20. Cloe
CLOE
Something was wrong. I knew it before I reached my desk. Before I even sat down. Even befoe the delicious ache between my thighs from last night bloomed.
It was subtle—barely noticeable—but my body clocked it faster than my brain did. The angle was off. My chair pulled out slightly too far. My keyboard was shifted right.
And the desk itself? It had been turned. Not much. Just enough. Just enough that when I sat down, I would be aligned perfectly with the one place I tried not to look.
Wolfe’s office.
I froze. Halfway to sitting. My pulse stuttered. A flush crept up my neck. Not embarrassment. Awareness.
Heat spread low in my belly like an echo of breath on skin. He hadn’t told me. Hadn’t warned me. Hadn’t asked. But I knew.
There was only one man in this building who would move something just far enough to make a point. Just enough to claim me without ever laying a hand.
I sat slowly. Like I was lowering myself into something sacred. Something dangerous. Every inch of my skin prickled with heat. Not because I was afraid. Because I was seen. Because I was rearranged.
The glass wall of his office gleamed in the morning light. From this angle, I couldn’t miss it. Couldn’t pretend I wasn’t framed in his view.
I glanced up.
And of course—he was there. Seated. Still. Head tilted slightly. One hand at his mouth. Eyes locked on me.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. Just sat there. And let me feel it. Let me feel the weight of the new arrangement. Let me feel what it meant to be turned. Just enough. To face him.
My thighs pressed together under the desk. A pulse throbbed between them. Heavy. Demanding.
I adjusted my skirt. Lowered the hem. Didn’t help. The lace beneath was already clinging. The corset bit into my ribs with every breath. The silk blouse stuck to the curve of my spine.
I typed.
Or tried to.
My hands shook. My breathing shortened. The sound of my own keystrokes echoed too loud in the silence. Too sharp. Too fast. Everyone around me moved normally. Answered phones. Sipped coffee. Flipped papers.
But me?
I was centered. Positioned. My whole body aligned like a compass.
And Wolfe?
He was the needle now.
The pull. The anchor. He’d tilted my desk like it was nothing. And made me orbit him like it was everything.
And the worst part?
I liked it .
I liked being turned. I liked knowing he’d moved me to face him. I liked wondering how long he’d planned it. I couldn’t stop glancing at the glass. Because every time I looked up…
He was still there.
Still watching. Still waiting. Still owning me—inch by inch, breath by breath—without ever moving from his chair.
My fingers hovered above the keyboard, frozen mid-keystroke.
And then?—
It hit me.
Low.
Deep.
A sudden twist of pressure in my belly. Dull at first. Then sharp. Coiling into something unmistakable.
Pain. Not the corset. Not arousal. Worse.
My breath caught. My thighs clenched instinctively. Something shifted inside me—liquid and hot and wrong.
No.
Not now.
The ache bloomed. I adjusted in my seat, trying to ease it. The chair creaked. The waistband of my skirt pressed too tight. The corset cinched too hard against my lower ribs. Heat rolled up the back of my neck.
I swallowed hard.
Another pulse.
Then another.
Panic set in. My legs pressed together tighter. My hands returned to the keyboard just to keep from shaking. I typed nonsense. Just movement. Just noise.
But I could feel it. Building. Spreading.
The telltale warmth between my thighs wasn’t lust this time. It was blood. Unwelcome. Untimed. Unforgivable. And that’s when the panic turned cruel .
When was the last time I bled? I blinked hard. Tried to remember. A date. A month. Anything. Had it been five weeks? Six? Had I skipped it the month Wolfe touched me? Was it stress? Or something worse?
My fingers twitched against the keys.
Think .
The bathroom at my old apartment. A cheap pad from the bodega downstairs. I remembered pulling it from a plastic wrapper with wet hands. I remembered Camille knocking on the door, teasing me through the glass.
That was—what?
A month ago? No .
Longer.
Too long.
Stupid .
I never tracked it properly.
I was always careful with passwords. Careful with shadows. Careful with men. But not this. Not my body. Not the one thing that should’ve warned me before it cracked open under silk and shame and?—
Oh God.
