Chapter 6
COLE
I bury my hands in my hair and stare at the stack of invoices on my desk like maybe they’ll magically start adding up to something that doesn’t make me want to put my fist through a wall.
They don’t.
The numbers blur, ink smears under my thumb, my eyes burning from staring at spreadsheets for hours. And I still can’t make the goddamn math work unless I accept one simple, brutal truth: I’m running out of time.
Half my company belongs to Calista and Toby. Half my decisions aren’t mine anymore. Half my father’s legacy is balanced on the moods of two people who would rather watch me fail slowly than let me walk away clean.
I drag in a breath, close my eyes, and try to steady myself. It doesn’t work. The room feels tight. My chest feels tighter. Everything is one long, suffocating grind lately—responsibilities, finances, promises I’m trying like hell to keep.
And then—
My office door slams open so hard the hinges rattle. I jerk upright as Ella Morgan storms in like a woman possessed. She slams it closed with the same ferocity, causing a framed picture to fall off the wall, then stomps forward, fire in her eyes, hair tossed by the wind, breath coming fast.
She looks like trouble and everything I’ve been trying, and failing, to ignore since I walked out of Iron Stallion more than a week ago.
“That’s quite the entrance,” I manage.
Her glare darkens as she ignores me. “Do you have a phone?”
Lord, have mercy. I do not have the patience for this. I lean back in my chair, rub the ache between my eyes. “Ella—“
“No,” she snaps. “Don’t you dare say my name like that. Don’t you dare talk to me like I’m an inconvenience when you’ve been avoiding me like I’m the plague.”
“I haven’t—“
“Stop lying.”
Her voice cuts clean through the air, sharp enough to drag every excuse out of my throat. She steps forward, hands planted on my desk, leaning over it like she owns the room and the oxygen in it.
“You’ve ignored my calls for eight days,” she says, eyes locked to mine. “Eight days, Cole. Why?”
I hold her stare. I know I shouldn’t—she’ll see too much—but I do it anyway. “I’ve been busy,” I say, low.
“Try again.”
“What do you want me to say, huh?”
“I want to know why you’ve been ignoring me. Why have you yet to respond to the proposal we made?” she demands.
I grit my teeth. “Financials. Manpower issues. Scheduling. The project is—“
“Cole.” Her voice softens, but only slightly. “I know bullshit when I hear it. You’re avoiding me. Not the project. Me.”
She’s right. Of course, she’s right.
“That’s not—“ I start.
She cuts me off again. “We had sex once, Cole. We’re both adults enough to move past it. You cannot use that as an excuse to not take on this project when we both know just how bad you need it.”
I look away because I cannot afford to let her see the truth in my eyes. She circles the desk, slow, deliberate, heat rolling off her. I should tell her to stop. I should tell her to leave.
I don’t. I can’t.
She steps in front of me, between my knees, hands on her hips, chin tilted in challenge. “What are you so scared of?” she asks.
My breath locks in my chest. “Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“Sh—sorry, Ella, you—“
“Say it,” she insists, voice quieter, fiercer. “Say what you’re really afraid of.”
I tense, every muscle tight as a cable. “You know exactly why I’m keeping my distance.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Her voice softens to something dangerously intimate. I swallow hard, my pulse a fucking hammer.
“Your family,” I sigh. “Your father’s respect. Your brothers. This project. Your life. Everything that could get screwed up if you and I cross a line that shouldn’t be crossed.”
Her eyes flicker, something like hurt and heat flickering in them.
I push on, voice rough. “I don’t want to be the thing that complicates shit for you, Ella. I don’t want to disrespect your family and lose the one good thing I’ve got going in this town by doing something I shouldn’t.”
“And you think I can’t handle that?” she whispers.
“I think you’re trouble,” I whisper back.
She smiles, slow, wicked, beautiful. “Good. Because I like trouble.”
I’m about to push out of my chair, to put some fucking space between us, but she leans down, places her hands on the arms of the chair, caging me in.
“You’re not protecting me,” she says. “You’re protecting yourself.”
My breath stutters.
Her voice dips lower. “You’re scared, Cole. You’re scared because you liked it. You’re scared because you want to do it again.”
She leans closer, lips inches from mine. “And again. And again.”
Heat rips down my spine. My hands grip the chair so hard the wood creaks.
“You’re scared,” she repeats, whisper-soft. “And you hate that I know.”
Something snaps.
“I don’t hate that you know,” I growl.
My hand shoots out, grabs her waist, and drags her down onto my lap so fast she gasps. Her hands land on my shoulders, eyes going wide for half a second before all that fire floods back in.
“I hate that you’re right.”
And then I kiss her. Not soft, slow, or careful. But rough, demanding, claiming.
I crush my mouth to hers, all the tension I’ve been choking on for weeks ripping loose all at once. She moans into me, and the sound ruins whatever restraint I thought I still had.
