17. Cloe
CLOE
I didn’t wake soft. There was no slow stretch. No comfort in the way the sheets tangled around my legs. No gentle drift into the day.
I woke wet.
Heavy.
Tense .
Like my body had spent the night pressed into something that didn’t touch me but still left a mark.
Wolfe’s voice echoed through me before I even opened my eyes.
Say it in person.
Two words.
One order.
And I had obeyed.
I whispered thank you into the darkness like it was a prayer and a punishment and a plea all at once. But it hadn’t quieted the hunger. It had fed it. Turned it molten. Sharp. Unrelenting.
I pushed the sheets off and walked naked to the mirror. The floor was cool beneath my feet, but the heat between my legs was already back—slick and pulsing like I’d spent the night chasing something I still wasn’t brave enough to name.
I stared at my reflection.
Not to fix it.
To face it.
To choose which version of myself I was going to offer today.
The doll?
The assistant?
The toy?
Or something else entirely?
I opened the closet like I was choosing a weapon. But it wasn’t armor I wanted. It wasn’t defense. It was surrender. It was seduction dressed like silence. I reached for the corset. Black. Boned. Cruel in its beauty.
I held it like it might bite.
Like it might whisper what I already knew.
That Wolfe wouldn’t touch me. That Barron wouldn’t fuck me. That Royal would tease. That Loyal would watch. That I would be used anyway. Without being asked. And that I would love it.
I stepped into it slowly. Tightened it myself. Each pull a reminder. Each knot a confession.
By the time I finished lacing, I was already breathless. Already wet. Already burning from the inside out.
The silk blouse came next. Blush pink. Soft as breath. Transparent when kissed by the light. The kind of fabric that begged for a gaze.
The kind of shirt you wear to be noticed and punished for it. The skirt followed—tight, sleek, the slit a little too high, the fit a little too unforgiving. Then the stockings. The garter. The heels.
No perfume. No distraction. Let them smell me .
I paused at the mirror again before leaving. Wolfe’s voice whispered in my head. Barron’s silence curled at the base of my spine.
I didn’t smile. But I didn’t look away. Because I wasn’t dressing for attention anymore.
I was dressing for consequence. The elevator doors slid open and I stepped into the hallway like I belonged there. Not quiet. Not careful. Claimed.
The first thing I noticed wasn’t the hum of the building or the hush of the bullpen. It was sensation.
The way the silk blouse whispered across my skin with every step. The corset kept my ribs tight, spine rigid, breath shallow. The lace beneath my skirt stuck to the inside of my thighs, already damp with want.
I walked like I knew it. Like I wanted them to see it. There was nothing modest in the way my skirt clung to my hips. Nothing reserved in the sway of my step. My thighs brushed. Thick. Full. Deliberate.
Let them look.
My heels echoed down the tile. Sharp. Steady. Like a ticking timebomb.
Every movement reminded me of what I was wearing. Every swing of my hips reminded me why I’d chosen it. I wasn’t dressed to perform. I was dressed to provoke. To obey. To bleed power from silk and lace. And I was beginning to love how that felt.
Royal was the first to notice. He turned from the espresso machine, caught mid-stir, his eyes dragging down my body like a slow burn.
He grinned.
Low.
Hungry .
“Someone’s ready to get ruined before breakfast. ”
I didn’t reply. Didn’t flinch. But the heat that bloomed under my skin said he wasn’t wrong.
Loyal passed me in the corridor. Folder in hand. Eyes forward. But he caught the pull at my blouse—the way the buttons strained across the corset-laced swell of my chest.
He looked away too fast. Too hard. His jaw locked. His hand clenched. And he kept walking. But I felt it. Him. The restraint. The want. Behind the glass—voices murmured. Chairs shifted.
I didn’t have to look to know. They were watching. All of them. I wasn’t invisible anymore. I was present. Poised. Their silent undoing. And I walked through it like shadow given shape.
Heavy.
Hot.
Mine .
By the time I reached my desk, I could feel the lace soaked through. The silk clung between my breasts. The corset was a pulse in my ribs. And still—I sat. Crossed my legs. Opened my laptop.
As if I hadn’t just walked through the entire Lawlor floor like a fucking offering. As if I hadn’t just felt every set of eyes trace the slit in my skirt, the arch of my back, the slow sway of my hips as I passed.
I clicked into a spreadsheet. Pretended to work. But my breath was shallow. My hands were trembling. And my core pulsed in time with every shift of the corset against my ribs.
I was soaked. Not figuratively. Literally. Dripping.
The lace was warm and tight against my skin. Every movement dragged moisture higher. Every second that passed made it worse.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek. Hard. Just to ground myself. It didn’t help. Because then the note appeared .
I returned from the restroom to find it sitting on my desk. Plain white card. Heavy stock. Centered perfectly.
One line.
Office. Now.
No name. No signature. Didn’t need one. The print was clean. Bold. Sharp enough to cut.
Barron.
I picked it up.
Turned it over.
Blank.
