My Burning Desire by RK

Chapter 1

One year later.

The annual office Christmas party was being held at the Sandton Convention Centre. Nothing but the best for the company celebration; Oliver firmly believed that all his employees worked hard and deserved a lavish reward for their dedication throughout the year. He hadn't arrived as yet.

I sat at our designated table with some of my colleagues from the office. Chris was to my right, and Tania was to my left, with a few other coworkers seated across from us. My seat faced the grand entrance, giving me a clear view of everyone walking in.

Chris had latched onto me the moment I entered the ballroom. He was widely known as the office playboy, and for the last month, he seemed to be hovering around me constantly. I had never given him any reason or encouragement for his attention, but lately, he had been persistently pestering me to go out with him for drinks or dinner.

Dress code for tonight was formal, so everyone was dressed to the nines. I opted to dress up tonight myself, discarding my usual baggy cardigans and sensible skirts. I splurged on a pretty pink dress that didn't hug my curves too tightly, but still fell in a soft, elegant drape that made me feel entirely unlike myself.

My light makeup was done by Tania, who had in fact also chosen the dress for me. I had left my thick glasses off for the night, though I was still not entirely comfortable with the sudden change in my appearance.

Chris said something witty, and the whole table erupted into laughter. I even threw back my head as I laughed, completely caught up in the moment. But when I looked back up, my breath hitched.

Oliver was standing at the entrance.

Worse, he wasn't alone. Celeste, the new financial manager, was draped gracefully on his arm as they entered the ballroom. But the moment Oliver stepped through the double doors, he stopped scanning the room like a king surveying his domain. His gaze swept over the crowd and landed straight on me.

And then he stopped dead still.

His eyes locked onto the spot where Chris’s hand was resting familiarly on my bare arm. A dark, fiercely territorial look flashed across his face, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek.

I couldn't move. I couldn't even breathe. My eyes were completely trapped by his, locked in a silent, suffocating pull across the crowded room.

He walked toward our table like a predator ready to stake his claim, cutting through the glittering crowd with effortless, intimidating authority. Celeste was still attached to his arm, chattering about something, but Oliver looked completely oblivious to her presence. His dark eyes remained locked entirely on me.

I looked nervously at Oliver, a cold spike of panic twisting in my chest. At work, he never showed a single flicker of emotion when we were surrounded by colleagues. He was the epitome of icy, corporate detachment, always keeping whatever we had going on strictly locked away between the two of us.

Now, walking across a room full of hundreds of people, he looked ready to burn the whole place down.

As he approached our table, the air seemed to grow heavy.

"Good evening," he said, his voice dropping into a low, clipped register that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. "I see everyone made it here on time."

It was not his normal, polished public persona. His tone was sharp, underlined by a simmering edge as he still eyed Chris’s hand resting on my arm. I hadn't even realized Chris was still touching me, my mind entirely captivated by the raw, consuming look this man in front of me was throwing my way.

My eyes flicked away from his intense gaze, traveling down to Celeste’s arm linked securely in his.

A sharp spike of hot resentment flared in my chest. The cheek of him.

Celeste shifted her weight, finally noticing the heavy tension radiating from the man beside her. She glanced down at Chris’s hand still resting on my arm, then offered a bright, friendly smile and gave me a curious once-over. Celeste wasn’t a vindictive person at heart, and her greeting came out warm and genuine.

"Hi, guys," she chimed, her eyes lingering on me with genuine surprise. "And wow... Janelle. You look absolutely beautiful. Don't tell me you did this whole makeover for Chris?"

I could see Oliver’s whole body tense with dangerous, coiled fury at her words. The air around him practically vibrated with suppressed rage.

Beside me, i***t Chris just grinned, puffed out his chest, and gave my arm an affectionate little squeeze, acting as if what Celeste suggested might actually be true. He was completely oblivious to the fact that he was standing inches away from a man who looked ready to commit murder with his bare hands.

I looked at Chris, smoothly sliding my shoulder away so his hand fell off my bare arm. I cleared my throat, keeping my movements deliberate, and reached for my glass of orange juice, taking a small, steadying sip to mask the sudden dryness in my mouth.

"Thanks, Celeste," I said, offering her a polite, tight-lipped smile. "And no, definitely not for Chris at all."

I shot a quick, pointed glance at Chris, praying he would take the hint and drop his relentless pursuit once and for all. I certainly didn't want him getting any wrong ideas, especially not with the way Oliver was glaring down at him like a hawk sizing up a mouse.

My heart was hammering frantically against my ribs. I kept my gaze fixed on the rim of my glass, desperately hoping that none of my colleagues at the table noticed the suffocating, electric tension radiating from the head of the company standing right beside us.

Olivers pov

I couldn’t take my eyes off Janelle.

