Chapter 7: Jealousy Ignites the Flame
The morning light through the penthouse windows was a stark, accusing glare. It illuminated the empty wine glasses from the night before, my silk blouse still draped over the brutalist sculpture, the rumpled proof of what we’d done. Logan was already in the shower. I could hear the water running. The distance of the sound felt intentional.
I dressed in yesterday’s clothes, the fabric carrying the intimate scent of him, of us. My body ached in a dozen delicious, secret places. My mind was a riot.
He emerged from the steam wrapped in a towel, his hair dark and dripping. His eyes found me, and for a flicker, the wall was down. There was a warmth there, a possession that made my stomach flip. Then he blinked, and the CEO was back, already mentally scrolling through his day.
“Car’s downstairs in twenty,” he said, his voice neutral. “We have the Frankfurt call at nine.”
“Right.” The word tasted like ash. So it was back to that. The unspoken rules were already re-forming, thicker and more complicated than before.
The silent elevator ride down felt longer than the one up. The golden doors reflected our tense, separate postures. He wore a suit that cost more than my car. I looked like I’d been thoroughly, gloriously fucked. Which I had.
Raj, his usual driver, held the door of the black SUV open. His expression was professionally blank. “Mr. Thorne. Davies.”
The door thudded shut, sealing us in the tomb-quiet cabin. The engine was a whisper. The partition was up. We were alone in a bubble of polished leather and chilled air.
Logan was already tapping on his tablet, his brow furrowed. The city slid by outside the tinted windows, a blur of ordinary people living ordinary lives. The intimacy of the night before felt like a dream, a fever I’d conjured.
I watched his profile, the strong line of his jaw, the focused intensity. A dangerous knot of emotion tightened in my chest. It needed a release valve.
“Charlotte Kempsey looked pleased with herself yesterday,” I said, my voice deliberately casual. “Leaving your office.”
He didn’t look up. “She got the terms she wanted on the distribution deal.”
“I bet she did.” The acid in my tone was impossible to miss. “She always gets what she wants from you, doesn’t she?”
This time, he lifted his gaze. His eyes were cool, assessing. “What’s that supposed to mean, Sera?”
“It means she spends more time in your office with the door closed than any other VP. It means her hand is always on your arm at fundraisers. It means her perfume lingers in there for hours.” The words tumbled out, sharp and ugly. I hated them. I hated the woman they revealed me to be.
A slow, infuriating smirk touched his lips. It was the same smirk he’d used on rivals in boardrooms. “Are you auditing my schedule, or is there a point to this?”
That smirk was the spark. The jealous, insecure tangle inside me caught fire.
“Fuck you, Logan.”
I unsnapped my seatbelt. The click was violently loud in the quiet car.
His smirk faded, replaced by wary confusion. “What are you—”
I didn’t let him finish. I shoved his tablet onto the floor, climbed over the center console, and dropped myself into his lap, straddling him. The steering wheel dug into my back. The gear shift pressed against my thigh. His body was rigid with shock beneath me.
“Sera.” His voice was a warning growl.
“No,” I hissed, my face inches from his. I could see the pulse hammering in his throat. “You don’t get to smirk. You don’t get to dismiss me. Not after last night. Not after you told me about the hole in your fucking wall.”
My hands fumbled with his belt, my fingers clumsy with fury and want. He made a choked sound, his hands coming up to grip my hips, not to push me away, but to anchor me.
“This is insane,” he breathed, but his eyes were darkening, his body responding unmistakably beneath me.
“You love insane.” I freed him, a heavy, hot weight in my hand. I wasn’t gentle. I guided him, positioned myself, and sank down in one ruthless, claiming motion.
The gasp was torn from both of us. It was too fast, too dry, a bright flash of pain that melted instantly into a consuming, delirious fullness. He filled me completely, a brutal counterpoint to the emotional chaos.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, his head thumping back against the headrest. His fingers dug into the flesh of my ass, biting through the fabric of my skirt.
I began to move. There was no grace to it. It was a furious, driving rhythm, each rise and fall a punctuation to my unspoken words. Mine. Not hers. Mine. The leather seat creaked in protest. My knees braced against the expensive upholstery. The car swerved slightly; Raj had seen nothing, heard everything, and was professionally pretending to be a statue.
Logan’s control shattered. A raw, guttural sound escaped him. His hands slid up, gripping the back of my neck, dragging my mouth to his. The kiss was a battle, all teeth and clashing tongues. He met my frenzied pace, driving up into me, each thrust hitting a depth that made me see stars.
“You want to know what Charlotte gets?” he growled against my mouth, his breath hot. “Reports. Figures. A fucking handshake.” He pistoned his hips, wrenching a cry from my throat. “This. This is what you get. All of it. Every dirty, fucked-up part. You get to climb into my lap and take what you want. You get to see me come completely unglued.”
His words were the final trigger. The jealous anger melted, superheating into a blinding, physical peak. My body clenched around him, a series of violent, internal spasms that ripped a sob from my lungs. I buried my face in his neck, tasting salt and his skin.
The feel of me unraveling around him was his end. His whole body locked, a corded bowstring. A ragged, broken shout was punched out of him, and he emptied himself deep inside me in hot, pulsing waves, his hold on me so tight it bordered on pain.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing, the hum of the engine, the faint vibration of the road. We were a sticky, tangled, compromised mess in the driver’s seat of a car worth more than a house.
Slowly, reality seeped back in. The tinted windows. The approaching downtown skyline. The office.
He gently eased me off him, back into the passenger seat. His movements were careful, almost dazed. He righted his clothes with trembling hands, then pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from his breast pocket—a stupid, elegant, anachronistic thing. He didn’t give it to me. He leaned over and cleaned me himself, his touch shockingly tender amidst the debauchery. Then he attended to himself, his face an unreadable mask.
The car slid smoothly into the underground executive garage. It came to a stop in his reserved spot, the engine cutting to silence.
Raj did not move. The partition stayed up.
Logan turned to me. His hair was mussed from my hands. His lips were slightly swollen. He looked utterly ravaged. And more real than I’d ever seen him.
“Sera,” he began, his voice hoarse.
I couldn’t hear it. Not here. Not now. I couldn’t hear the gentle let-down, the ‘this was a mistake,’ the ‘we can’t at the office.’
I reached for the door handle. “The Frankfurt call is in fifteen minutes, Mr. Thorne. I’ll have the files on your desk.”
I got out of the car. My legs held. I walked toward the private elevator, the scent of him and sex clinging to my skin, a secret we now carried into the bright, sterile light of the workday. The fortress wall was breached, but the battle for what existed inside was only beginning. And I had no idea if I was the conqueror, or just another casualty in a long war.