Hadley’s POV
My legs were unreliable when I finally made it out of Rowan’s office—knees liquid, thighs trembling, my entire body still humming with the residual voltage of what he’d done to me.
Or rather, what he’d started and refused to finish.
Twice now—twice in a single day—he’d walked me to the edge of release and then simply stepped back, leaving me shaking, empty, and so furious I could have put my fist through the drywall.
He wanted to play with fire.
Fine.
It was my turn to hold the match.
Whatever this was between us had already incinerated every professional line either of us had ever drawn, and I was done being the one left burning.
If he wanted a war, I would give him one he wouldn’t forget for the rest of his life.
Tomorrow I’d type my resignation and retreat to my old, safe, boring job where nobody made me wet during business hours.
But tonight—this afternoon—belonged to me.
I sat at my desk, anger simmering beneath my skin like a low-grade electrical current, and tried to focus on a stack of files that might as well have been written in Mandarin.
My pen tapped an irritated rhythm against the desk that I couldn’t make myself stop.
When Dorian strolled past my office, one glance at my face was enough—he pivoted smoothly toward Rowan’s door without a word, which was probably the most intelligent decision he’d made all week.
The moment Brenna mentioned she was stepping out for an errand, inspiration struck like lightning.
A wicked idea formed, and I knew exactly how to get my revenge.
“Brenna, could you stop by the bakery?
I’m craving the chocolate cake with the milk chocolate shavings and cherry garnish.”
“Of course, Hadley.
I should be back within twenty minutes.”
“Perfect,” I said, pressing cash into her palm.
“Thank you so much.”
I knew Rowan had a video conference scheduled with his Chinese partners that afternoon—conducted from his office, camera on, Dorian dialing in remotely.
He would learn not to mess with me.
When Brenna returned with the cake, I arranged everything on a serving tray—the chocolate cake on a small porcelain plate, a steaming cup of chamomile tea beside it.
I grabbed my phone and waited for the meeting to begin.
The moment I heard Rowan’s voice through his office door, I made my move.
I entered without knocking and locked the door behind me.
I approached his desk with calculated grace, set down the tray, and as I placed the teacup within reach, I dropped the napkin—recreating this morning’s scene exactly.
His gaze locked onto me, and I watched him shift restlessly in his chair, his voice catching slightly mid-sentence.
I retrieved the napkin, positioned it beside his cup, then picked up the cake and settled into the chair directly across from him.
I took a slow, deliberate bite, closed my eyes, and let out a soft sigh of pleasure.
Rowan’s attention was completely captured now, though he kept his professional mask up for the camera.
I watched him struggle to follow the conversation while his eyes stayed fixed on my mouth.
I picked up my phone and typed: Are you absolutely certain I taste better than this cake?
His screen lit up.
He read it, pressed a knuckle to his lips to hide a smile, and typed back: Without question.
You’re infinitely more delicious.
I know exactly what game you’re playing, and this amateur hour won’t work on me.
Save half that cake for later.
His cockiness fueled my determination.
I took another bite, then let go completely.
I lifted each leg onto the armrests of the chair, spreading myself wide open, giving him an unobstructed view.
My right hand moved to the thin fabric of my panties, stroking gently, while my left hand cupped and squeezed my breast through the dress.
A full day of denied release had left me incredibly sensitive—even this light touch sent waves through my body.
Rowan’s eyes went dark and wide simultaneously.
I watched the meeting evaporate from his consciousness in real time—watched his composure crack and fall away in pieces, watched his shoulders go rigid and his breathing turn ragged and one hand grip the edge of his desk with a force that whitened his knuckles.
The professional mask he’d maintained for his Chinese partners dissolved as completely as sugar in boiling water.
When I pushed the lace aside—when my fingers found the slick, swollen heat and began to move with a rhythm I’d been craving all day—I was already trembling.
Already close.
Hours of arousal had left me hypersensitive, every nerve ending wired to the surface, and the knowledge that he was watching—helpless, trapped, unable to touch what he wanted, unable to look away from what he couldn’t have—made every stroke sharper, every sensation more acute. This chapter was copied from novelping.com without permission.
I heard his breath catch from across the room—a ragged, wrecked sound that he couldn’t disguise and didn’t try to.
When one finger slipped inside, slow and deliberate, a rough groan tore out of his throat that had absolutely nothing to do with the meeting.
The pressure built fast after that—spiraling upward with an urgency that matched the rhythm of my hand, coiling tighter with every second his violet-blue eyes stayed locked on me instead of the screen.
His partners were talking.
He wasn’t hearing a word.
He was leaning forward in his chair, lips parted, sweat beading along his hairline, looking at me like a man watching something sacred and profane happening simultaneously.
I bit down on my lip—hard enough to leave a mark—and let it take me.
The orgasm crashed through me in near-silence, a wave so intense my vision whited out at the edges, my body arching against the chair, every muscle clenching and releasing in a rhythm I couldn’t control.
The release I’d been denied all day poured through me like a dam breaking—hot, devastating, total—while he sat there six feet away, utterly derailed, unable to reach me, unable to stop me, unable to do anything except watch the woman he’d been tormenting all day finally take what he’d refused to give her.
I brought my wet finger to my mouth and sucked it clean, holding his gaze the entire time.
He was visibly sweating, completely lost, no idea what his partners were discussing, trapped in a meeting he couldn’t leave.
I adjusted my panties, smoothed down my dress, and picked up my phone one more time.
You were absolutely right.
I am much tastier than chocolate cake.
While he read it, I stood, placed the remaining cake beside his tea, and gathered the tray.
One last message.
Boss, you look incredibly tense right now.
You should drink that chamomile tea to help you relax.
His eyes shot daggers at me, but I was already moving toward the door.
Tomorrow I’d submit my resignation.
Tonight, I’d won this dangerous game we’d been playing.