Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The receptionist gives me a skeptical look before lifting her phone. She speaks quietly, her eyes never leaving me as if I might bolt with the expensive-looking vase on the side table.
"Mr. Hall? There's a..." she pauses, looking me over again, "...woman here to see you. Jenna Sullivan.” Her eyebrows shoot up. "Yes, sir. Right away."
She hangs up and plasters on a professional smile. "Please wait a moment."
Within minutes, a security guard appears beside me. He's middle-aged with a round face and kind eyes, his uniform stretched tight across his belly. His name tag reads ‘Marco.’
"Ms. Sullivan? I'll escort you to Mr. Hall's office."
We step into an elevator with mirrored walls that multiply my dishevelled appearance infinitely. I look like a wild woman next to Marco's neat uniform.
"Beautiful day out there," Marco says, breaking the silence. "Spring's finally showing up. My wife's already got her garden started."
"That's nice," I manage. "What does she grow?"
"Tomatoes, mostly. Makes the best sauce you've ever tasted." His face lights up. "Got kids?"
"A son. He's four."
"Wonderful age. Mine are all grown now."
The elevator doors open to the 21st floor, and suddenly my anger evaporates, replaced by cold panic. What am I doing here? This was a terrible idea.
My mind races as I stand frozen in the elevator, clutching my purse so tightly my knuckles turn white.
I shouldn't have come. I should be at home with Liam, or helping Reeves at the pool hall—anywhere but in this tower of glass and steel about to confront a man whom I should no longer be engaging with.
The walls of the elevator seem to close in around me, my reflected image staring back with accusation.
My messy bun has come partly undone during my frantic journey here, wisps of red hair falling across my face.
I tuck one behind my ear with shaky fingers, suddenly aware of how out of place I look in my worn skirt and flowy top against all this corporate glam.
The weight of all my problems—it all sits heavily on my shoulders. But this... confronting Caine Hall like this... it feels like jumping from a burning building without knowing what's below.
"Actually, Marco," I say, my voice shaking, "I've changed my mind. I don't need to see Mr. Hall after all."
Marco looks confused. "But you came all this way, and Mr. Hall is expecting you."
"I know, but—"
"His office is right this way."
I reluctantly follow Marco down a hallway lined with abstract art that probably costs more than my house. We stop at a set of double doors, and Marco knocks before opening them.
Caine's office is breathtaking—floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Portland skyline. Everything is sleek glass and brushed steel, minimalist but powerful. Like him.
And there he is, rising from behind a massive desk. He's wearing a charcoal three-piece suit that fits him like it was painted on, a blue tie that makes his eyes pop. My mouth goes dry.
"Thank you, Marco," Caine says, his voice smooth as honey.
Marco nods and retreats.
Caine inches closer, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He glides toward the door, each step measured and confident. His arm brushes against mine as he passes—a brief, electric contact that sends a shiver down my spine. I catch another hint of that nice deodorant he wears.
He reaches for the door with those long, beautiful fingers—the same fingers that have made me come harder than I ever had before.
His movements are hypnotic, like everything is happening in slow motion.
I can't help but stare at the way his suit jacket stretches across his shoulders as he pushes the heavy door closed.
The metallic click of the lock echoes through the space, reverberating in my chest like a final verdict. There's something so definitive about that sound—a period at the end of a sentence, a door closing on any possibility of escape.
His long fingers linger on the lock for a long beat before he turns back to me with that maddeningly slow pace of his. The gesture isn't just practical; it's a statement, a declaration of his domain.
Here, within these glass walls overlooking Portland, Caine makes the rules. His movements, his timing, his space—all meticulously controlled. He doesn't need to say it aloud. The subtle lift of his chin, the quiet confidence in his posture—everything about him radiates authority.
In this moment, I am acutely aware that I've willingly walked into the lion's den, and the lion has just secured the gate.
There's something predatory in his deliberate pace, something that makes me feel like prey. Those stunning green eyes flick back to meet mine for just a moment, and I see something dangerous flickering there—calculation, interest, power.
