Chapter 22

Chapter 22
Sterling POV
Damn it!
The sex addiction was flaring again.
Heat roiled through my body, demanding release. Every muscle tensed with the effort of restraint.
As Lancaster patriarch, I'd been groomed as heir from childhood. Responsibility and duty were carved into my bones.
I refused to let myself drown in base lust. Every time an episode hit, I'd submerge myself in cold water to suppress it. I'd never lost control. Tonight wouldn't be the exception.
I unbuttoned my shirt, heading for the bathroom.
Suddenly the door burst open. A slender figure stumbled inside.
A woman. She wore a loose robe, the dim light outlining her graceful curves. I couldn't see her face clearly, but a crisp jasmine scent crashed straight into my senses.
Fresh and sweet, igniting scorching desire.
Reason told me to send her away. But my body reacted first.
I grabbed her wrist, yanking her into my arms. My burning lips descended without question.
Soft lips. Sweet fragrance. A long-absent sense of relief instantly swept through me.
I couldn't hear what she said. I only knew she stopped struggling. Even kissed me back.
I paused, gripping her waist, lifting her entire body, pinning her against the wall.
I kissed her harder, exploring her mouth, tangling with her tongue.
My hand slid from her nape, untying her robe, slipping inside.
But I tasted salt on her lips—tears.
"Crying?" I stopped, hoarse against her. "Sorry. My sex addiction's acting up. If you don't want this, you can leave now."
She didn't push away. Instead, she hooked her arms around my neck.
I understood clearly. She'd been hurt badly. She wanted to use this indulgence as revenge.
I bit her delicate earlobe, murmuring, "Someone hurt you? Want revenge?"
"Use me. I don't mind."
My fingertips brushed her cool lips. "But be sure. Once we start, I won't stop halfway."
"I'm sure." Her voice was calm.
"Then don't regret it."
I scooped her up, striding toward the bed.
The robe slipped to the floor, exposing her tender skin.
Her willing demeanor now, that sweet scent—it all made the fire inside me burn hotter.
When her legs wrapped around my waist, when her nails dug into my back, all restraint became meaningless.
Our bodies fit perfectly. Soul-deep pleasure drove me deeper again and again, listening to her soft moans, feeling every tightening of her body.
Not until dawn broke did the frenzy finally subside.
I fell into sleep—the first truly peaceful rest I'd had in years.
When I woke, she was gone. If not for the spot of blood on the sheets, I'd have thought it was a dream.
She ran fast.
Even I—someone who never blinked at hundred-million-dollar deals—felt oddly helpless.
"Mr. Lancaster, about today's—"
My assistant, Blake Bailey, pushed the door open to report, then clearly froze at the disheveled room.
I glanced over. My eyes landed on something by the door—a necklace.
Left by last night's woman?
The lighting had been dim, and with the addiction raging, I couldn't remember her face. Only her irresistible skin and that faint jasmine scent.
My eyes darkened. "Find the woman who was in this room last night. Don't scare her."
---
I didn't want to attend the lunch banquet.
These occasions were always filled with fake pleasantries and boring small talk. Better to spend the time closing deals.
At the manor entrance, I'd just stepped out of the car when I saw Charles—and a beautiful, gentle woman standing beside him.
Her figure, her movements—strangely familiar.
I frowned. She must be Charles's new bride, Willow.
An ordinary woman from a modest background. What made her special? Special enough that Charles would defy the family, start his own company, just to marry her?
"Good morning, Mr. Lancaster..." Willow greeted me stiffly, voice nervous.
I nodded, my gaze sliding from her pretty face down to her neck, pausing briefly.
Smooth, flawless. No marks.
Not her.
I'd left marks on that woman's neck.
But as we passed each other, a familiar jasmine scent drifted into my nose. My steps faltered slightly.
I frowned. Perhaps a coincidence.
On his wedding night, Charles's wife couldn't possibly have come to my room.
Brushing off fawning relatives, I headed toward the living room. Arguing voices drifted out.
I entered the hall. A crowd gathered like spectators at a show.
At the center sat Willow, face pale but eyes cold and resolute.
Across from her stood Rachel Smith—the woman who'd grown up with Charles, once seen as his future wife.
Penelope stood backing Rachel, loudly scolding Willow.
An inexplicable displeasure rose in my chest.
I didn't know exactly what had happened, but the scene itself was absurd enough—the day after the wedding, at a family banquet, the bride was sidelined while another woman was seated beside the groom.
Where was Lancaster dignity?
"Peter," I said, voice low but commanding enough to silence the entire room. "Please escort anyone unrelated to the Lancaster family out."
The butler immediately stepped forward, politely but firmly asking Rachel to leave.
Face dark with humiliation, she followed Peter out. Penelope opened her mouth to speak but shut it when she met my eyes.
"Penelope," I said without emotion, "you know I don't like dealing with unnecessary trouble when I return. I'll let it go this time. Don't let it happen again."
She hastily agreed.
The banquet officially began. Servants brought dishes. Everyone waited for me to lift my fork first.
In the silence, Charles's phone rang.
He glanced at the screen, stood to take the call. Before long, he returned, said something to Willow, and left.
She didn't get angry. She even considerately told Charles to go ahead, saying the driver would take her home later.
Charles left. Others looked at Willow with pity and scorn.
She sat there eating calmly, as if nothing had happened.
Weak. Fake.
I labeled her mentally.
Just another typical woman in a wealthy marriage. Seeing her husband keep a mistress, she swallowed her pride. As long as she kept her position as Mrs. Lancaster, she'd sacrifice any dignity.
After the banquet ended, I settled into the car. Blake reported from the front seat. "Mr. Lancaster, Walter Group's CEO wants to meet at seven tonight about that partnership..."
I listened absently, eyes on the window.
Lancaster Manor sat on a mountain, remote and isolated. Only one road led down.
A familiar figure appeared ahead, instantly capturing all my attention.
I recognized Charles's wife immediately—Willow.
Alone, walking on foot.
The day after her wedding, her husband abandoned her for another woman. And she planned to walk home by herself?
Easy to bully. Another label.
But watching her straight, elegant back, watching her occasionally turn to admire the scenery with a smile—an unclear emotion stirred inside me.
Instinctively, I told Blake, "Pull over."
Blake hesitated but obeyed.
The car stopped in front of her. The window rolled down. Blake spoke for me. "Ms. Spencer, Mr. Lancaster requests you join him."
I saw her clear, doe-like eyes widen with obvious surprise.
And panic?