Wolfe was still watching.
His eyes didn’t move. His jaw didn’t twitch. His gaze was fixed—heavy. Knowing. He couldn’t see it. Not from here. Not yet.
But he could see me come undone. And I couldn’t let that happen here. Not like this.
I grabbed my things and ran for the bathroom. The door slammed behind me. I didn’t even check the lock. I just dropped my purse and backed into the wall of the private bathroom stall, breath coming fast, fingers shaking as I reached beneath my skirt.
There it was.
Blood. Bright.
Wet.
Humiliating.
Already soaking through the lace.
A flush of red in a world that had been black and blush and silk and secrecy. It wasn’t supposed to happen now. Not here. Not like this.
I pressed my legs together, as if I could stop it. As if I could will it back. I had nothing on me. No tampon. No pad. No dignity. Just slick lace and rising panic. My breath hitched.
The corset tightened around my ribs. Too tight now. Too much. I couldn’t breathe. I sat down on the toilet. Hard. Didn’t even pull my panties down.
Just sat. Knees together. Head down. Like maybe stillness could stop it. Like shame might be strong enough to keep it all in. My hands covered my face. My shoulders shook.
The tears came hot and immediate. Unforgiving. I hadn’t cried like this since Camille’s funeral. The door creaked. Footsteps. Measured. Male.
Wolfe.
“Cloe.”
He said my name like a verdict.
I didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
He stepped closer.
The air shifted with him.
Then—another sound.
Lighter footsteps.
Quick.
Another voice.
“Sorry—”
“Find another bathroom.”
Wolfe’s voice snapped like a whip .
Cold.
Unmovable.
Final.
The door shut again.
A lock turned.
Click.
Silence. Except for my breath. The corset groaned with every inhale. My thighs were damp.
Sticky.
And I hated it. Hated being seen. Hated being known.
I didn’t look up. Couldn’t. But I felt him. Still there. Still watching. Still not moving.
The sound came soft—a coat shifting, shoes brushing tile.
Then—
He raised one hand. Not to touch me. Just a gesture. A warning. A promise.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
His voice was low.
Rough.
Like it scraped the inside of his chest just to be spoken.
“I need you to breathe.”
My breath caught again.
“I can’t,” I whispered. “It’s too—tight?—”
“Corset?”
I nodded.
Eyes still closed.
Hands still covering my face.
I heard him move.
Closer.
A pause.
Then the sound of him kneeling.
I froze.
“I’m going to help you. ”
He said it like an oath. Like it mattered. Like I hadn’t already bled all over the fucking floor.
But still—I nodded.
Slow. Fragile.
He reached behind me. Fingers brushing the laces. Not skin. Not yet.
Just silk.
And then?—
Gently.
Quietly.
He began to loosen it.
I couldn’t speak. The tears were too close. But I nodded. Barely.
And he moved.
Forward.
Lower.
Kneeling.
Right there, in front of me.
My legs tried to close. Not out of fear. Out of shame.
My thighs weren’t long and toned. They were soft. Thick. Flesh pressed against flesh. The blood between them felt hot and slick and too much. Too ugly.
But Wolfe? He didn’t flinch. Didn’t grimace. He just… looked.
His eyes flicked to mine. Held. And I saw it. Not disgust. Not pity. Just stillness. Like I was something precious. Even now. Especially now.
“May I?”
His voice was low.
Rough.
Reverent.
I swallowed hard. Nodded.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a black pouch.
Unzipped it.
Inside: tampons. Pads. Wipes. Everything. Emergency kit. Preparedness masked as devotion.
“Take what you need,” he said. “Or let me do it.”
My lips parted. I should’ve spoken. Should’ve said no. But all I could whisper was:
“I… can’t reach. The corset.”
His jaw flexed once. Then he nodded. Stepped closer. His fingers brushed the ribbon at my spine.
Slow.
Deliberate.
One pull. Then another.
He unlaced me like he was unwrapping something breakable. Each inch of loosened tension let me breathe deeper. But not easier. Because the shame didn’t leave. It shifted. Into something else. Something worse.
