Chapter 12 Waiting
WAITING
DYLAN
Fuck Me Like You Hate Me By Jutes
Morgan rounds the corner, her ruined heels clutched to her chest. I throw out a hand to stop the elevator doors from closing.
“I’ll take the next one,” she says quickly, standing firm.
“Afraid of being alone with me?”
“You wish,” she bites back, stepping into the car and jabbing the button with more force than necessary.
I lean against the wall, crossing my arms over my bare chest, the paint-splattered volunteer shirt tucked into my back pocket. Paint flakes on my skin.
The silence between us twists tight as piano wire.
Her gaze fixes on the display above the door. Pulse jumping at the base of her throat. The tiny space amplifies everything—the faint hum of the lights, the creak of the cables, her sharp exhale.
She shifts her weight, clutching the paint-ruined Jimmy Choos against her chest like a shield.
A grinding noise shakes the elevator, and we jolt to a halt. Emergency lights flicker on, casting the walls in eerie, pulsing red.
I meet Morgan’s eyes in the dim light, and a pang of longing tugs at me.
“Well,” I say softly, “isn’t this convenient.”
“No. No, no, no,” Morgan mutters, then narrows her eyes at me. “You probably did this on purpose.”
“I’m flattered,” I smirk, leaning back against the wall. “But even I can’t make elevators stop with my mind. Though if I could…”
She rolls her eyes and jabs the call button twice, then harder. When nothing happens, she tries to pry the elevator doors apart with her bare hands.
I watch her struggle. “Geez, Clemson,” I say, smirking. “You keep this up, I’m gonna start thinking you don’t like me.”
She shoots me a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “I wonder what gave you that impression?”
I laugh, and her indignation sparks. Gorgeous and furious at once.
“I need to get back to the office,” she says, checking her watch.
No service on my phone. Great.
I pocket it and settle back.
She pulls at the collar of her shirt, restless. A streak of blue paint marks her collarbone.
“You look a little flushed, Clemson.” I reach for the bottle in my back pocket. “Water?”
Her jaw tightens. “I’m fine.”
“Suit yourself.” I twist the cap, my eyes never leaving hers. Take a long, deliberate sip. A few droplets escape, trailing down my chin, along my neck, sliding over my bare chest.
Her eyes follow the path. Lock onto the water beading against my skin. The tip of her tongue darts out, unconscious, quick.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, smirking.
She turns away. “Real mature.”
But not before I catch the flush climbing her neck. Or how she can’t quite keep her eyes off me.
She unbuttons her blouse. My mouth goes dry.
“What are you doing?”
“Relax. I’m wearing something underneath.”
One button. Two. Three. The white fabric parts, revealing a paint-speckled tank top clinging to curves I’ve been trying desperately not to notice. She peels the blouse off her shoulders, folding it with practiced precision despite the paint stains.
My throat constricts. I should look away—focus on the elevator doors or the emergency call button or literally anything else.
But I can’t tear my eyes from the strip of skin between her tank top and jeans.
From the dip of her collarbone. From the curve of her shoulder, now bare except for a thin strap.
My jeans suddenly fit a hell of a lot tighter than they did five minutes ago.
I shift my weight, trying to discreetly adjust. Morgan notices anyway. Her eyes flicker down, then up, her mouth twitching like she’s fighting a smile.
“Problem?”
“Yeah, you.” The words come out rougher than intended, layered with meanings I hadn’t planned on revealing.
A flush creeps up her neck as her eyes betray her, dropping to my mouth again, locking on my lip ring.
She bites her lower lip, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the sight. Teeth sinking into soft pink flesh. My lip ring suddenly feels heavy against my skin. Her eyes track it as I run my tongue over it, a nervous habit I’ve never managed to break.
“This is ridiculous,” she mutters finally, pacing a tight line in front of the doors. “We could be stuck here for hours.”
“Could be worse,” I say without thinking. “Could be stuck with someone you actually hate.”
She stops pacing and turns to me slowly. “You’re assuming I don’t.”
The jab should sting. Maybe it does. But beneath the bite, something else threads through—something frayed and desperate. I push away from the wall, closing the distance between us in two slow steps. “You don’t hate me,” I say quietly.
Her eyes flash, green fire in the dim light. “You’re right. Hate’s not nearly strong enough.”
I smirk, stepping closer until our bodies almost brush. “Careful, Clemson. You keep looking at me like that, and I’m going to start thinking you like being stuck with me.”
Her breath catches. The heat between us shifts into something dangerous, magnetic. Not touching. Almost touching. The absence of contact becomes its own form of torture.
“I’d rather throw myself down the elevator shaft,” she snaps, but her voice wavers.
“Funny,” I murmur. “You’re not moving very far away.”
Her chin lifts defiantly. Her chest rises and falls with quick, shallow breaths, her heels dangling from her fingertips. “Maybe I’m just figuring out the best way to take you with me.”
I lean in until our foreheads barely touch. Her eyes drop to my mouth again. The muscle in my jaw tightens with the need to close the last inch. To taste her. To feel her teeth tug on the metal she can’t stop staring at.
