Chapter 19 No feelings
POV : Catherine
“So tell me, Ms. Hale. Do you want to pay your penalty now?”
The city hums thirty floors below us. My phone is buzzing again in my bag. Probably Ana.
And all I can think is yes.
I should say no. I should remind him about the contract, about HR, about the ten feet of mahogany desk between us that counts as a boundary. I should walk out and pretend Anastasia never saw me fall apart over a croissant.
Instead, I drop my bag. It hits the carpet with a soft thud.
Eric’s eyes darken. He recognizes surrender when he sees it. “Good girl.”
The praise goes straight through me. I hate that. I hate him for knowing it works.
He doesn’t touch me yet. He just watches. Like I’m a case study and he already knows the conclusion. “Take off your jacket.”
My fingers shake on the buttons. The AC is on full blast but I’m burning. The jacket slides off my shoulders and lands on the chair.
“Turn around. Hands on the desk.”
This is insane. It’s the middle of the afternoon. His assistant, Jenna, is right outside. Anyone could knock. Anyone could hear.
“Eric—”
“Two minutes late,” he cuts in, voice calm. “Plus breach of clause one. That’s two penalties, Catherine. You want to negotiate?”
No. God, no. Negotiating means talking, and talking means thinking, and thinking is the last thing I want to do when he looks at me like that.
I turn. The desk is cold against my palms. I hear him move. Not footsteps. More like a shift in the air. Then his body is behind mine, not touching, just close enough that I feel the heat from his suit.
“You told Anastasia it’s just sex.” His breath hits the back of my neck. “Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.” His hand lands on my hip, fingers splayed. “Your pulse says otherwise. It’s been racing since you walked in.”
“Because I’m about to get fired.”
“You’re not.” His other hand gathers my hair, pulling it over one shoulder. His mouth replaces it, lips on the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. “I don’t fire assets I plan to keep.”
Assets. Not people. Not women. Assets. The word should piss me off. It does. It also makes my knees weak.
He undoes one button at the back of my blouse. Then another. Slow. Torture. “Tell me to stop.”
I don’t. I can’t. My forehead drops to the desk.
“Thought so.” His knuckles graze my spine as he pushes the fabric aside. “You told her there are no feelings. No dates. No sleeping over.”
He’s quoting me. He really was listening.
“So let’s be clear,” he murmurs. “I don’t date. I don’t do feelings. I don’t sleep over.” His teeth scrape my shoulder. “But you’re not just sex, Catherine.”
My eyes shut. “Then what am I?”
“Mine.”
The word lands like a brand. Ownership. Anastasia was right.
His hand slides around, flat against my stomach, pulling me back into him. I feel every inch of him, hard and pissed and possessive. “You’re mine from nine to five, Ms. Hale. You’re mine when you sign contracts. You’re mine when you break them.”
He spins me then, fast, and lifts me onto the desk. Papers crinkle. A pen rolls. I don’t care. His hands are on my thighs, pushing my skirt up, and his mouth is finally, finally on mine.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a claim. Teeth and tongue and anger and something else I don’t want to name. I grab his tie and yank him closer, because if I’m going down, I’m taking him with me.
He groans into my mouth. “This is the penalty.”
“For what?” I gasp when he lets me breathe.
“For making me want something I can’t have outside this office.” His forehead rests against mine. For a second, he looks almost human. Tired. “For making me think about you when I’m supposed to be closing deals.”
My hands go to his belt. Because I’m done talking too. “Then shut up and take it.”
He laughs, low and wrecked. “God, you’re trouble.”
“Then punish me.”
So he does.
It’s fast, and hard, and quiet. We both know how to be quiet in this building. The city stays outside the windows. The only sound is our breathing and the creak of the desk and the awful, perfect slap of skin on skin.
When it’s over, he doesn’t pull away right away. His face is in my neck, and for a second his arms around me feel less like ownership and more like holding on.
Then it passes. He straightens, fixes my skirt, buttons my blouse like nothing happened. CEO Eric Wood is back. The mask is perfect.
I slide off the desk, legs unsteady. “So. Penalty paid.”
He nods, tucking in his shirt. “Clause one is reinstated. You don’t talk about us. Not to Anastasia. Not to anyone.”
“Or what? Another penalty?” I try for sarcasm. It comes out shaky.
His eyes meet mine. “Or I make you mine outside nine to five too. And neither of us is ready for that.”
The threat shouldn’t sound like a promise. But it does.
He hands me my jacket. “Go home early. You look...” He pauses, scanning me. “Satisfied.”
I want to slap him. I want to kiss him again. I do neither. I take the jacket.
At the door, I stop. “Eric.”
He looks up from the papers he’s already pretending to read.
“Orgasme-Ville has good GPS,” I say. “But next time, you drive.”
Something flashes in his eyes. Surprise. Want. Maybe even respect. Then it’s gone.
“Get out, Ms. Hale. Before I add insubordination to your list.”
I walk out on legs that barely work. Jenna doesn’t look up from her computer. The elevator doors close on my reflection: hair messy, lips swollen, blouse buttoned wrong.
My phone has seventeen texts from Ana. The last one says: You alive?
I type back: Zone 51 was breached. Send wine.
The elevator hits the lobby. New Orleans is loud and hot and alive outside the glass doors. I step into it, and for the first time since I signed that contract, I don’t feel like I’m drowning.
I feel like I’m his.
And the terrifying part? I don’t want to be anything else.