My heart hammers in my chest. This was a catastrophic mistake.
I inhale sharply, filling my lungs with the scent of him. My fists clench at my sides as I force myself to remember why I stormed in here looking like a disaster. I didn't drive all the way to Portland to stand here speechless while he locks doors and circles me like I'm his next acquisition.
A hint of a smile plays on his lips. “What a nice surprise this is.”
"H-how dare you," I finally manage, my voice shakier than I'd like. "You can't just... you can't just pursue me like this… when you know the power you have over me,” I cry. “Reeves says we’re done with you, and we are, and you can’t put me in this position.”
Caine inches closer and towers over me. His expression remains maddeningly calm, those intense eyes studying me like I'm a particularly challenging shot on the pool table.
“Why are you here, Jenna?” he asks, a playful grin tracing his lips.
I inhale a sharp breath, readying myself for the big tell-off.
"There's…" One more breath. "…a fine line between generosity and abusing one's power.
You know you own us. You know we're struggling.
You know that with one wave of your finger and a few scribbles on a check, you can make us do anything you want.
You can have anything your heart desires.
How does that feel? I can't even imagine.
You're the puppet master, and we're nothing but dolls with no choices you can toy with… until you get bored with us."
He studies me quietly, silently begging me to rip down my walls, to lay myself bare for him.
“You like to come off as a kind person, but you're manipulative… and selfish,” I go on, surprisingly calm.
"You're the worst kind of evil, the wolf in sheep's clothing, pretending to help us, when all you want to do is fuck with us…
fuck with Reeves because he punched you when you were kids.
Get over it, and get the fuck over me and all this bullshit.
I'm just sick of you, and I'm not a fucking whore.
You can't pay me for anything else, you fucked up weirdo. "
A slow, devious smile stretches his lips. The sight of it drives me mad. "Are you done?" he asks quietly.
I blow out a breath, not sure what else to add. I suddenly feel stupid, confused, and still so, so angry.
"Yes, I am trying to help you because I genuinely like you, Jenna. You're a good person. Why are you really here, Jenna?"
"I'm here because I'm furious!" I take a step forward, emboldened by anger. "I'm not some... some commodity you can use when you're bored. I have a husband, a child—"
"A failing business," he adds, not unkindly. "Medical bills. A mortgage."
My cheeks burn. "That doesn't give you the right—"
"Rights have nothing to do with it." He steps away and moves toward the window, hands in his pockets. "This is about what we both want."
I follow him, desperate to get my point across. “What I want is for you to stop messing with my life!" My voice rises, and I'm glad for the thick walls of his office. "The pool lessons, the photos... now you want to have dinner? What game are you playing?"
He turns to face me, sunlight streaming in behind him. "No games, Jenna. Just an honest request.”
"There's nothing honest about trying to bang someone's wife.”
"I'm not trying to bang you." His voice remains frustratingly level while mine keeps cracking with emotion. "I'm offering friendship.”
I laugh bitterly. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"Call it whatever you want." He steps closer, and I fight the urge to back away. "But don't pretend you're not interested."
I shake my head, my loose hair falling across my face. "You don't know anything about what I want."
"Don't I?" His eyes lock with mine, and for a moment, everything else fades away—the office, Portland below us, my responsibilities waiting at home. "I've seen the way you look at me, Jenna. I’ve felt the way you respond to my touch."
My throat tightens. "That's... that's not the point."
"Then what is the point?" He's close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "Tell me why you're really here."
I can't… I just can't anymore with this guy.
He inches closer. Too close. "You're wrong," he whispers against my ear. "I don't need to shell out some cash to get what I want. I just need to grab it."
I feel myself losing control, and it scares me to death. "Oh, you're so fucking cocky."
"I officially rescind any future proposals. There will be no money. You're absolutely right. You're not a whore, and I’ve been completely out of line. You may go now."
My jaw drops to the floor. Who does this guy think he is? "I may go now?"
