Wrecked by the CEO

CHAPTER 6: BUSINESS AND PLEASURE

Working at Wolfe Organization and Holdings was intense from the first day.

I tried to avoid Steven as much as the structure of the place allowed, which, it turned out, wasn't much at all. He had a way of summoning me under the guise of professional necessity, and the tension that filled his office every time I stepped into it was impossible to ignore. His gaze would linger a beat too long. His voice would drop just low enough to remind my body of things I was trying to keep in the past.

At first, I convinced myself I could maintain the boundary. Smile politely, take instructions, leave. But then there were the moments, small, dangerous moments, when our hands would brush over a file, or when his eyes would hold mine just a second beyond what was professional. It was like standing at the edge of a flame, knowing it could burn, and choosing not to step back.

One afternoon, he called me in to "discuss a client proposal." The blinds were half-drawn, casting warm shadows across his desk. Jacket off, sleeves rolled, he leaned back in his chair as if time moved differently for him than it did for everyone else.

"Ava," he said, lips curling into the particular smirk that made me want to either walk out or close the distance between us. "Close the door."

My hand hovered over the doorknob. Every rational instinct told me to leave it open. To keep that barrier between us, keep this clean.

I closed it.

The soft click of the latch felt very loud.

Steven's eyes tracked me as I crossed the room. He gestured to the chair across from him.

"I've been reviewing your work," he said, the tone casual, but with heat running beneath it like a current. "You've exceeded expectations."

"Thank you," I said, steadier than I felt.

He leaned forward, forearms on the desk. "There's something else I've noticed."

I raised a brow.

His gaze dropped briefly to my lips before returning to my eyes. "You keep avoiding me. I can't decide if it's because you don't like me... or because you like me too much."

The air thickened. "This isn't appropriate," I managed.

"Business doesn't have to be boring," he murmured. "Sometimes it overlaps with pleasure."

He stood and rounded the desk, moving toward me with that slow, deliberate ease he carried everywhere. I should have stepped back. I should have stood and put the chair between us.

I stayed exactly where I was.

He stopped in front of me, close but not yet touching. "Tell me to stop," he said, voice quieter now. "And I will."

The hum of the air conditioning. The distant sound of phones ringing in other offices. And beneath all of it, my own heartbeat: the loudest thing in the room.

I didn't tell him to stop.

Steven's lips curved. His hand finally closed the distance, fingers brushing the side of my arm in one slow, deliberate stroke. The contact was feather-light, almost experimental, but it sent a current through me strong enough to make my toes curl inside my heels.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured, breath warm against my ear.

"Steven..." It came out half warning, half surrender.

His fingers trailed upward, over my shoulder, then along the edge of my jaw. He tilted my face up to meet his eyes, those dark, unreadable eyes that had been haunting me since the day I first walked into this building.

The kiss wasn't rushed. He claimed my mouth with slow, certain pressure that told me he had no intention of hurrying, that he had decided, long before this moment, to take his time. His other hand found the small of my back and pulled me in until there was nothing left between us.

I felt the edge of his desk press into the backs of my thighs. Papers scattered somewhere. Neither of us looked away.

"You're going to be trouble for me," he said against my lips, voice low and edged with hunger.

"I already am," I whispered.

His mouth moved to my neck, warm and unhurried, each kiss sending shivers cascading down my spine. Then his hand slipped lower, drawing the hem of my skirt up until cool air brushed the backs of my thighs. My breath faltered.

He kept his gaze on mine, watching, reading every flicker of expression, as his fingers traced upward along my inner thigh, slowly, patiently. The closer he got, the harder it became to keep my breathing even.

When he finally reached me, the first touch was barely there, a whisper through the thin barrier of my underwear. My knees almost went. His free hand gripped my waist and steadied me without a word.

"Already?" he murmured, voice deep and satisfied.

My lips parted to speak, and then he slipped beneath the fabric, and everything else dissolved. The first slow stroke pulled a gasp from me. My hands found the edge of the desk and held on.

He worked me with the same unhurried precision he brought to everything, his thumb circling where I was most sensitive while his fingers curled inside, searching until he found exactly the right place and stayed there. Every movement was deliberate, steady, building heat in my core until rational thought was no longer possible.

"Let go," he whispered, his forehead resting against mine. "I want to feel it."

And I did, body tightening, then releasing in a wave that broke through me in soft, breathless sounds I couldn't have contained if I'd tried.

He held me through it, fingers slow and careful until the sensation faded. Then he withdrew, straightened my skirt with practiced hands, and returned to his side of the desk as if nothing had occurred.

"Now," he said, picking up his pen, "shall we get back to business?"