subtle. Sharp.
Not in pain.
In relief.
“You’re cramping.”
Still no answer. Just the slightest nod.
My fingers moved in slow, steady circles. I felt the tension in her abdomen, the way her breath caught with each pass. She was trying not to lean into it. Not to admit what it did to her.
I stepped closer.
Brushed her hair back behind her shoulder. Let my hand trail down the back of her neck. Let her feel how easy it would be for me to claim her.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I kept my hand on her stomach. Soft. Firm. Gentle.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not turned on,” I murmured. “You think I don’t know what a woman feels like when her body is at war with itself?”
She trembled.
“It’s not weakness,” I said. “It’s fire. Pressure. Heat without release.”
I moved behind her. Pressed my chest lightly to her back. Her spine arched on instinct.
I let my hand drift lower. Not to penetrate. Not to take. Just to soothe.
The flat of my palm pressed between her thighs. Through the fabric. Slow. Careful.
She let out a breath she hadn’t meant to. I didn’t speak. Didn’t ask permission. I just moved my hand. Upward pressure. Gentle friction. Not fast. Not dirty. Just enough to make her bite her lip.
“Let me help,” I said quietly. “No blood. No shame. Just this.”
Her head tilted back. Her hips shifted. She didn’t say yes. She didn’t have to. Her body gave it to me. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.
Her body shifted, barely—just enough to part her thighs beneath the fabric of that skirt. Just enough to invite my hand to stay right where it was.
She was so warm there.
So fucking soft.
And trembling.
Not because she was afraid.
Because I was the one touching her now .
Because Wolfe lit the fuse, but I was the one who would hold her through the fire.
I slid my hand between her legs, cupped her through the silk. Pressed upward with just enough pressure to make her exhale.
“I’m not going to take anything from you,” I murmured against the back of her neck. “Not like this. Not tonight.”
She nodded—barely—and I felt it. The way her body sagged against me. The tiniest surrender. Her guard crumpling around the edges.
I moved slow. Deliberate. Circles. Pressure. No rush. No shame. Just her thighs flexing and hips shifting as the tension began to unravel.
“You’re so damn wound up,” I whispered. “Can’t even breathe, can you?”
A soft, stuttering breath left her lips.
“I know,” I said. “You’ve been holding it in all day. The ache. The heat. The want.”
Her head tilted slightly.
Her breath hitched.
And I knew—she was close.
I used my other hand to slide around her waist. Held her there. Anchored her. My thumb pressed just above the edge of her corset while my other palm kept working—rubbing her through the fabric, coaxing her body to let go.
“You don’t have to be strong here,” I said against her hair. “You don’t have to be anything but mine.”
Her breath broke into a soft, desperate whimper.
Good.
That’s what I wanted.
Not submission.
Surrender. There’s a difference. One is a choice. The other is instinct.
Her thighs clenched around my hand.
She was shaking.
So close.
I pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck.
“You’re allowed to come for me like this,” I whispered. “Messy. Overwhelmed. Turned on when you shouldn’t be.”
She choked on a breath. Tried to hold it back. And that’s when I moved my hand slightly higher. Found the right pressure. The perfect rhythm.
Whispered it again:
“Come for me, Cloe.”
Her breath caught.
Her body locked.
Then—release.
Silent. Shattering.
Her head bowed. Her hips trembled. Her thighs clenched hard around my hand and I felt the rush of wet heat even through the layers of fabric.
I held her while she shook.
Held her while she came undone. Held her until her legs nearly gave out—and even then, I didn’t let her fall.
I wrapped both arms around her now, turning her in the circle of my chest. Cradling her without softness. Without apology.
She didn’t lift her head. Didn’t meet my gaze. But she let me hold her. That was enough. For now.
I didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just held her. Her breath was still unsteady, shoulders rising and falling in sharp little waves like she was trying to pretend she hadn’t just come in my arms. That her body hadn’t betrayed her pride.
But I knew the truth. I’d felt it. I’d caused it. And I’d do it again .
I reached into the drawer behind me and pulled out a handkerchief.
White. Monogrammed. Still folded from the last time I thought I might need to clean up after someone I shouldn’t have touched.
I held it out.
She took it with one shaking hand. Pressed it between her legs. Closed her eyes for a second longer than she meant to.
But she didn’t cry.
Not for me.
Not yet.
I helped her straighten her blouse. Buttoned the second one from the top myself. My fingers brushed the skin above her corset, and I felt her pulse skip beneath the touch.
Her skirt was still rumpled, her hair a little mussed, but she didn’t rush to fix it. She just stood there. Quiet. Raw. Like the silence between us had become something sacred. I reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“You did well,” I said quietly.
Her throat moved. Like she wanted to speak. But she didn’t. She just looked at me. And I saw it then—behind the layers of shame and heat and confusion.
Gratitude. Desire. Something closer to safety than she’d known in weeks.
I stepped back. Not because I wanted to. Because I had to. Because if I didn’t, I’d press her back against the desk and take her anyway. Period or not.
And I wasn’t going to make this about me.
Not tonight.
She adjusted her corset slightly, gave a soft exhale like her body was starting to settle. Then she moved toward the door. Stopped. Looked over her shoulder. Just once.
“I didn’t ask for it,” she said softly .
I nodded. “I know.”
“But I needed it.”
I didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just let her have the last word.
She opened the door. Walked out. Closed it quietly behind her.
And I stayed in the room with the scent of her still on my fingers and a pressure in my chest that wouldn’t go away.