What the hell was she thinking, dressing up like this for a public room full of snapping jaws and corporate sharks? Was she doing it for this grinning i***t sitting beside her? I had never noticed his interest in her before today—had I really been that blind, too buried in ledgers and boardrooms to notice some underlying office romance brewing right under my nose?

A violent wave of possessive fury hit me straight in the chest.

Not while she’s with me.

Not in this lifetime, and certainly not on my time.

I normally didn't sit with the general office staff at these events; my place was traditionally at the head table reserved for senior management and executives. But tonight, all those rules of protocol evaporated the second I saw another man's hands on her.

Without a word, I pulled out two empty chairs right at Janelle’s table, seating Celeste first before taking the seat directly beside Janelle.

A collective ripple of stunned silence hit the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the wide-eyed, disbelieving stares of everyone around us—including HR managers and senior directors who suddenly looked terrified to breathe.

I didn't care. Let them whisper. Let them stare.

The gnawing, possessive fury burning a hole in my chest wasn't about to let me sit thirty feet away while that i***t Chris breathed the same air as her.

A waiter materialized beside our table almost the second I pulled out my chair, murmuring politely to ask for our drink orders.

Stung by the white-hot agitation still chewing up my insides, I didn't hesitate. "Scotch. Neat."

I rarely touched the heavy stuff at corporate functions, preferring to keep a clear head and a tight grip on my composure. But tonight, standard rules were entirely suspended.

I turned my head, fixing my dark gaze squarely on Janelle. I didn't bother softening my expression; a hard, unyielding mask settled over my features.

"Did you manage to complete the report for Anthony's before you left to go for your makeover?" I asked, my voice cutting cleanly through the ambient murmur of the ballroom.

I didn't care if it sounded snappish. Let them think I was a demanding, overbearing boss pushing his assistant past closing hours. Let them talk. I just needed to hear her voice, to remind myself that beneath the soft pink dress and the smooth fall of her hair, she was still mine—tied to me by every late-night secret and stolen breath we shared behind locked office doors.

Her cheeks reddened a bit with embarrassment, a soft flush spreading across her skin that made her look entirely too breathtaking for a public ballroom. But she didn't shrink away or drop her gaze. Instead, she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and looked straight at me.

"Yes, Mr. Reed," she replied, her voice smooth, composed, and effortlessly professional. "I emailed you a copy before I left."

"Good," I said, holding her gaze a fraction longer than necessary. "We will go through it later this evening. I can't leave it for Monday morning."

And I meant it. Not just because of the audit numbers, but because there was no earthly way I was letting the night end with her getting into a cab—or worse, his car—and going home with Chris.

I smirked, a dark, victorious twist of my lips that vanished just as quickly as it appeared, hidden behind the rim of the heavy crystal glass the waiter had just set down. Let the rest of the table whisper about a demanding boss. They had no idea what was really waiting for her after hours.

Celeste let out a light, musical laugh and playfully brushed my arm as she leaned over to say something about the catering menu.

I caught the exact moment Janelle’s eyes flicked down to Celeste’s hand resting against my sleeve. A sudden, sharp flash of fire crossed her features—raw, unadulterated jealousy breaking right through her cool, professional armor. But just as quickly as it appeared, she blinked it away, schooling her face back into a mask of polite, indifferent composure.

Ahhh.

So my little mouse had a jealous streak, too.

I hid a small, victorious grin behind the heavy crystal tumbler, feeling a sudden surge of satisfaction. Seeing her reaction took a bit of the edge off the jagged anger burning in my chest, but that ferocious, overwhelming instinct remained—the primal urge to clear this table, drag her away from the prying eyes of our colleagues, and remind every single person in this room exactly whose territory she belonged to.

A year back, when our quiet arrangement first crossed the line from late-night work into something far more intoxicating, there had never been an explicit contract drawn up. It just became a tacit, mutual understanding: whatever happened between us stayed behind closed doors, locked safely away from the prying eyes of the corporate world.

Truth be told, I hadn't cared either way. If the board or the office gossips wanted to know that their cold, untouchable CEO was entirely wrapped around his assistant's finger, let them look. Let them talk.

But the morning after that first night, when the heavy summer sun had cut across my private office and I caught the sudden, panicked flutter of her pulse, everything shifted. I had watched her frantically smooth down her skirt, her wide eyes darting to the door as if expecting the entire floor to march in and expose us.

Sensing her raw nervousness, I had swallowed the words on the tip of my tongue and decided to go with the flow. I let her have her safe little bubble, her protective walls of quiet professionalism.

Looking at her now, sitting just inches away in that soft pink dress while that i***t Chris still hovered on the periphery, I wondered how much longer I was going to let her keep up the charade.