Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 29567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
“Good.” He shoves my panties to the side like they’re in the way. “Then you won’t forget this.”
He lifts me onto the desk in one smooth motion, and before I can even catch a breath, he’s inside me—hard. Deep. No buildup. Just raw, relentless need.
I cry out, back arching against him, nails scraping across his shoulders.
His rhythm is brutal—unforgiving. Like he’s trying to erase every word we said before this.
“This changes nothing,” I breathe.
“Keep telling yourself that,” he growls, slamming into me harder.
I cling to him, matching every thrust, every bite of pressure, like I’m chasing a high I don’t want to come down from.
Our bodies slap against the wood, breath ragged, sweat slicking our skin, and the tension we’ve been choking on all week finally explodes between us.
When it’s over, we’re both breathless. Quiet. Eyes locked like we have no idea what the hell we just did.
He kisses my shoulder. His thumb strokes my thigh.
“We need to do that again before we go back to work,” he murmurs.
It’s not a question. It’s a promise.
Minutes later, we slip upstairs to the executive suite that’s connected to his office.
This time, there’s no anger. No chaos.
The shower’s barely on before he presses me against the wall, steam rising around us like fog swallowing the moment whole.
He kisses me slower now—his tongue tracing the seam of my lips, his hands sliding under my thighs to lift me again.
The tile is cool on my back. His body is hot, hard, and completely in control.
His mouth finds my neck, then lower. His hands grip my hips, tilting me to meet every slow, devastating thrust.
“I should hate you right now,” I whisper.
“You don’t,” he says, eyes burning into mine. “Not even close.”
His pace is unhurried, deep. Like he’s memorizing me. Like he’s trying to make me stay.
Fingers tangle in wet hair. Legs wrapped around him.
Every moan is swallowed by the water. Every breath feels stolen.
Something about this round feels different—dangerous. Not just because it’s slower, but because it feels like he means it.
And I don’t want that. I don’t want to name whatever this is.
After, we change back into our clothes and head back down to the war room.
No one says anything when we return. It’s as if our argument happened ages ago, and they’re far too tired. Too focused.
I settle into my seat and work, finding Dominic’s eyes in between readouts. His fingers graze mine when he hands over notes, and I follow him out of the room four times for a kiss in the hallway.
It feels like I’m floating on air, like maybe—just maybe, we are an “us,” but I know better than to let that thought go any further than one sentence.
Because somewhere between round one and round two, I realized something.
This can’t (and won’t) last.
Dominic is not the relationship type, and he never has been.
He doesn’t do girlfriends. He doesn’t feel the need to keep any people around, unless they’ve been on his staff for more than ten years.
After we land this campaign, I won’t have an excuse to stay.
I’ll move out and into one of the apartments I liked from last week.
And I’ll find a new job.
Preferably one where my boss doesn’t make me forget my own name every time he touches me.
THE CEO
DOMINIC
The Skittles team arrives at 8:59 a.m.
Five executives in sharp, tailored suits—each a different color of the rainbow—walk in with polished briefcases and perfectly timed expressions. Their shoes don’t squeak. Their faces don’t flinch.
They shake hands, sit down, and stare at the screen like they already hate it.
The conference room is cold and quiet, the type of quiet that presses against your chest. Sunlight cuts across the table in clean, diagonal lines, making everything feel too sharp, too exposed.
The team lines up in silence while Braxton and I take our seats on the other side of the boardroom table.
“Today’s not about making a pitch,” Marcus says. “It’s about shifting a legacy.”
He clicks the first slide, and then—as a surprise to me—he hands the clicker to Ivy.
She doesn’t miss a beat.
She walks forward, takes the device like it was always meant to be hers, and adjusts the mic with a flick of her wrist. No hesitation. No stammer. Just her voice, steady and crisp, cutting through the room like she owns it.
From there, it’s a blur.
Ivy commands attention without asking for it.
She floats in and out of the spotlight between slides—taking the lead, stepping back, delivering key points without missing a beat.
She doesn’t just present. She performs. She reads the room better than anyone else I’ve ever worked with.
And then it happens.
They play the luxury commercial:
Skittles reclining in first-class airline seats with silk eye masks.
Mini bags slipping into designer purses and clutches.
Rainbow candy floating lazily on mirrored pool floats shaped like swans.
Back-alley kids pedaling sleek bicycles through narrow streets, Skittles nestled like jewels in their baskets.