My Burning Desire by RK

Chapter 3

Janelle’s pov

I was seething. Embarrassment and pure, unadulterated anger burned in my veins at what Oliver had just pulled right in front of half the executive board.

The heat of his touch was still lingering like a brand against my skin, making my core ache with an unbearable, frustrating sensitivity. He was playing a dangerous game, treating me like his personal possession while the rest of the corporate world sat completely oblivious just inches away.

I needed to escape. I needed to splash cold water on my face, breathe in some oxygen that wasn't laced with scotch and pure arrogance, and get my composure back before I shattered into a million pieces right there at the table.

"If you'll excuse me," I murmured, my voice trembling ever so slightly as I pushed my chair back and stood up from the table.

Without waiting for permission—and without daring to look at Oliver's smug, infuriating face—I turned on my heel and practically fled toward the sanctuary of the restrooms.

The restroom was mercifully bright, but the sound of murmured voices and light laughter from the vanity area told me I wasn't alone. I couldn't risk anyone seeing the flushed, wrecked state of my face.

Without hesitation, I ducked past the sinks and locked myself securely inside the farthest cubicle.

Leaning my back hard against the cool, solid wood of the door, I closed my eyes and dragged in a ragged breath. It did nothing to help. My heart was still hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, and the ache between my thighs was a living, breathing thing—throbbing and weeping with a hunger that Oliver's cruel withdrawal had only amplified.

I clamped a hand over my mouth to muffle a frustrated gasp, squeezing my eyes shut as I fought a losing battle against my own traitorous body. He had left me hanging on purpose, dangling over an abyss of his own making, and the worst part was that it was working. I didn't want to calm down. I wanted him to finish what he started, right here, right now, consequences be damned.

I waited a few agonizing minutes, listening intently until the murmurs and laughter of the other patrons faded away down the corridor. Confident I was completely alone, I unlocked the cubicle door and stepped out into the quiet restroom.

I hurried over to the marble sink, desperate to wash my hands and splash a bit of cold water over my burning cheeks. But a quick glance at my reflection stopped me cold; doing that would ruin my makeup, leaving smudged mascara and stark patches of bare skin that would tell the entire ballroom exactly what I had just been dealing with.

Instead, I gripped the edges of the sink, staring up into the large vanity mirror to try and force my breathing back to normal.

That was when the heavy oak door of the restroom swung open.

My breath caught in my throat. I lifted my gaze to the mirror—and locked eyes directly with Oliver's dark, predatory stare in the glass.

I whipped around, my heart surging into my throat as I watched him casually flick the heavy deadbolt on the restroom door, locking us inside.

"Oliver, what the hell are you doing?" I hissed, my voice pitching up in panic as I rushed toward the door, giving it a frantic shake. "We are at a corporate function, and this is a public restroom! Other people are going to want to use it!"

He completely ignored me. Not a single muscle twitched in response to my warning as he started slowly walking toward me, closing the distance with the unhurried, terrifying grace of a predator stalking its cornered prey.

I instinctively stepped back, retreating until the edge of the marble vanity cut hard against my lower back, trapping me with nowhere else to go.

"Oliver," I breathed out, holding my hands out flat against his chest to shove him back and put some safe distance between us. "Stop it."

He didn't even flinch. He simply gripped my wrists, easily overriding my strength, and pinned my hands against the counter. His dark, smoldering gaze swept slowly up and down my body, drinking in the rise and fall of my chest and the desperate flush staining my skin.

"You did that for him," he said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl, the embers of his jealousy still burning white-hot beneath his skin.

"My mouse decided to dress up for another man," he sneers, his voice dripping with dark mockery. "And I'm supposed to just sit back and watch some junior nobody try to claim what's mine?"

He surges forward, closing the remaining inches until his chest pressed flush against mine. Nose to nose, I could feel the radiated heat of his fury and the heavy, intoxicating scent of his cologne. Every breath he took mingled with mine.

"I. Don't. Share," he says, spacing every single word like a strike to a drum.

"You. Are. Mine."

Before I could draw another breath to argue, he smashed his mouth onto mine. There was no gentleness in it—only raw, consuming possession and the wild, desperate edge of a man who had reached his absolute limit. His tongue forced its way past my lips, hot and demanding, taking absolute control and branding me with a fierce, punishing hunger that left my head spinning.

He tasted of scotch and pure, unadulterated dominance, ruthlessly asserting every inch of who I belonged to right down to my bones.

"Oliver," I murmur weakly against his lips, the rational part of my brain desperately trying to claw its way back to the surface. "Someone... someone might want to use this room..."

Instead of listening, he just pulls me in tighter, completely crushing any space left between us as he deepens the kiss with a fierce, punishing hunger. His grip releases from my wrists, freeing my hands—only for my fingers to instantly curl into the heavy lapels of his jacket, anchoring myself to him as the room spins.

