My Burning Desire by RK

Chapter 2

Janelle’s pov

So now that I had finally managed to drag my gaze away from the predator sitting to my left, Chris was busy prattling on right beside me, entirely oblivious to the heavy, suffocating atmosphere he was standing in.

"What's your plans for New Year's?" Chris asked, leaning in close. "I’ve got tickets for Sterns. They’re hosting a massive party. Would you care to join me?"

His voice was lowered, pitched low enough to be a private conversation meant just for me. But even over the ambient noise of the banquet hall, I could sense Oliver’s intense stare shifting back onto us. I could practically see the wheels turning in Oliver's head as he strained to listen, trying every trick in the book to pick up what Chris was whispering.

Oliver didn't wait long. He set his heavy crystal glass down on the white tablecloth with a sharp clink that made everyone at the table jump.

"Did you say something, Chris?" Oliver drawled, his tone dripping with deceptive, razor-thin politeness. "I didn't quite catch that."

The entire table went dead silent. Everyone knew full well that Chris hadn't been talking to him or addressing the table at all; he had been speaking directly to me.

Chris blinked, caught off guard, but his misplaced confidence quickly recovered. He looked up at Oliver, puffing out his chest with an irritatingly cocky grin.

"Just asking my girl out for a New Year's Eve party, Mr. Reed," Chris replied smoothly, throwing a casual, far-too-familiar arm along the back of my chair.

The moment the words my girl left Chris's mouth, the temperature at the table plummeted below freezing.

Oliver froze.

The dark, smoldering fury in his eyes vanished in a single fraction of a second, replaced by something infinitely more terrifying: absolute, lethal stillness. He didn't blink. He didn't breathe.

Celeste, who had been laughing at a joke down the table, stopped mid-sentence as she felt the sheer, crushing weight of the tension radiating from the CEO beside her.

Slowly, deliberately, Oliver turned his head. His gaze locked onto Chris’s hand resting against the back of my chair, and then up to Chris’s smug, grinning face.

"Your girl," Oliver repeated, his voice dropping an octave into a low, terrifyingly smooth purr that sent a shiver straight down my spine.

Olivers POV

Chris opened his mouth, likely to offer some half-baked excuse or a defensive retort, but he never got the chance.

Underneath the cover of the white tablecloth, away from the prying eyes of the rest of the table, I laid a heavy hand flat against Janelle’s thigh. I didn't grip her; I just claimed her. My calloused thumb began slowly rubbing deliberate, possessive circles through the soft fabric of her dress.

I heard her sharp, sudden intake of breath—a soft, breathless gasp that only I was close enough to catch. It was a sweet, silent reminder, designed to rattle her composure and leave zero doubt in her mind about whose girl she actually was.

I kept my eyes fixed entirely on Chris, letting a slow, razor-thin smile touch my lips before I finally spoke.

"A New Year's Eve party," I repeated, my voice smooth, dangerously calm, and carrying an undertone that made the hair on the back of my neck prickle with satisfaction. "I didn't know my ever-efficient PA frequented parties that stretched into the early hours of the morning."

I knew I sounded completely overbearing to everyone else at the table. Since when was my employees' private lives any of my business? The senior directors whispering down the table were probably already rewriting the handbook in their heads.

I didn't give a damn.

"So, Janelle," I said, my tone dripping with false casualness while my thumb traced a slow, scorching path higher against her skin. "You didn't give Chris an answer."

Underneath the cover of the tablecloth, completely hidden from the sea of corporate faces around us, my hand slowly inched upward, sliding beneath the hem of her dress. My fingers brushed against the warm, trembling skin of her thigh, pressing just high enough to make her breath hitch audibly.

She tried to catch my wrist under the table, her fingers pressing desperately against mine in a silent, frantic plea to stop. But the mere brush of her touch against my skin only served to throw fuel on the fire, instantly intensifying my movements. The moment she reached for me, I lost whatever thin restraint I had left. My whole body went rigid with a sudden, surging wave of heat, my pulse hammering a frantic rhythm in my ears.

She wasn't pushing me away; she was only dragging me deeper into the trap.

And then, to make matters infinitely worse, she turned her head and looked right at Chris, offering him a polite, infuriatingly dismissive smile.

That little look—that tiny flash of amusement directed at him—irked me raw. My hand tightened into a hard, possessive grip against her bare skin, warning her silently that she was playing a very dangerous game.

"Sorry, Chris," she said smoothly, her voice betraying not a single hint of the electric chaos unfolding beneath the tablecloth. "I already have plans."

Chris looked slightly deflated, his grand public pitch instantly falling flat, but the dull, burning ache of jealousy in my chest immediately lightened at her refusal. She had shut him down. Good.

Emboldened by her compliance, my hand inched further upward beneath the soft fabric of her dress, darting dangerously close to her core to reward her for the right answer. The moment my fingers brushed against her, I could feel how wet and weeping she was for me. A heavy rush of dark triumph went straight to my head, leaving me gloating silently in the dark. Knowing that her body was already betraying her, and that all of this raw, hidden hunger was entirely for me, felt like a drug.

I felt her entire body jolt, a sharp, breathless gasp escaping her lips before she managed to bite it back.

Quick as a flash, she snatched up her glass of orange juice and brought it to her mouth, taking a desperate, long sip to mask the sound and hide the flush blooming furiously across her neck.

Celeste leaned in, her soft perfume cutting through the tension as she lightly tapped my arm to get my attention, asking a technical question about the upcoming Anthony deal.

I turned my head toward her to answer, keeping my tone strictly professional, perfectly measured for the table to hear. But under the table, my fingers didn't leave Janelle for a single second. I kept my hand firmly anchored against her skin, letting her know through every deliberate, possessive stroke that not even another woman—or anyone else in this room—could truly command my attention or distract me from my prey.

"The Anthony acquisition is moving forward on schedule, Celeste," I said smoothly, holding Celeste's gaze for just a beat before my eyes flicked right back to Janelle. "We'll finalize the paperwork on Monday morning."

"Are you okay, Janelle?" Chris asked, leaning back in his chair with a frown, completely misinterpreting the sudden, frantic change in her demeanor. "You seem a bit flushed."

"I'm fine," she muttered tightly, her voice strained as she tried desperately to squirm and shift her weight under the table without drawing the attention of the rest of the table.

Sensing the tightrope walk she was on—and knowing she was moments away from completely snapping under the pressure—I decided to show a rare moment of grace. Slowly, deliberately, I slid my hand out from beneath the hem of her dress and rested it flat on my own knee.

I knew full well she didn't want it to stop because she hated it; she wanted it because it was driving her out of her mind, and the sudden absence of heat left a cold void in its wake. Leaving her hanging like that—aching, sensitive, and desperate for more—was a exquisite little punishment. Not just for her, but for me, too.

Denying us both was a slow burn, and as I picked up my scotch glass with a dark, satisfied smirk, I knew the real reward was just waiting for us behind closed doors once we finally escaped this ballroom.