My throat tightened.
My stomach dropped.
The corset bit deep as I stood, the lace pulling tighter against my thighs. Every inch of me buzzed. Because this time—I wanted it. I wanted whatever this was. Whatever this would be. I wanted it like a bruise. I wanted it like a wound. I wanted it like something permanent.
I walked through the floor with my eyes ahead. But I felt them. All of them. Watching. Reading the card I hadn’t tucked away fast enough. Following the sway of my skirt. The click of my heels.
I reached Barron’s office. Raised my fist to knock. Paused. Lowered it. Opened the door without waiting. The room was dimmer than the floor outside. Windowlight bled into the edges.
But the rest?
All shadow and silence. Stillness made of tension.
He stood with his back to me. Hands in his pockets. Gaze fixed on the skyline like the city had something better to say than I ever could. For a second, I thought maybe I’d misread it. Maybe this wasn’t that. Maybe I was about to humiliate myself by stepping in already wet.
But then? —
He turned. And my breath caught.
Barron Lawlor didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t ask why I was there. Didn’t look surprised. He just looked. Looked through me. Measured me in silence.
And then?—
“Come here.”
Two words. Command. Control. My heels echoed across the floor. Too loud. Too exposed.
I crossed the room like a secret unspooling. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak again. Just waited.
When I stopped in front of him—close, but not too close—he shifted. Stepped to the side. Nodded to the desk behind me.
“Hands on the desk.”
I turned. My knees shook. Not from fear. From relief. From the ache of knowing I’d wanted this since the second I’d laced the corset.
The glass was cool beneath my palms. Slick. Polished. My breath fogged the surface.
He moved behind me. No footsteps. Just heat. Presence. Power.
He didn’t touch me. Not yet. But I felt him. Felt the air shift behind my neck. Felt the pause—the weight of silence before touch.
I stared at my reflection in the glass. Lips parted. Chest rising too fast. The lace of the corset was visible beneath the blouse now. The outline of my nipples. The strain of silk across my hips. Every inch of me bared without a button undone.
And then?—
“ Breathe .”
His voice was low. Like a blade drawn slow from its sheath. I did. Barely.
He stepped closer. His breath ghosted along the back of my neck. Fingers reached up. Brushed my hair to one side. Slid over the first button. Then the second. He didn’t shake. But I did.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Just opened me. Unbuttoned silk. Parted lace. Made me available.
His hand hovered above the corset. Didn’t touch. Just traced the outline of the restraint he’d wrapped me in. Fingers brushed the edge where fabric met skin. My breath stuttered. His mouth hovered at my ear.
“You think the clothes make the role.”
My knees buckled slightly. A flicker. A reaction. He pressed a hand to the small of my back. Not hard. But firm. Guiding. Corrective.
My spine arched—just slightly.
“They don’t,” he said.
His voice was quiet.
Final.
“The obedience does.”
My chest squeezed around the inhale I hadn’t taken. His hand slid higher. To the nape of my neck. Warm. Heavy. Grounding. And then?—
Gone.
Just like that.
The absence hit harder than the touch.
I stayed bent over the desk long after the door clicked shut behind him. Still. Silent.
My chest tight. My thighs slick. My whole body trembling—not from fear. Not even from shame. From want. From hunger sharpened by denial.
I buttoned my blouse with shaking fingers. Every press of silk against skin was a reminder. Of where he’d touched. And where he hadn’t.
I should’ve felt relief. Should’ve felt power. But all I felt was the void. The echo of something I wasn’t sure I could name. The office floor felt colder when I stepped out. Or maybe it was me. Stripped. Raw. Carrying the ghost of his fingers like a second skin.
I walked through the bullpen like nothing had happened.
But everything had.
Royal looked up from his phone. Smirked. His eyes slid down my frame. Paused at the top of my blouse. Still undone. Still marked. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His smirk said it all.
Good girl.
Loyal passed me in the corridor. Didn’t meet my gaze. But he paused. Long enough. His jaw tight. His eyes sharp. His silence louder than anything Royal could say. He knew. They all did.
When I reached my desk, I sat carefully. Too carefully. The corset bit deep into my ribs. The lace was soaked through. My hands hovered over the keyboard. But they didn’t type. Couldn’t. Because I could still feel him. Not his fingers. Not his breath.
Him.
The gravity of the moment. The power in restraint. The way he didn’t need to fuck me to take me apart.
I touched the desk. Fingertips flat. The same way I had in his office. My breath caught. Shallow. Staggered. I was still that girl. Still bent in silence. Still split in places no one could see.
A ping lit up my screen.
I jumped.
Wolfe.
Conference room. Ten minutes.
No subject.
No signature. Just a command.
Another one.
And I hated how fast my pulse jumped .
I didn’t know what he wanted. Didn’t care. Because my body already knew the shape of my next fall.
I looked down at my thighs. Shifted in my seat. Heat bloomed again. Not from fear. Not from shame. From hunger.
Because Barron hadn’t fucked me. But I’d never been more owned.