He breaks away from my mouth, trailing his lips hot and heavy down my jawline, finding the sensitive spot just beneath my ear.

"Mine," he growls, the word vibrating straight against my skin.

His lips map a burning path down my face, past my throat, and lower still toward the edge of my gown. With a rough, deliberate tug, he catches the neckline of my dress and pulls the sleeve down over my shoulder. Before I can draw another ragged breath, his mouth finds the warm curve of my bare breast, and he bites down—hard enough to leave a mark, sharp enough to draw a wild, choked cry right out of my throat.

"What are you doing? Oliver, someone might see!" I screech, my hands flying up to push frantically against his chest, trying to put some distance between us.

He just smirks, the dark heat in his eyes unwavering. "I'm marking you, Janelle, make no mistake. Not Chris or any other motherfucker is going to look at you and have you the way I have. And if anyone tries, they'll damn well know you belong to me."

"Are you crazy?" I snap, my voice rising in disbelief. "We spend every other night together! Where exactly do you think I have time for extra activities?"

"I didn't notice Chris was on your tail until tonight. So how many others are there that I don't know about?" He grips my arm tightly, his fingers wrapping around my skin with unyielding pressure.

"Chris is harmless! And there isn't anyone else!" I insist.

"Hmph," he sneers. "Harmless. The guy had his eyes on what belongs to me. Next time I see him doing that, I'll break his hands, that's for sure."

"You're seriously going there?" I glare at him, trying to wrench my arm out of his grasp. "I'm not reacting the same way as you when Celeste was all over you."

He pauses, his dark gaze locking onto mine, and the intense possessiveness in his expression softens just a fraction into something fiercely demanding.

"Well, why didn't you?" he murmurs, his thumb stroking roughly over my pulse point. "You have every right. I'm yours. Only yours."

Olivers pov

I saw the sudden shift in her eyes—that flash of understanding as the raw, unfiltered truth of my words hit her.

I had never been like this. In the past, conquests came and went, easily replaceable, easily forgotten. But it had been a full year with Janelle, and the terrifying reality was that I still couldn't get enough of her. The mere thought of seeing her smile at Chris, of imagining someone else touching her the way only I had the right to touch her, made something violent snap in my chest. If I lost her, I wouldn't just lose a woman; I'd lose half of myself. My sanity. She was the only thing that kept my chaotic, driven world grounded.

And I wasn't about to let any other person get a single whiff of my lucky charm.

Done playing games in the shadows. I was putting an end to these secret rendezvous. To hell with the corporate rule book. Sure, I knew damn well that fraternization among the staff happened under my nose all the time—I usually just turned a blind eye because it didn't concern me. But the absolute best part about being the CEO?

I could rewrite the rules whenever I damn well pleased. And starting tonight, everyone in that ballroom was going to know exactly who she belonged to.

"Straighten your clothes. Where are your glasses? I like you with your glasses," I say, my tone softening just a fraction as my hands move to fix the collar of her gown and brush a stray lock of hair from her cheek. "We're going out there together, my love. I'm done hiding."

She pulls away from my touch, her eyes wide with sudden panic. "No. We can't."

"Why the hell not?" I demand, my jaw tightening. "We have been a secret from day one—it's you who wanted to keep it quiet for the sake of the office. Now enough is enough. I'm not a dirty secret, and neither are you."

I step closer, leaving zero room for argument. "We walk out that door together, side by side, and show the Chrises and the Celestes of the world that they are dead wrong—and that they need to back the f**k off permanently."

Janelles pov

I couldn't help the small, involuntary smile that tugged at the corner of my lips, despite his crass tone. There was a dark, intoxicating thrill in his possessiveness—a primitive reassurance that I actually meant something to the man who commanded entire boardrooms with a single look.

But then reality crashed back down, dragging a familiar cold weight into my chest. I thought about the whispers, the sideways glances, and the brutal comparisons. I wasn't a confident person. I knew my own insecurities inside and out; I didn't look like the polished, high-society women he usually dated.

When we had spent our very first night together a year ago, I was convinced it was just a fluke—that he was drunk, and I had simply been a convenient, willing body at the end of a long week. But the way we had clicked defied logic. The chemistry between us had been so blindingly intense that my self-doubt didn't matter in the dark.

And that one night hadn't stayed a one-off. It had snowballed into an unbreakable rhythm. We spent almost every Tuesday and Wednesday night together, and then transitioned seamlessly from Friday evening straight through to Sunday night.

Behind closed doors, away from the prying eyes of the corporate world, it was like we couldn't possibly get enough of one another. We talked for hours, ordered takeout, watched movies, and made love—though, more often than not, the sequence was completely flipped, driven by a mutual, insatiable hunger that never seemed to fade.