Page 29 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

My hand slid under the sheet, almost by accident, but not really. My fingers skimmed down the soft skin of my stomach, tickling me, over the curve of my hip, to the ache that had been building all day. Heck, it had been building, I think, since the moment I met Gareth Wolfe.

I gasped at the sensation as I touched the throbbing bundle of nerves that I wanted him to touch. I traced slow circles, imagining it was his hand instead. Bigger, rougher, shaking with the effort of holding back.

He’d push my shirt up, breath hot at my neck, and bite, hard, not enough to bruise but enough to make me gasp. He’d murmur my name against my skin, over and over, as if it was the only word he’d ever learned. I squeezed my legs together, back arching. My nipples were already tight, sensitive, aching for something more than the brush of cotton.

Bringing my free hand back up, I cupped my breast, thumb circling the tip until I couldn’t stand it. I thought of him seeing me like this; laid out, helpless, wanting. I thought of the way his eyes would go dark, the way his voice would drop even lower, the way he’d take control and never let go.

The fantasy grew more real by the second, as if he was actually here. In it, he’d pin my wrists above my head and use his knee to shove my thighs apart, forcing me open, forcing me to admit how badly I wanted it, wanted him. There’d be no room for games or doubts or second-guessing - just need, sharp and desperate, all the way down.

My fingers were slick, slow at first, teasing, letting the pressure build with every imagined growl, every imagined command. “Don’t stop,” he’d say, and I wouldn’t. “Let me watch,” and I would, even though the thought made me want to crawl out of my own skin.

I was close, so close, and in my mind he was right there, his breath on my cheek, his hands holding mine above my head. “You’re mine,” he’d say, and I’d believe it, because it was true.

Pressure built and built and built, but it was the memory of his lips on mine that shoved me over the edge. I came with his name half-formed in my mouth, hips jerking against my own hand, pulse pounding so hard I thought it might tear something loose inside me. The orgasm was long, blinding, relentless. A full-body detonation that left me limp, boneless, and a little bit ashamed.

I lay there, panting, heart hammering, sheets damp and clinging to my skin. The fantasy faded, leaving only the throb of my own wanting and the sharp, unmistakable certainty that I was completely, hopelessly ruined for anyone else. Not only that, but the ache wasn’t gone, just calmed for the moment.

Pressing my head back on the pillow, I stared at the ceiling until my eyes stung, then dragged the pillow over my face to muffle the next sound. It wasn’t a sob, or a laugh, or even a curse word.

It was his name.

I whispered it once, just to see how it felt. “Gareth.”

It tasted like sin and surrender, and I knew, in that moment, that I would do anything to have the real thing.

Even if it ruined my damn life.

Chapter Eight

Gareth

The next afternoon

I’d spent most of dinner trying not to stare at her.

Correction - I’d spent most of dinner pretending not to stare at her, which was more exhausting than my last full triathlon.

Maribel had outdone herself, as usual: braised short rib, sweet onion purée, and a crème brûlée so perfect I’d almost forgiven her for the daily gossip mill she encouraged and participated in, but my appetite was shot. The only thing I could focus on was Eden, four seats away at the monstrous dining table, sleeves rolled up, knifework surgical as she attacked her beef.

No eye contact. That was the rule I’d given myself after I’d kissed her. But every time she laughed, or pushed her curly hair out of her face, or reached for the water carafe, I could feel the chemical burn of my attention tracking her like a guided missile. And she knew it, the little minx. She didn’t glance over, didn’t acknowledge me once, but her posture - straighter, more squared - told me she was aware.

After dessert, the guests peeled off, upper management that worked for me, a few loyalists, none important enough to linger. This dinner was for show, to test the waters, to get some good PR before the next event put a smear on my name.

Eden hung back, clearing the last plates. It wasn’t her job, not even close, but she made a point of stacking all the empty ramekins and ferrying them herself to the kitchen. When she returned, the staff had melted away. Just her, standing at the head of the table, hands folded, as if waiting for permission to leave.

I should have sent her away. I was running low on restraint and even lower on clever conversation. Instead, I said, “Would you join me in the study for a moment?” My voice was pure frost, but even I could hear the edge in it.

She hesitated, just enough to let me know she understood what I was really asking. Then she said, “Of course, Mr. Wolfe.”

I wanted to correct her - Gareth, just Gareth - but I didn’t this time. Distance was good. Necessary. Especially if I couldn’t hold back this lingering desire for her that ate away at me every second of the day and night.

We walked in silence, footsteps muffled by the wool runner. The house was at its quietest, no cleaning crew, no muttered arguments from the laundry, no gardeners waging war on the weed population. Just the hush of bad decisions I was probably about to make.

The study was exactly as I’d left it, wood-paneled, lit only by firelight and a brass desk lamp, the air rich with cigar and cedar. I gestured to the leather club chair opposite the desk. She sat, perching at the edge, spine as rigid as the mahogany.

I took my usual seat, but didn’t touch the paperwork waiting for me. Just watched her, hands steepled, trying to read the temperature of the room.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked, eyes never quite meeting mine as she sat opposite me.