"Yes, please go. " He pulls away, and I ache for him. The sudden absence of his warmth leaves me hollow inside, like someone has scooped out my insides with a cold spoon.
My body betrays me completely—my skin prickles with goosebumps, my breath catches in my throat, and there's this terrible, painful emptiness that only he can fill. I lean forward slightly, instinctively chasing his touch before I catch myself.
The space between us feels charged with electricity, crackling with unspoken need.
A hint of his cologne—that tangy, distinct scent—still lingers in my nostrils, teasing me, reminding me of how close he was just seconds ago.
My fingers twitch at my sides, wanting to reach out, to pull him back against me.
I hate the power he has over me. I hate how my body responds to his without my permission, like it belongs to him instead of me. But I can't deny the physical ache that spreads through me, radiating from my core outward, making me feel both weak and desperately alive at the same time.
I shove him hard.
He recovers quickly. “Do I need to call security? "
I watch him as he walks away from me. I've really done it this time. What must the man think of me? He reaches into his desk. For a chequebook? For a security button?
I huff. I hate him so much, I can't stand it. "And another thing, Mister. You're not as perfect as you think. One of your ears sticks out more than the other… it makes you look goofy.”
His gaze reaches mine, and that maddening smile curves his lips again. "Is that so? I never realized. Thank you so much for bringing that to my attention, Jenna."
Just as he's about to take a seat at his desk, he changes his mind and stands. "Let me show you out," he says cooly, and every syllable grates me — how dare he be so calm and collected, when I just want to rip his head off.
But when we get to the door, he presses me against it, his body claiming mine—and I lose complete control.
I'm his. All his.
His hands find the hem of my skirt, rough and demanding as he hikes it up. My back presses against the cold door, a stark contrast to the heat of his body pinning me there. I gasp as his fingers trail up my thighs, leaving fire in their wake.
"Tell me to stop," he whispers, his breath hot against my neck. "Tell me you don't want this."
But I can't. The words won't come. All I can manage is a desperate whimper as his hands climb higher, stroking the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. My head falls back against the door with a soft thud.
"Caine," I breathe, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears.
His fingers trace the edge of my underwear, and my knees nearly buckle. I should push him away. I should think of Reeves, of Liam, of all the reasons this is wrong. But in this moment, with his touch setting my skin ablaze, I can't remember any of them.
When he hand presses softly against my pussy, I melt into him.
“God, your perfect little pussy,” he breathes. “I want to taste it.”
This is what I wanted all along. This is why I’m here.
"Look at me," he commands, and my eyes snap to his. Those green eyes burn with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "I want you to know exactly who's making you feel this way."
One of his hands leaves my thigh to cup my face, his thumb brushing across my bottom lip. The tenderness of the gesture contrasts sharply with the urgency of his other hand, still exploring beneath my skirt.
"I've thought about this every day," he breathes. "Every night. You've consumed me, Jenna."
His confession sends a shiver down through me. I'm not alone in this madness. He's just as lost as I am.
When his lips finally crash into mine, it's like drowning and being saved all at once. I surrender completely, my hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, anywhere I can reach. My body arches into his touch, seeking more, always more.
He has complete control over me, and the most terrifying part is that I don't care. In this moment, I'd let him do anything. The world outside this office—my life, my responsibilities, my morality—it all fades away under his touch and demanding mouth.
I'm his. Completely, utterly his. And God help me, I never want it to end.
"Tell me no," he says, his breath ragged. "Tell me you don't want this. Just one word and I stop immediately.”
I don't utter a single word.
His hot mouth grazes my collarbone. "See, I don't need to shell out a small fortune to have you. I always knew this."
I whimper as his mouth slowly travels up my neck.
"You want me to fuck you," he mouths against my skin. "If you don't, just say the word and I'll stop."
He knows he owns me. He knows I don't have the strength to push him away. He knows I desperately want him inside me.
I'm lost in a haze of need, my body aching for his.
I can't believe I'm letting this happen, but I don't want it to stop.