The Billionaire's Filthy Forgiveness

7: The Day Two Men Started Fighting Over Me

Lilian ~

I push the door open without knocking. I step in, folder already in my hand, ready to spit out the quick update about the vendor signing we just closed - twelve percent cheaper than last year, done deal, easy win.

He doesn’t look up.

Edwin is sitting there behind his big stupid desk, elbows planted, staring down at something he’s holding. A photograph. Small. Old. Corners soft and bent like it’s been touched a thousand times. I stop dead two steps inside because I have never - never - seen his face like this.

Shoulders rounded. Head low. Eyes red at the edges, not crying exactly, but close. Like he’s been staring so long the burn got inside. Jaw slack. Mouth a little open. He looks… small. Tired. Human. Not the cold bastard who pins me against walls and f***s me until I forget my own name. Not the monster who gutted my dad’s company and laughed about it. Just a guy who hurts.

My stomach flips hard. Not the usual twisted heat I get around him. Something heavier. Uglier.

He still hasn’t seen me.

I should back out. Close the door quiet. Pretend this never happened. But my legs won’t move. I clear my throat, barely a sound. “Edwin?”

His head snaps up. Eyes go wide - pure shock - then the mask slams down fast. Too late. I already saw everything. He tries to shove the photo into the drawer but his fingers shake just enough that it slips, lands face-up on the desk right between us.

Wedding picture. Him younger, almost smiling real. Arm around a beautiful woman in white. She’s laughing. He’s looking at her like she’s the only thing that ever mattered. Best man next to them - tall, blond, big grin. I know that face. Saw it in the emails I dug up months ago. The one who f****d his wife on their bed while Edwin was probably still at work trying to build something for them.

He snatches it again, flips it over quick so we don’t have to look at their happy faces anymore. But it’s too late. Way too late.

“You’re early,” he says. Voice scraped raw. Like he swallowed broken glass.

“I came to tell you the new contract signed. Twelve percent below last year. Done.” I sound like a robot. Professional. Safe. Stupid.

He nods once. Doesn’t meet my eyes. “Good.”

The silence sits on us heavy. I should drop the folder and leave. But I don’t.

I step closer instead. “You okay?”

Dumb question. He’s obviously not. His gaze flicks to me - sharp, guarded. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Drop it, Lilian.” No ice in it this time. Just tired. So damn tired.

I set the folder down soft on the corner of the desk. Walk around to his side until I’m standing right next to his chair. He doesn’t tell me to get out. Doesn’t move away. Just sits there staring at the back of that photo like it might bite him.

I don’t plan the next words. They just come out quiet. “I know who she is. I told you the other day - I saw her picture. I read what happened. How she and your best man betrayed you. I saw the messages a while back. I know.”

His whole body flinches. Small. But I feel it.

“You had no f*****g right,” he says. Quiet. Broken.

“I know.” My throat feels tight. “I was looking for something to hurt you. I found it.”

“Good job. You win.”

“No.” My voice cracks. “I don’t feel like winning.”

He finally looks up at me. Really looks. And Jesus, his eyes are destroyed. Red. Wet. Raw. Like someone just ripped a scab off something that never healed right. “Why are you still here?” he whispers.

“Because you look like you’re drowning and nobody’s throwing you a rope.”

He blinks hard. Looks away again. “I got over it. Years ago.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

A small, painful laugh. “Yeah. Probably.”

I don’t think. I just reach out and put my hand on his shoulder. He goes stiff under my palm. Doesn’t shake me off.

His jacket is warm. I can feel the tight muscle underneath, like he’s holding every piece of himself together by pure will. I squeeze once - gentle.

He lets out a long, shaky breath that sounds like it hurts.

“You don’t have to do this,” he mutters.

“Do what?”

“Act like you give a shit.”

“I’m not acting.”

He turns his head slow. Looks at my hand on him. Then up at my face. Searching. Waiting for the trap. For me to laugh and say “psych.”

But I don’t.

I step between his knees instead. He opens his legs automatically - old habit, maybe. Or something more. My heart is slamming against my ribs. I lift my other hand, cup the side of his face. Rough stubble scrapes my palm. He closes his eyes for a second. Leans into it. Like he’s dying for touch and hates himself for it.

When his eyes open again they’re darker. Needier. Not angry this time. Something softer. Scarier.

“Lilian…” My name comes out rough. Almost begging.

I lean down slow. Give him every chance to stop me.

He doesn’t.

Our mouths meet - soft. Careful. Like we’re both scared we’ll break the other one. His hand comes up, wraps around the back of my neck, keeps me there. The kiss turns deeper. Slower. Wetter. His tongue slides against mine.

He pulls me down. I straddle his lap. Skirt rides up my thighs. His hands slide under it, grip my hips hard. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. I rock once - feel him already thickening under me. He groans low into my mouth.

I pull back just enough to breathe against his lips. “You don’t have to carry this alone.”

He doesn’t answer. Just kisses me harder. Hungrier. One hand pushes up my back, under my blouse, big palm flat against bare skin. The other hand cups my breast through the bra. Squeezes. Thumb drags over my n****e. It goes hard instantly. I moan, grind down on the growing bulge in his pants.

His mouth moves - jaw, neck, teeth grazing my pulse point. “f**k,” he breathes against my skin. “I need...”

I kiss him quiet. Deeper. Dirtier. My fingers yank his tie loose, pop buttons on his shirt until I can get my hands on his chest. Hot. Hard. Heart racing under my palms.

He groans again - deeper, rougher. His hand leaves my breast, slides down between our bodies. Fingers push my panties aside. One thick finger brushes my c**t.

I moan. Needy. Filthy.

He does. Circles my c**t slow at first. Then faster. I rock against his hand, panting into his mouth. His other arm locks around my waist, holds me tight while his fingers work me open. I whimper. Loud. Don’t care who hears.

We never locked the door.

Didn’t even think about it.

His thumb presses harder on my c**t. I’m close. “Edwin...”

I break. Hard. Body jerks, thighs clamp around his wrist. Wetness floods his hand, drips down.

He keeps stroking slow inside me, dragging every aftershock until I’m shaking, oversensitive, whimpering.

Then he pulls his fingers free. Brings them to his mouth. Licks them slow while staring straight into my eyes. Dirty. Claiming. Mine.

I kiss him again. Grind down on his c**k - still trapped, rock-hard, desperate.

His hands go for his belt. Hungry.

That’s when the door swings open.

No knock.

Daniel stands there. Folder in hand. Mouth open like he was about to speak.

He stops dead.

We stop dead.

I’m still on Edwin’s lap. Skirt rucked up. Blouse half-undone. His shirt open. Lips red. My wetness still shining on his chin and fingers.

Then he chuckles softly.

“Wow,” he says. “Office politics just got a lot more interesting.”

Edwin’s eyes turn ice cold.

“Get out.”

Daniel ignores him.

Instead, he looks straight at me.

“Lilian,” he says slowly, “you never mentioned you were… involved with the boss.”

And suddenly the air in the room feels like a battlefield.

Because for the first time since I met him… Daniel doesn’t look calm anymore.

He looks like a man who’s decided he wants something.

Or someone.

Or me? Hmmm!