Chapter 7: The Late-Night Ritual
The lie had gotten easier.
That was the part that kept Blake up at night—not the sex, not the deception, not even the way her body seemed to hum with anticipation every time she pulled into the parking garage beneath Linden Tower. It was the ease of it. The way "late night at the office" rolled off her tongue like water, the way Craig nodded and kissed her forehead and told her not to work too hard, the way she smiled and said she'd try.
Two months.
Eight weeks of Tuesdays and Thursdays. Sixteen nights of driving across the city with her heart hammering in her throat and her panties already damp, of riding the private elevator to the top floor, of stepping into Jack's office and forgetting—for a few hours, at least—that she was anyone's wife but his.
Tonight was no different.
Craig caught her at the door, his hand wrapping around her wrist, pulling her back for one more kiss. He tasted like the beer he'd had with dinner and the mint he'd popped afterward, and his lips were soft and familiar and utterly unremarkable.
"Don't stay too late," he said.
"I won't."
"You said that last week."
"And I meant it last week too."
He laughed. Kissed her again. Let her go.
Blake walked to her car with steady steps and a steady smile and a steady pulse that didn't match the chaos unfurling in her chest. She slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled out of the driveway without looking back.
The drive took twenty-three minutes.
She knew because she'd timed it. Because she'd memorized every stoplight, every turn, every stretch of asphalt between her house and the tower. Because this route had become as familiar to her as the back of her own hand, and that familiarity should have terrified her more than it did.
It didn't.
The parking garage was nearly empty at this hour. She pulled into her usual spot—third level, far corner, tucked behind a concrete pillar where the security cameras couldn't quite reach—and killed the engine.
She sat there for a moment.
Just breathing.
Then she grabbed her bag and walked to the elevator.
The lobby was empty. The security guard at the front desk barely glanced up from his phone as she passed, and she wondered—not for the first time—if Jack had told him to expect her. If he'd given the man a name. If there was a list somewhere with her name on it, a record of her sins written in ink.
The elevator doors slid open.
She stepped inside.
The ride to the top floor took forty-seven seconds. She counted each one, watched the numbers climb, felt the pressure change in her ears. By the time the doors opened again, her hands were shaking.
Jack's office was at the end of the hall.
The lights were dim, just as they'd been every other night—the overheads off, the floor lamps casting amber pools across the hardwood. The scent of his cologne hung in the air like a promise, and beneath it, something warmer. Whiskey. Leather. Him.
He was standing by the window when she walked in.
Backlit by the city skyline. Glass of whiskey in one hand. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Dark hair threaded with silver, storm-gray eyes that tracked her every movement with the precision of a predator.
He didn't say hello.
He didn't ask how her day was.
He just looked at her—really looked—and Blake felt something inside her shift, some wall she'd been building for weeks finally crumbling to dust.
"You're late," he said.
"Traffic."
"Liar."
She shrugged. "Craig wanted a kiss goodbye."
Jack's jaw tightened. Just a fraction. Just enough for her to notice.
"Did he get one?"
"Yes."
Something flickered in his eyes. Possessive. Dangerous. He set the whiskey down on his desk and crossed the room in three long strides, and then his hands were on her—one fisting in the collar of her blouse, the other gripping her hip—and he was kissing her like he wanted to bruise her.
She kissed him back.
His tongue slid against hers, whiskey and heat and hunger, and she moaned into his mouth before she could stop herself. Her bag hit the floor. Her hands found his chest, his shoulders, the thick muscle of his arms, and she held on like he was the only thing keeping her upright.
He pulled back just far enough to look at her.
"You're wearing too many clothes," he said.
"Then do something about it."
He did.
The blouse went first. Buttons popping free, fabric tearing at the seam, and she didn't care—couldn't care—because his mouth was on her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts above her bra. He bit down on the strap and dragged it off her shoulder with his teeth, and Blake's knees nearly buckled.
"Jack—"
"Shut up."
He spun her around.
Before she could process what was happening, he was bending her over the desk—her palms flat against the mahogany, her cheek pressed to the cool surface, her ass angled up and out. He yanked her skirt up around her waist, dragged her panties down her thighs, and kicked her feet apart with his own.
"Stay," he said.
She stayed.
She heard the clink of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of fabric as he freed himself. Then his hand was between her legs—two fingers sliding through her folds, testing her, teasing her—and she was so wet, so embarrassingly wet, that he laughed.
"Fucking hell," he muttered. "You're soaked."
"I've been thinking about this all day."
"Have you?"
"Yes."
"Thinking about what?"
"Your cock."
He groaned. A low, filthy sound that vibrated against her spine. His fingers pressed against her entrance, just the tips, and she pushed back against him instinctively.
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me."
He didn't need to be asked twice.