Professional ruin hovers at the edge of my consciousness. Board meetings, the acquisition, the artists we’re both fighting for. All of it crashes against the current pulling me toward her, the gravity between us gone nuclear.
“You’ll have to get closer for that.”
The second the words leave my mouth, the tension snaps like a live wire.
She grabs the back of my neck and yanks me down at the same time I cup her jaw and crush my mouth against hers. The ruined Jimmy Choos fall from her fingertips, hitting the elevator floor with a dull thud.
The kiss is messy, furious, all teeth and tongues and desperate hands.
Her tongue grazes my lip ring, and when she tugs at it gently with her teeth, a shudder tears through me.
I moan into her mouth, the sound dragged from somewhere deep and primal.
She tastes like defiance and desire, like something I’ve been chasing without realizing it.
Her nails rake my skin. Clothes are a fucking obstacle.
She yanks at my belt, cursing under her breath, and I reach for her jeans, popping the button and dragging the zipper down in one rough pull.
“Impatient much?” she gasps.
“Are you kidding?” I rasp, dragging my mouth down the curve of her jaw. “You have no idea what you just unleashed, Clemson.”
I shove her jeans and panties down her thighs at the same time she rips at my zipper, frantic and uncoordinated. My wallet hits the floor as I pull a condom out, tearing it open with shaking hands.
She catches sight of it and smirks, breathless.
“Oh, what, you carry those around just hoping for moments like this?”
“I wasn’t hoping,” I say, sliding it on in record time. “I was waiting.” For you. The words hang unspoken between us, too honest for whatever this is.
Before she can say another word, I lift her, pressing her back against the wall. She wraps her legs around my waist, her nails digging into my shoulders.
I fist the base of my cock, finding her in one hard, desperate thrust, and we both gasp, the sound swallowed by the cramped elevator.
My palm hits the wall beside her while I hold her up with the other, giving myself a moment to savor the feeling of her.
Fuck, she’s so tight and wet it makes my head spin, and I’m half a second from losing it like a goddamn teenager.
This isn’t only physical—it’s something deeper, something that’s been building since before she left for New York, before our companies became rivals.
“Don’t you dare slow down,” she pants against my ear, biting my shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. “If you’re going to ruin me, you better fucking finish the job.”
A dark sound rips from my throat as I tighten my hold on her hips and start to fuck her in earnest, each thrust rougher, deeper, driving her harder against the wall with a force that feels reckless, unstoppable.
“That’s it,” I rasp, my grip bruising on her hips as I slam into her. “Take it, Morgan. Take all of me.”
She moans, wrecked and beautiful, and I lose the last thread of control.
I drive into her harder, making her gasp as she clings to me, her nails marking my flesh.
The sound of skin meeting skin fills the small space.
Every movement draws another broken cry from her lips, another ragged breath from mine.
She meets me perfectly, her body moving in a rhythm that feels both desperate and inevitable.
“Hate me all you want,” I growl into her skin. “But fuck me like you mean it.”
She whimpers, clinging to me tighter, her breath hot against my ear. “Harder… oh God… just like that,” she gasps, wild and wrecked. “Make me feel it.”
The elevator rocks with the punishing snap of my hips, but I don’t slow down, can’t—not when she’s clinging to me like I’m the only thing keeping her upright. Not when every gasp from her lips sounds like a confession.
“Jesus, Morgan—” I groan into her neck, the scent of her skin driving me wild. This moment is going to complicate everything.
But I can’t bring myself to care.
She yanks my hair, dragging my mouth to hers, biting my lower lip in punishment.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is insane, reckless, completely irresponsible.
Nothing matters but her. Her gasps, her nails, her heat.
Her body tightens around me, a tremor running through her, and she buries her face in my shoulder, muffling a cry.
It rips me apart. I follow her over the edge, hips jerking as everything inside me unravels.
Neither of us moves. Just breathing, heartbeats gradually slowing. I slide my hands down her thighs, easing her gently to the ground. She steadies herself, fingers lingering on my chest.
Her forehead bumps against my shoulder, for a breath, before she pulls back like she’s been burned.
I catch her chin gently, brushing my thumb along her cheek.
She blinks up at me, wide-eyed, breathless, and for a second, everything softens—the anger, the chaos, the wreckage.
It’s just her and me, bruised and raw, breathing the same air, holding onto something neither of us can name.
I want her—all of her—in a way that has nothing to do with business and everything to do with the way my chest aches when she looks at me. I want all of it.
Morgan opens her mouth like she’s about to say something—something I’m not sure either of us is ready for—but before she can get the words out, the elevator groans ominously, then jerks back to life.
The lights flicker. The car shudders as it descends.
Morgan pushes off of me, stumbling as she yanks her jeans up with shaking hands.
We freeze, breathing hard, messy and wrecked.
The doors creak open.
She doesn’t look at me as she bolts from the elevator.
I lean my forehead against the cool metal wall, dragging in a shaky breath.
“Fuck!” I hit the wall once before pushing away.