CHAPTER SEVEN:TOUCHED BY TEMPTATION
1408 Words
The city outside Eden’s apartment window was cloaked in ink and neon. Despite the late hour, the streets pulsed with life, indifferent to the quiet war churning in her chest.
She stared at the message again:
Please report to 72B, South Tower. 10:00PM. Closed-door review.
Her brows creased. A closed-door review? At ten? A low groan of frustration escaped her lips as she paced her tiny living room. She’d barely settled in after her shift. Her heels were off, her hair down, a bowl of cereal half-eaten on the counter. She had planned to rest. To forget Cassian Blackwood’s scent and presence long enough to sleep.
But rest was impossible now.
The time glared at her: 9:32 PM.
Eden dragged a hand through her hair, then looked at her reflection. She felt out of place in the city’s sharp edges and shadowy corridors. And tonight, even more so. The late hour gave the summons a strange intimacy. No office review had any business happening this close to midnight unless—
She shut that thought down. Fast.
---
Twenty-five minutes later, Eden stood before the black-glass entrance of the South Tower, nerves coiled tight in her stomach. She’d chosen a modest black blouse tucked into wide-legged slacks, her blazer snug over her shoulders. Professional. Clean. But her palms still dampened with sweat.
The security guard waved her through wordlessly, already expecting her.
Her heels echoed in the sterile hallway as she walked toward 72B. The air felt heavier with each step. The corridor was dimly lit, sterile, almost clinical—but then she saw it: the dark bronze door, cracked open, spilling golden light onto the tiled floor like a spill of molten desire.
She knocked gently, uncertain. Then she pushed the door.
---
Inside, Ava Monroe—a sharp-featured blonde woman in a high-waisted pencil skirt—looked up from a leather folder and smiled. “You must be Miss Haven.”
Eden nodded. “Yes. Eden Haven. I—uh—was told to report here?”
“And right on time,” said Mr. Thorne, a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and a gaze so precise it could cut glass. He gestured to a seat across the sleek obsidian conference table. “We’re here to do an initial evaluation. It’s routine. Mr. Blackwood will be joining shortly.”
Ava gave Eden a tight smile. “Don’t worry. He likes to observe quietly, see how you respond under pressure.”
Pressure? Eden’s pulse spiked.
They began asking questions—nothing too invasive at first. Just about her background, her skillset, her interest in crisis management. But Eden could feel it—the deliberate pacing, the subtext in their tone. This wasn’t just about qualifications. It was an assessment of her composure. Her limits.
When Mr. Thorne asked her opinion on the morality of protecting guilty clients, she hesitated just a second too long.
Then, behind her, the door clicked.
The air shifted like a drop in barometric pressure.
Cassian Blackwood entered the room, clad in a three-piece charcoal suit, no tie. The first two buttons of his black shirt were undone. Enough to reveal the line of his collarbone and a whisper of ink curling just below his throat.
Eden didn’t turn around. But she felt him. The way his presence rippled through the room like heat.
“Miss Haven,” he drawled, voice like smoke over whiskey. “You’ve held your own.”
Mr. Thorne and Ava both stood, gathering their things.
“We’ll leave you to it,” Thorne said, bowing slightly.
“To what, exactly?” Eden asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
Cassian’s eyes locked onto hers as the others left and the door clicked shut behind them.
---
The silence that followed was charged. He walked slowly toward her, like a man circling prey—or perhaps resisting the urge to devour it.
“You don’t like late meetings,” he said, voice lower now.
Her lips parted. “It’s unprofessional.”
“Unprofessional…” He leaned on the table across from her, so close she could smell his cologne—woodsy, dark, intoxicating. “Or inconvenient because I haunt your dreams?”
Her breath hitched.
His gaze flicked down her body, then up again—slowly. “You think I don’t see it? How you shift in your chair when I speak? How you avoid my eyes but watch me when you think I’m not looking?”
Eden swallowed hard. Her thighs pressed together without thinking.
Cassian moved to her side, stopping just behind her. She could feel his breath near her ear. “Do you want to know what I see when I close my eyes at night?”
She didn’t respond.
“I see you,” he whispered. “Bent over my desk, your mouth parted, eyes glazed…wearing nothing but that little silver cross around your neck.”
A strangled gasp left her lips.
He didn’t touch her—not quite—but his fingers brushed the back of her arm. Just barely. Enough to set fire to her nerves.
“Does that make you wet, Eden?”
Her body jolted.
He caught her wrist gently, brought her palm to the hard line of his arousal beneath his slacks—let her feel the evidence of his desire. She froze, unable to breathe.
Then, just as suddenly, he stepped back.
“That will be all for tonight,” he said, straightening his cuffs. “You’re dismissed.”
---
She barely remembered getting home.
Her clothes were still on. Her heels lay somewhere near the door. But Eden collapsed backward on her bed like a puppet with its strings cut, limbs trembling, mind racing.
Cassian’s voice replayed in her head like a broken hymn:
“Bent over my desk…”
“Wearing nothing but that little silver cross…”
“Does that make you wet, Eden?”
It did.
It still did.
She was soaked.
A shameful wetness clung to the soft cotton of her panties, slick against her thighs, pulsing with a need that refused to be ignored. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face into the pillow, fists clenched. Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths.
It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. That voice. That heat. The way he made her feel…exposed, claimed, and starved all at once.
Her thighs clenched again, this time tighter. It wasn’t enough.
Her hand moved without conscious thought, sliding down the front of her pants—fingers shaking, hesitant—until they found the soaked fabric between her legs. Her breath hitched. She gasped.
And then she whimpered.
Soft, broken, desperate.
She had never touched herself before. Not like this. Not with such hunger. But tonight, she couldn’t stop.
Her fingers rubbed over the slickness. And in her mind—it was him. Cassian’s hands, not hers. Cassian’s breath, hot on her throat. Cassian’s voice commanding her to open her legs wider.
She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood as pleasure spiked through her. One hand tangled in the sheets. The other dipped lower, into her panties. Wet heat met skin, and she cried out—just once.
“Cassian…” she whispered, voice hoarse and broken.
It was fast. Too fast. Her body was already on edge from the meeting. The moment she imagined his mouth against her neck, she shattered.
Her back arched.
Her hand went still.
And then…
Silence.
Crushing silence.
The high of release crumbled into ashes the moment her heartbeat slowed. Her fingers trembled as she pulled them away. The evidence of her arousal slicked her skin—and the guilt hit her like a tidal wave.
She curled into herself, yanking the sheets over her body like they could shield her from her own shame.
What have I done?
Tears spilled down her cheeks before she could stop them.
She’d promised herself she’d stay strong. That no man—especially one like him—would break her. She was a Christian. Raised with discipline. Bound by conviction.
But tonight, she had touched herself to the thought of a man almost twice her age. Her boss. A man who delighted in power, control, and corruption.
A man who now had hers.
She sobbed into her pillow, silently. No one could hear. No one would know. But God did.
And that broke her even more.
- Writer
