Chapter 30 Addiction
~Hermes~
Fuck.
She came in today. I thought she was sick. Should she even be here?
My eyes hurt. Consequences of spending the whole damn night between two girls — trying to fuck June out of my system.
My body? Satisfied. A wrecked kind of satisfaction, but my mind? Still filled with her.
She’s still in my bloodstream. It's my third failed test.
And now she’s looking at me like I’m the weirdo.
It’s your fault, dammit.
"G-Good morning, Mr. Grande," she says softly. As though I didn’t spend last night imagining her doing unspeakable things to me, and I didn’t come just from the memory of her mouth.
I don’t answer. I shut my eyes and sigh.
Thank God she can’t see my eyes behind these shades — if she did, she’d know exactly where I’m staring.
Her shirt’s tight, showcasing the swell of her perky breast right there, just above the lanyard, and my eyes are glued to it like a goddamn pervert.
I move to my office, straight to the cabinet to drop my jacket, and then I see it: My coat, the one I gave her that fucking Thursday night.
She returned it. Damn. She’s better than me.
If I had her coat, or scarf, or hell, even a goddamn pair of panties— Fucking Hermes. Shut up, you sound like a pervert.
I roll up my sleeves, my fingers dragging through my hair and wrecking the clean part I struggled to fix this morning. It doesn’t matter though, but there are no meetings outside today — just pure, uninterrupted torture with my secretary.
As I sit at my desk, she walks in, and my eyes instantly shut on instinct. I inhale like a man possessed.
Ahhh. This is hell, and pleasure. This is what addiction smells like.
Shit. I open my eyes fast.
She’ll fucking notice. Be professional, Hermes. Be—
"I’ve updated your schedule," she says, fast as always.
God, that voice. I can’t think straight when she’s in the room. I need her gone. I need a damn excuse.
"You’ve got an appointment with the executives at 10:30 a.m., then—"
"Coffee," I grunt, too loud, and rough. My fingers dig into the armrest like they’re gripping her waist.
I see it — the shift in her face, like it’s the first time she’s ever heard me speak.
Just fucking get out, will you?
Oh no! She’s already made the coffee.
You just had to be unnecessarily efficient today, didn’t you, June?
"Already made," she says, handing it to me with that annoying smug smile. "Just how you like it."
I sigh, low and bitter, as I take the cup.
Maybe drinking coffee will fix whatever the hell is wrong with me, but the second it hits my tongue—
What the fuck is this? I spill it in a go.
It tastes like disappointment, burnt disappointment. This is not her usual brew. This is new, and not in a good way.
Before I know it, the mug slips from my hand and hits the desk with a sharp thud.
"Oh no," she says quickly. "That was… totally a mistake. I’m so sorry, Mr. Grande. I’ll make another one—"
Her voice grates now, because it's too soft, and sweet. It's fucking everything.
I can’t take it, so I slash out.
"What the fuck is this coffee?"
Shit, I cursed, I'm not supposed to curse. What happened to being professional, Hermes?
She freezes, staring at me like I just told her to get on her knees.
I wish I could tell her – Actually—
Fuck it. I need to leave before I lose the last thread of restraint in me.
"Well? Why are you staring? Clean this mess before I come back,” I say, already walking toward the door.
I don’t wait for her response. I can’t.
If I stay, I’m going to do something stupid—like grab her by the wrist, drag her onto my desk, and fuck the attitude right out of her mouth.
I get into the private elevator, thumb the code, and descend to the lowest floor. The doors open to my private garage.
My car greets me like a routine—clean leather, tinted windows, climate just right. I slip in, slamming the door shut.
I exhale hard, throw my head back, and loosen my tie.
Then I unlock my phone. Habit guides my fingers, and open the site, type something fast—rough girl, blow job, brunette. First link.
It starts playing, and my hand finds its way down. I quickly unbuckle, palm myself through my slacks. I need release, not comfort. I need noise, moans, something to tear this obsession out of me.
But I can't stop thinking— The woman on the screen is too dramatic and blonde.
This isn't her.
I stroke harder, shut my eyes.
Suddenly, the woman on the screen starts to blur, she now has brown hair, that's better, almost right. Then she tilts her face up and suddenly—it’s June.
No.
What's going on? I try to come back to reality, but my mind fills in the gaps. I see her.
And now, she’s not on the screen anymore.
She’s in the passenger seat, in my car.
What the fuck–
My white shirt hangs loose on her, barely buttoned, and her breasts shift under the fabric, nipples hard and pressing against the thin cotton—fuck. Her bare thighs pressed against the leather. She gaze at me with mean eyes, her mouth smug.
"You really couldn't wait till you got home, huh?"
I don’t answer. I just breathe—hard. My fist tightens around myself, and she leans over the console, crawls onto my lap.
"You want me to do it, or you wanna keep jerking off to fake girls that don’t talk back?"
"Shut up," I mutter. Not sure if it’s out loud. "Shut the fuck up."
"Make me."
She’s straddling me now. One knee on either side of my lap.
That skirt hiked up around her thighs like she meant to tease me all day, dragging her nails down my chest possessively.
Her breath hits my jaw as she grinds slow, like I’m her damn toy.
Her voice is cocky, low— "This what you wanted, Mr. Grande?"
And I let her, because in this fantasy, she says things real June never did.
Dirty and honest things.
"You think about me when you fuck your hand?"
"Bet you wished it was me, don’t you?"
"You can’t touch yourself without seeing me now. Pathetic."
I grip her hips harder. She bites my bottom lip and laughs into my neck. My body jerks –
She rocks over me faster, head falling back, mouth open—
"Ah—Mr. Grand—f-fuck—"
Her gasps stutter in rhythm, breath breaking between her moans.
"Right there," she pants, nails clawing down my chest, through my shirt. "God—don’t stop—don’t you fucking—"
Her voice is soaked with desperation, her thighs tightening like a vice.
"Say it," I groan, bucking up into her. "You’re not mine. Say it."
She chokes on a breath, trembling.
"I—I’m—" she cries out as her whole body shudders. "Not yours. Fuck—I’m—Hermes—I’m—ah!"
She comes apart with a strangled gasp, back arching, her wild chestnut brown hair clinging to her face, soaked with sweat.
Her thighs are still trembling when she collapses against me, panting.
"You keep ruining me," she whispers, voice cracked and wrecked. "Every fucking time."
My jaw clenches. I stroke harder, eyes shut so tight it hurts.
I’m close, and just like that— I come hard, fast, alone.
In reality, my head drops back against the seat. My breath is ragged.
My hand,wet, and sticky—is still clenched around my cock.
And the video keeps playing, forgotten.
Some random girl moaning in a voice that doesn’t sound anything like her.
I reach for the glove compartment, rip open a pack of tissues, and clean up in silence.
The stickiness on my skin is easier to wipe away than the shame crawling under it.
I glance down and see the shades I wore—cracked.
Broken from… I don’t even want to say it.