Her fingers claw into my hair, my hands grip her hips, hauling her tighter against me. Her breath stutters into my mouth as she grinds down on my growing hardness. Every part of me that remembers her sparks to life—her taste, her heat, the way she fell apart under me at the wedding.
“You want to see complicated?” I murmur against her lips. “This is complicated.”
She shakes her head, breath hot against my mouth. “No. This is simple.” And then she kisses me back, hungry, deep, desperate.
I snap, grabbing her by the waist, and standing to lift her onto the desk so fast papers scatter everywhere—blueprints, invoices, spreadsheets flying like confetti.
She pulls in a sharp breath as her back hits the wood. “Cole—“
I step in between her knees, spread her open, and pull her to the edge. “Tell me you don’t want this,” I say, voice low, rough. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”
Her eyes burn into mine, dark, certain, blazing. “Don’t you dare stop.”
I drag my hand up the inside of her thigh, slow and measured, watching her pupils grow wide as my fingers slide under her skirt. She’s already wet. Fuck.
My jaw clenches as my fingers slip against her heat. Her head drops back, a soft moan spilling out that hits me like a punch to the gut.
I whisper against her throat, “You’re playing with fire.”
“Good,” she gasps. “Burn me.”
I do. I push her skirt up to her hips, drag her panties aside, and slide two fingers into her, deep, slow, filthy. Her body clenches hot and tight around me. She cries out, hands gripping the edge of the desk.
“Cole—God—“
“Look at me,” I growl.
She lifts her head, eyes glazed, lips parted.
“Say my name,” I growl, thrusting my fingers deeper.
“Cole.”
“Louder.”
“Cole—Cole—“
It tears out of her like a prayer. I work her harder, faster, my thumb circling her clit in tight, unhurried strokes until she trembles, thighs shaking around my wrist.
Her breath breaks. “Please—don’t stop—“
“I’m not stopping,” I say, leaning over her. “Not this time.”
She comes hard, crashing around my fingers with a choked cry, her whole body arching off the desk. I watch every second of it—every tremor, gasp, and desperate clutch of her hands around mine.
When she collapses back against the desk, breathless and wrecked, I pull my hand away and trail my slick fingers up her stomach, her ribs, her throat, until I grip her jaw gently.
“You think I don’t want this?” I whisper. “You think I’m scared of you?”
Her eyes flutter open, heavy and dark. “Then prove it.”
And so I do. I unzip my jeans, yank them just low enough, and drag her hips to me. Her breath catches as the head of my cock brushes against her soaked entrance.
I hold her gaze. “This is your last chance to tell me no.”
She digs her nails into my shoulders, looking into my eyes. “No.”
I thrust into her in one slow, deep push. We both groan, low, raw, and helpless. She’s tight. So fucking tight. Her body clenches around me like she’s pulling me in, like her body remembers me the same way mine remembers her.
I grip her hips and start to move, deep strokes, dragging out every inch, feeling her tremble around me.
Her head falls back. “Cole—“
“Look at me.”
She does, and it’s over. I lose myself in her—hips snapping harder, faster, my hand sliding up her stomach to her big, beautiful breasts, squeezing, teasing her nipple until she gasps. The desk rocks under us. Pens roll off. More papers scatter.
She clings to me like she’s drowning. “Harder,” she begs.
I give it to her. I fuck her like I’ve wanted to for a month, deep, punishing strokes that make her toes curl and her voice break. When she starts to tremble again, I grip her jaw and force her eyes to mine.
“Come for me,” I growl.
She comes undone instantly, shaking, gasping, crying out my name as her body tightens around me. That’s all it takes. I bury myself deep, groaning her name into her neck as pleasure snaps through me, sharp and overwhelming.
We stay like that, pressed together, breathing hard, tangled in heat and sweat and silence, for a long minute.
Eventually, she exhales, soft and shaky. “Are you still scared?” she whispers.
I laugh, a rough, breathless sound against her skin. “Terrified.”
She cups my jaw, eyes soft now. “Cole… take the project.”
I go still.
She wipes her thumb across my cheek. “Let me help you. Especially now that it’s a bidding war. You waited too long, but we can fix it. I can help you fix it.”
I study her, really study her. Ella Morgan is chaos. Trouble wrapped up in 5 feet of gorgeousness, a storm I should be running away from. But she’s also honesty, grit, determination, and heat I can’t pretend I don’t want. If there is anyone who can convince me to do anything, it’s her.
And for the first time in weeks… something inside me eases. I let out a slow breath. “Okay.”
“Okay?” she repeats softly.
I nod. “I’ll do it. I’ll bid.”
Relief flashes across her face, warm, bright, beautiful. “And you’ll let me help you?” she asks.
“For now,” I say.
She smiles, then pulls me down for another kiss.