Beyond obsessed

Chapter 8

GRACE

I Don’t wear anything inappropriate.

That’s the lie i tell myself.

The truth is subtler-and worse.

The blouse is conservative. The skirt falls below my knees. Nothing about me would raise an eyebrow in a boardroom. But i chose a soft fabric today. I chose something that moves when i walk. I chose to wear my hair down instead of pulled back like armor.

I chose not to protect him from wanting me.

When i step into Edward’s office, he looks up-and I feel it land.

Not hunger.

Recognition.

His expression doesn’t change, not really. He doesn’t stare. He doesn’t react. He simply stills, like every system inside him just recalibrated around my presence.

“Good morning,” i say easily.

“Grace,” he replies.

One word. Controlled. Neutral.

But his eyes give him away. They track me-professionally, he’d call it-but i see the hesitation when i take the chair across from his desk instead of the one father away.

I set my notebook down. Lean forward slightly.

“So,” i say “What do you need from me today?”

He folds his hands together. I watch the tendons shift beneath his skin.

“There’s a deposition summary I’d like you to review,” he says. “It requires discretion.”

“Of course,” i reply. “I’m very good at discretion.”

The corner of his mouth tightens.

He hands me the file without letting our fingers touch.

Coward, I think affectionately.

I flip through the pages slowly. Ask questions i already know the answers to-just to keep him talking. Just to hear the his voice lowers when he’s focused.

“You don’t have to stand,” i say when he rises. “I can read fine from here.”

“I know,” he answers.

But he doesn’t sit.

He comes around the desk.

Stops a careful distance away.

I look up at him. Hold his gaze. Let the silence stretch until it becomes intentional.

I tilt my head. “Are you?”

His jaw flexes.

“Yes.”

“Because it feels,” i continue gently, “like you’re standing exactly close enough to feel dangerous, but not close enough to admit it.”

That does it.

His breath changes. Sharp in, controlled out.

“You’re playing a risky game,” he say’s quietly.

“I’m not playing,” i reply. “I’m choosing.”

I stand.

Now we are level. Now the air between us has weight.

“I know what this is’” I say. “And i know you do to.”

“This is not appropriate,” he says.

“And yet,” I murmur, stepping closer “you haven’t told me to leave.”

I stop inches away. Not touching. Never touching.

He looks down at me like restraint is the only thing holding him upright.

“Grace,” he warns.

“Edward,” I answer.

My name on his mouth is a fracture.

“I want to know,” I say softly, “if you’re capable of wanting something you won’t take.”

Silence.

Then, barely audible: “Yes.”

I nod. Step back.

“Good,” I say. “So am I.”

I pick up my notebook.

“I’ll have the summary done by end of day.”

And I walk out before either of us breaks.

⸻

EDWARD

The door closes.

And I lose control.

Not loudly.

Not violently.

Internally.

I stand where she left me, staring at the space she occupied, my pulse hammering like I’ve been running.

She knew.

Every word. Every step. Every calculated inch of distance.

She didn’t seduce me.

She tested me.

And I passed.

Barely.

I move back behind my desk and sit—then immediately stand again, restless energy coiling tight in my chest. My hands curl into fists. I exhale through my nose, slow and deliberate, grounding techniques I’ve used in boardrooms, negotiations, hostile takeovers.

None of them touch this.

Because this isn’t desire.

It’s obsession sharpened by denial.

I replay her voice in my head.

I’m choosing.

She’s not naive.

She’s not passive.

She knows exactly what she’s awakening—and that makes her infinitely more dangerous than if she didn’t.

I drag a hand down my face and close my eyes.

This is why I never let anyone this close.

Because power is easy to manage.

Wanting is not.

I lean forward, forearms braced on the desk, breathing through the tension instead of acting on it. Letting it burn instead of explode.

I will not touch her.

Not like this.

Not yet.

But the realization settles heavy and undeniable in my chest:

She isn’t just pushing the line.

She’s daring me to admit how badly I want to cross it.

And alone in my office—surrounded by everything I’ve built, everything I control—I finally allow myself the truth I haven’t spoken aloud.

Grace isn’t a complication.

She’s the weakness I chose.

And God help me—

I don’t want to be cured.

I tell myself I’ll keep it professional.

That’s the lie.

Grace closes the door behind her—not locked, never locked—and the sound lands in my chest like a countdown.

“I finished the summary,” she says, holding out the file.

I don’t take it.

She notices.

Of course she does.

“You’re avoiding my hands now,” she says quietly. Not accusing. Observing.

“I’m trying to do the right thing,” I reply.

Her mouth curves slightly. “Is that what this is?”

She sets the file on my desk herself. Leans forward just enough that I can smell her again. Just enough that my discipline frays.

“You said you’d walk away,” she says. “You didn’t say you’d disappear.”

I stand.

The chair skids back louder than necessary.

“Grace,” I say, low and warning. “If you keep doing this—”

“What?” she asks, eyes steady. “Wanting you?”

That’s it.

Control doesn’t shatter all at once.

It fractures.

I close the distance between us in two steps—not rough, not rushed—but final. My hand comes down on the desk beside her, bracing my weight. Not trapping. Never trapping.

But she’s surrounded by me.

Her breath catches. Not fear.

Anticipation.

“You don’t get to say things like that and expect me not to react,” I murmur.

“Then react,” she whispers.

The word lands straight in my spine.

I hesitate—just long enough to make it a choice.

Then I kiss her.

Not gentle.

Not desperate.

Controlled in intention, ruined in execution.

Her hands fist in my shirt immediately, like she’s been waiting for permission to stop pretending. The sound she makes against my mouth is quiet and unguarded and completely undoing.

I break the kiss first, forehead pressed to hers, breath uneven.

“This is me losing control,” I admit.

Her fingers tighten. “I know.”

I kiss her again—slower this time, deeper, like I’m memorizing what I’ve been denying myself. I feel her respond instinctively, body leaning into mine, trust unfolding without words.

I lift her onto the edge of the desk with a decisiveness that makes her gasp.

Still nothing explicit.

Still clothed.

But unmistakable.

I stand between her knees, my hands gripping the wood on either side of her like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

“Tell me to stop,” I say hoarsely.

She shakes her head. “Don’t.”

That’s consent.

That’s choice.

That’s everything.

I lower my mouth to her throat—not marking, not claiming—just breathing her in, grounding myself in the reality of her. My restraint is burning now. Not cracked.

Gone.

I pull back before I cross a line I can’t uncross.

We’re both breathing hard.

Her lips are swollen. Her eyes dark.

So are mine.

“This can’t happen like this,” I say, even as my thumb brushes her jaw—one last, deliberate touch.

“I know,” she says softly.

“But you wanted it,” I say.

“Yes.”

“And you chose it,” I add.

“Yes.”

I step back. Force space between us. Reassert control with effort that leaves me shaking internally.

She slides off the desk slowly.

At the door, she turns.

“You lost control,” she says.

I meet her gaze without flinching. “Only because I wanted to.”

She leaves.

I lock the door after she’s gone.

Not to keep her out.

To keep myself together.

And the truth settles heavy and undeniable in my chest:

This isn’t about power anymore.

It’s about restraint—and how long either of us can survive without breaking it completely.