He thrust inside her in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt, and Blake's vision went white. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream. Her fingers scrabbled against the desk, searching for purchase, finding nothing but smooth wood and her own sweat.
He didn't give her time to adjust.
He just started fucking her.
Hard. Fast. Relentless. Each thrust rammed her hips into the edge of the desk, and she knew she'd have bruises tomorrow—knew she'd press on them in the shower and remember—and the thought only made her wetter.
"God," he grunted. "You feel so fucking good. So tight."
She couldn't respond. Could barely breathe. He was splitting her open, rearranging her insides, and she loved every second of it.
His hand tangled in her ponytail, yanking her head back. The angle shifted, and suddenly he was hitting something deeper—something that made sparks burst behind her eyes and her cunt clench around him like a fist.
"There," she gasped. "Right there—"
"I know."
He fucked her harder.
The desk creaked beneath them. Papers scattered. A pen rolled off the edge and clattered to the floor. Blake didn't care about any of it. She was too busy chasing the orgasm building low in her belly, too busy drowning in the feeling of him filling her up.
Then—the sound of a phone ringing.
Jack's phone.
"Don't move," he said.
She couldn't have moved if she wanted to.
He reached past her, plucking the phone from its cradle on the desk, and answered it with a calm she found infuriating.
"Linden."
A pause.
"Alan. What can I do for you?"
Another pause. And another thrust.
Blake bit down on her lip to keep from crying out.
"I need you to send that contract to the Denver office," Jack said. His voice was steady. Casual. Like he wasn't buried inside her up to his balls. "Mark it for overnight delivery. And cc legal."
He thrust again.
Harder.
"Also—" A pause. A spank. His free hand came down on her ass with a sharp crack, and Blake yelped before she could stop herself. "—reschedule my three o'clock with the board. Something's come up."
Jack's hips pistoned into her, each stroke precise and punishing, and she could hear Craig's voice from that morning, telling her to have a good day, kissing her cheek, pouring coffee into her favorite mug. The memory made her cunt clench around Jack's dick, made her feel filthy and wet and so close she wanted to scream.
Slap.
His hand came down again, on the other cheek this time, and the sting spread through her like wildfire. She could feel the heat rising from her skin, could feel the blood rushing to the surface, could feel the marks he was leaving.
"That's it," he said. "Take it."
His hand came down again, and she did.
"Done."
He hung up.
Then he found her clit with his thumb and rubbed tight, brutal circles, and Blake came apart.
"Fuck—" She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. "Fuck, Jack—"
"That's it. Come for me. Show me how much you love my cock."
She did.
She came in waves, clenching around him, her thighs trembling so hard she could barely stand. He didn't let up—didn't stop—just fucked her through it, grunting with each thrust.
He came with a guttural sound, tearing from somewhere deep in his chest, and Blake felt every pulse of his release fill her up. Hot. Thick. Endless. He stayed buried inside her until his cock stopped twitching, and only then did he pull out. Slowly. Reluctantly.
She felt empty without him.
She heard the rustle of tissue, felt him press it gently between her legs, his touch careful now in a way it hadn't been moments ago. He cleaned her up with steady hands, then turned her around and lifted her onto the edge of the desk.
His hands cupped her face.
His eyes searched hers.
And then he kissed her.
Gently. So gently it hurt. His lips moved against hers with a tenderness that made her want to cry, that made her want to run, that made her want to stay in this moment forever.
"You're incredible," he murmured against her mouth.
"I know."
He smiled. Just a twitch of his lips. Just enough to make her heart stutter.
"You're also bleeding."
She touched her lip. Her fingers came away red.
"I bit it."
"I noticed."
She shrugged. "You make me do crazy things."
"I know."
He kissed her again—softer this time, sweeter—and Blake felt something inside her crack open. Something she'd been trying to protect. Something she'd been too afraid to name.
"You know what I was thinking about today?" he asked.
"What?"
"You."
She blinked. "Me?"
"All day. During meetings. During lunch. During that godawful presentation from accounting." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I kept thinking about the sounds you make when I'm inside you."
"Jack—"
"I kept thinking about your mouth. Your hands. The way you say my name when you come."
"Stop—"
"I kept thinking about how much I want you to stay."
The words hung between them.
Blake's throat tightened.
"I can't," she whispered.
"I know."
"I have to go home."
"I know."
She should have moved. Should have pushed him away, gathered her clothes, walked out the door. But she didn't.
She stayed.
"I'll see you Thursday," she said.
He nodded. "Thursday."
She slid off the desk. Gathered her torn blouse. Tried not to look at the dark smears on the tissue, the evidence of what they'd done.
"Blake."
She paused at the door.
"Look at me."
She turned.
"You're mine," he said. "Don't forget that."
She wouldn't.
That was the problem.