His whisper was a hot brand against her ear, a stark contrast to the chill of the window seeping through her skirt. The command was almost there, poised on his lips to push her even further into this dizzying, humiliating ecstasy.
Then it vanished.
His hand left hers. The warmth of his chest against her back retreated, replaced by the office's sterile air-conditioning. Linnea swayed, her legs unsteady, her entire body humming with a frustrated, unfinished energy. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, trying to reclaim a shred of composure.
"Enough."
The word was a shard of ice. She turned, leaning against the window for support. Chase was already across the room, standing behind his massive desk, his back to her. His shoulders were rigid. He didn't look at her.
"Get dressed," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of the dark promise it had held moments ago. "The meeting is concluded."
Linnea's mind, slowly emerging from its sensual fog, sparked with a fresh, sharp anger. Concluded? After he had reduced her to a trembling, wanton thing against a window? After marking her skin with his pen, his word? Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, her movements jerky.
"I trust the terms are now... unforgettable," he said, still not turning around. He picked up a heavy crystal paperweight from his desk, examining it as if it were the most fascinating object in the world.
She finished buttoning her blouse, her skin hypersensitive where the silk brushed over the drying ink. She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw the paperweight at his head. Instead, she smoothed her skirt, her professional armor hastily reassembled but utterly compromised. She could still feel the ghost of his hand over hers, the desperate circles she'd been making.
"The terms are as we agreed, Mr. Xander," she said, her voice impressively steady, given the circumstances. She reached for her purse, her movements sharp and efficient. "I'll have my assistant send over the finalized documents by end of day."
She turned to leave, her heels making no sound on the plush carpet. Every step away from him felt like a small victory, a reclamation of space.
"Jolie."
She froze, her hand on the polished brass doorknob. She didn't turn back.His voice, when it came, was lower. Colder. A controlled blade. "Leave."
The command was absolute. It wasn't a suggestion. It was an expulsion. He pulls her back, his voice cold, commanding her to leave, his eyes never leaving hers. Heat flared in her cheeks. The sheer audacity, the power play, was breathtaking. He had taken her to the brink and then simply... dismissed her. As if she were an interruption to his schedule.
She finally glanced over her shoulder, a cutting retort ready on her lips.
And she saw it.
He had turned slightly. His profile was to her, his jaw a hard line, his gaze fixed on a point on the wall. But her own gaze, honed from years of observing opponents, didn't stop at his face. It traveled down the impeccable line of his blue suit, down to where the fine wool of his trousers strained against a formidable, unmistakable bulge. There is an obvious boner in his pants.
The air rushed from her lungs. He was as affected as she was. More, perhaps. This cold dismissal, this abrupt end... it wasn't disinterest. It was the pinnacle of control. He wants to make her come to him begging, he was playing with her to know her weaknesses. He was denying himself to dominate her completely. He was demonstrating that his will could override even his own primal urges. And in doing so, he was exposing her own: her need to win, to have the last word, to break his infuriating control.
A slow, real smile, one devoid of any fake sweetness, touched her lips. It was a smile of understanding. Of challenge accepted.
Without another word, she opened the door and left, closing it with a quiet, definitive click behind her.
The moment the door shut, Chase let out a slow, controlled breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The paperweight in his hand felt like a ton of lead. The scent of her—honeysuckle and warm, aroused woman—still clung to the air, taunting him. He looked down at the clear evidence of his own desire, a stark contradiction to his icy demeanor.
He had watched her in the window's reflection. Seen the precise moment her sharp eyes had noticed his condition. The flash of understanding in her dark gaze had been more satisfying than any forced submission. She was smart. She got the game.
A low, almost silent groan escaped him. He needed air. He needed space away from this office, which now felt like it was painted with the memory of her. He needed to be somewhere he could truly command his surroundings. Somewhere he could plan his next move without distraction.
He snatched his phone from his desk, his movements uncharacteristically sharp. He dialed his assistant. "Miriam. Clear my calendar for the rest of the day. He end up taking the day off to go to his mansion. I'll be at the house. Hold all calls."
He didn't wait for a reply. He ended the call and headed for the private elevator, his mind already racing ahead to the solitude of his mansion on the Sound, to the quiet where he could dissect every shudder, every gasp, every flicker of defiance in Linnea Jolie's captivating eyes. The game was far from over. It had only just begun.
