Chapter 27 Push me away
"You’re vibrating," he murmurs, his eyes tracking the way my breath hitches. "You want me to take you right here on a stack of crates, don't you? Just to see if I’m as ruthless as you’ve spent all day imagining."
"Stop trying to get in my fucking head," I rasp, my hands flat against the cold shelf behind me.
"Sure," he says, a dark laugh vibrating in his chest. "I’d rather be between your legs anyway. It’s far too crowded in your head, but down there? Down there, it’s just you, me, and the fact that you’re hard as hell for a man you claim to hate."
He doesn't wait for a response. His hand moves, a blur of motion, and his fingers lock around my cock through the denim of my jeans. I let out a strangled, humiliating sound...half-gasp, half-sob, as the heat of his palm sears through the fabric. He squeezes, firm and possessive, like he's reminding me exactly who owns the building and everything inside it.
"Push me away," he challenges, his voice dropping into a lethal hum. "Tell me you don't want this. Give me a reason to walk out that door."
"Fuck...." I mutter. It’s weak. It’s pathetic. It’s the sound of a man who's officially run out of willpower. My arms are heavy, my brain is a puddle of static, and the only thing I can feel is the bruising pressure of his hand.
Bastian smirks, a flash of pure satisfaction. He reaches up with his free hand and taps my cheek twice....a mocking, patronizing little gesture that should make me want to swing at him. Instead, I just want to sink my teeth into his throat.
"Predictable," he whispers, leaning in until our lips are a hair's breadth apart. The scent of him is overwhelming now, drowning out the cold and the scent of the citrus and the booze. "I want to see if you taste as vicious as you sound."
He doesn't kiss me. Not yet. He just lingers there, letting me soak in the heat of him, letting me realize that the walk-in is soundproof and the door is locked, and I’m exactly where he spent all day planning to put me.
My eyes drop to his lips, and for a second, the cold doesn't even exist. There is only the heat radiating off him and the crushing weight of the silence between us. I’m not thinking straight. My brain's been replaced by a frantic, pulsing need that makes every word feel like it’s being dragged through gravel.
"You fired Luca Ambrose," I whisper, my voice shaking with a mix of fury and something far more humiliating. "A million-dollar athlete. Just because you wanted a reason to keep me close enough to fuck. That’s what this is, isn't it?"
He doesn’t flinch. His hand is still heavy and possessive over my crotch, his thumb tracing the length of me through the denim.
"What happens after, Bastian?" I press, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Are you just planning to shove me aside the second you get your way? Is this just some fucked up trophy hunt for you? Because I’m not some piece of trash you can use until the novelty wears off and then discard in the morning."
Something in his gaze shifts, the predatory amusement replaced by a dark, grounded seriousness that's ten times more terrifying. The air feels even heavier, the oxygen seemingly sucked out of the room by the sheer gravity of his expression. He lets go of my jeans, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he slides his hand up, his fingers splaying wide across my chest, right over my pounding heart.
"You think I’d sabotage a multi-million-dollar launch for a 'quick fix'?" he asks, his voice a cold, hard blade. "You think I’d put my name and my legacy behind your face just to get you into a bed?” He sucks in a sharp breath, “You have a remarkably low opinion of my business sense, Kaden. And an even lower one of your own value.”
He leans in closer, his forehead almost touching mine, his eyes drilling into me with a lethal sincerity.
“I did my research," he murmurs, “Logically, you're a much better fit for the aesthetic we’re building than some pampered athlete. You have an edge he couldn't fake.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, tracking the way my lips part as I try to pull in air that isn't saturated with his scent. He leans in, and for a split second, I think he’s finally going to stop the torture and actually kiss me. But he doesn't. He brushes his lips against the corner of my mouth, just like he did last time. An agonizingly soft, lingering ghost of a touch, before trailing them along my jawline, his stubble grazing my sensitized skin.
His hands move lower, his fingers finding the button of my jeans. He begins to unfasten them with a very slow, methodical precision, his eyes hold mine. It’s an intentional provocation, a silent dare. He’s giving me every opportunity to shove him back.
"I didn't need to hire you to get you into my bed," he whispers, his breath sending a fresh wave of heat through my limbs. "That's going to happen regardless. The campaign just ensures I don't have to wait until midnight to see you."
The metal of my zipper hisses as he slides it down. The second his hand slips inside, his warm palm wrapping around me, the last of my resolve disintegrates. I fist my hands into the expensive fabric of his shirt, my knuckles digging into his chest. In the back of my mind, I can hear a faint, distorted echo of Dante’s voice....some warning about career suicide or not fucking the boss....but it’s drowned out by the roar of my own blood.
I tell myself I’m pushing him away, but my fingers tighten, pulling him flush against me until there’s no room left for the cold.
His eyes flick up to mine, dark and shimmering with a terrifying triumph. He knows I’m probably a heartbeat away from begging.
"Ask me, Kaden," he commands, his thumb grazing the head of my cock, sending a jolt of pure electricity straight to my gut.
"Ask you what?" I breathe, my head tilting back against the cold rack, my eyes fluttering shut.
He leans in, his voice a low growl that leaves no room for ambiguity. "Ask me to take you down my throat. Tell me you want to feel how much of you I can take while you’re pinned against this rack."
I don't even think. I just react. My hand knots into the expensive cotton of his neckline, and I use every bit of my frustration and the adrenaline screaming through my veins to shove him down.
He doesn’t fight it. He goes with a fluid, terrifying grace, his knees hitting the rubber matting with a dull thud. For a split second, as he looks up at me from the floor, something flashes in those blue eyes. Something raw and haunting, a flicker of vulnerability or perhaps a hunger so deep it’s bottomless. But he blinks, the iron shutters slam shut, and he’s back to being the predator in a tailored suit.
He reaches out, his large hands gripping the back of my thighs, pulling me an inch closer to his face.
Seeing him actually drop to his knees for me is a sensory overload I wasn't prepared for. My heart doesn't just beat, it thrashes. The sight is so visceral it makes my head light. My cock twitches, a hard, demanding throb that pulses in time with the blood roaring in my ears.
"You like this, don't you?" he asks, his voice sounding even more lethal from down there. "The power trip of having me on my knees?"
I tighten my grip in his hair, tilting his head back further so he has no choice but to look at the mess he’s made of me.
"Less talking, Bastian," I fire back, my voice thick with a mix of fire and desperation. "You’re down there for a reason. Why don't you use that mouth and make me forget why I hate you."
He smirks, and then he leans in, closing the final distance.