Want .
He reached for the waistband of my panties next. Slid them down. Slowly. They stuck at the crease of my thighs—damp with blood and heat. He didn’t comment. Didn’t look away. Just moved with the kind of gentleness that made me ache.
He opened the wrapper.
And inserted the tampon.
Slow.
Careful.
His fingers touched me—warm, steady, present.
I gasped. Not from pain. From everything. From the touch. From the stillness. From being seen.
I gripped the edge of the toilet. My thighs trembled. My nipples ached. And I hated that my body responded—not just with need—but with grief. Grief that no one had ever done this .
No one had ever treated me like I was worthy of care when I was like this.
Bleeding.
Messy.
Weak.
But Wolfe?
He stayed on his knees.
Looked up at me like I was still something he wanted.
He reached up and wiped a tear from my cheek.
Not with his thumb.
With the back of his knuckle.
Tender.
Dangerous.
“I’m pathetic.” I closed my eyes, full of shame.
“You’re not disgusting. Or pathetic. You’re mine.”
I sobbed. Quiet. Breathless. Because I’d never heard anyone say that and mean it. Not here. Not like this.
“Why?” I whispered. “Why are you doing this?”
He stood slowly. Tucked the pouch back into his coat. Didn’t answer right away.
Then—
“Because you bleed. So what. You ache. You still belong to me.”
And I believed him.
God help me—I believed him.
He stepped back.
Picked up my purse.
Held it out.
Waited.
And when I stood—knees trembling, panties still half-down, corset undone—he didn’t look away.
He didn’t leer. Didn’t mock. He just said? —
“Fix your skirt, Cloe. Button your blouse. Come when I call.”
And I nodded.
Because what else could I do?
He didn’t fuck me. Not this time. But I’d never felt more taken in my life.
The corridor was quiet. Not the normal kind. Not the kind filled with heels and phones and muted clicks. This quiet? It pulsed. Pressed against my ribs like a second heartbeat. The kind of silence that watches. That waits.
I stepped out of the bathroom stall on unsteady legs. My corset was relaced—but looser now. Not styled for seduction. Just held. Just enough to keep me upright. My blouse was buttoned to the top. Lipstick wiped.
But the flush hadn’t faded. It burned hot in my cheeks. Lingered on my neck. Licked beneath my blouse like breath.
My skin didn’t feel like mine anymore.
It felt remembered.
Owned.
His hands hadn’t stayed long. But their imprint did.
I didn’t walk fast. Didn’t look around. But I felt them. Eyes.
Royal—leaning against the printer bay—paused mid-sentence.
An intern behind corner glass. Pretending not to watch. Loyal—far end of the floor, folder in hand, knuckles white.
And Wolfe?
Nowhere to be seen.
But present. Like gravity. Like pressure. Like a name humming in the back of my throat. I made it back to my desk. Sat slowly. Carefully. The lace between my thighs was clean. Dry. But still pulsing.
Still aching like I’d been taken apart and left unfinished. He hadn’t fucked me. He hadn’t even kissed me. But my body didn’t know the difference.
I reached for my mouse. Clicked the screen on. Tried to focus. Failed. The letters blurred. My vision stung.
I blinked.
Breathed.
Once.
Twice.
My phone buzzed. I didn’t look right away. Because I didn’t need to. I already knew. It was him. I clicked into the system. Typed the wrong password.
Twice.
Swore under my breath. Typed again. The screen loaded.
Another ping . I opened it.
One line.
You’re not hiding it well.
No greeting.
No signature.
Just him.
Wolfe .
I stared at it.
Then typed back.
I’m not trying to.
And hit send.
I didn’t breathe for five full seconds. And when I did? I smiled. Not out of pride. Not out of rebellion. Out of truth.
Because he’d seen me. Every crack. Every tremble. Every slick, red, shame-soaked piece of me. And he hadn’t turned away. He’d knelt. There was power in that. Even if it didn’t belong to me.
I looked up. His office sat dark. Still. But I didn’t need to see him anymore. Because I could feel him. He hadn’t fucked me. But now? I was marked. And I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to feel clean again.