Wet For Daddy

Chapter 9

Drake Humphrey’s POV

The silence of the penthouse office was a scream.

The air conditioning hummed, the city lights glittered with their indifferent million-dollar sparkle, and the only proof that Chloe Anthony had been here, stripped bare, defiant, and shattering my control was the faint, sweet scent of her arousal clinging to the thick carpet and, unforgivably, the taste still lingering on my tongue.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, the glass cool beneath my fingers, and took a slow, deep breath, trying to inhale the cold, sterile air of corporate dominance. It didn't work. The scent of her jasmine and reckless youth overrode the expensive leather and polished wood of my domain.

Get it together, Drake.

I reached up, running the back of my hand across my lower lip, scrubbing ruthlessly. I had wiped the evidence clean the moment I pulled away, yet the phantom taste, that coppery, intensely female nectar—persisted. It was a vile, intoxicating reminder of the precipice I had stood upon and the cold, brutal control I had to exert to pull myself back.

I had been fully hard, seconds from claiming her, seconds from burying my shame and desire deep inside her, right here on the desk where I made billion dollar decisions. It would have been the ultimate act of self-immolation.

She is twenty-three. She is broken. She is Jack's.

The mantra, once an unbreakable shield, now sounded hollow and weak. She wasn't Jack's. She had screamed that truth in my face. Jack had discarded her, and she, in her defiant, furious beauty, had offered herself to me as a weapon of revenge and a balm for her humiliation. And I, the supposed pillar of the Humphrey family, had nearly accepted that poisonous gift.

My chest felt tight, the kind of crushing pressure that no amount of business success could alleviate. I glanced back at the mahogany desk. I should have it cleaned. Detailed. Sanitized. But even the thought of the cleaning crew finding that tiny, almost invisible stain of arousal was enough to make my stomach clench with paranoia.

I reached for my phone, intending to call security to send the car away, but I paused. The screen was dark, but I knew what was coming.

She will pester me. She will test my self-control until I break.

I remembered the fierce, raw conviction in her eyes. Chloe didn't retreat. She challenged me. The act of rejecting her, the act of leaving her stranded and aching with unspent pleasure was meant to teach her a lesson in power. It was meant to be the final word. Instead, it felt like I had just tossed a match onto a puddle of gasoline.

The phone vibrated. Unknown number.

I stared at it. I knew it was her. It was a physical ache, a craving that was far worse than the usual lust. This was an addiction. This was the dark need to own the defiance in her eyes.

I let it ring until it cut off.

Three minutes later, it rang again. She was relentless.

I paced the office, running a hand through my hair. I didn't hate her. I hated myself for being unable to resist her. Jack had always been a loose cannon, an entitlement case. But Chloe was different. She was pure, sharp fire, and she threatened to expose the emptiness of my perfectly constructed life.

Another call. I finally threw the phone onto the plush office couch, burying it under a cushion, silencing the persistent electronic demand.

It wasn't just a scandal. It was the guilt. Guilt toward Margaret, my wife, whose icy control I had endured for twenty years for the sake of the family name. Guilt toward Jack, the worthless boy I was supposed to protect, not punish by taking his cast-off lover.

A terrifying rush of paranoia washed over me. I heard the faint snick of the elevator opening. My blood ran cold.

Margaret.

I froze, heart pounding against my ribs, looking toward the elevator bank. It was impossible. She never came up here unannounced. She was at the country club, or perhaps at a board dinner.

But the fear was so visceral, so intense, it conjured the scenario into terrifying reality.

I spun around, scanning the office for any sign. My eyes landed on the discarded black dress, now a dark puddle on the cream carpet near the desk. If Margaret walked in, that dress and the faint, sweet scent would be all the evidence she needed. Margaret wasn’t a crier; she was a predator. She would not just divorce me; she would dismantle me, personally and professionally, leaving nothing but dust.

My breath hitched. I could see her in my mind's eye: Margaret, regal and cold, walking toward the desk.

“Drake,” she would say, her voice calm, devoid of emotion, “Where is the integrity you demand from your subordinates?”

I could see her pale, manicured hand reaching down, picking up the black fabric. She wouldn't even have to look at me. She would know. She would know who wore it, how it was discarded, and what I had been doing to the boy who wore the Humphrey name.

The hallucination was so potent I actually took a step, reaching for the empty space where the dress lay. My palms were sweating.

This is what she does to me. This fear.

I stumbled back against the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The elevator remained dark, silent. It was only the wind outside, or perhaps a security check on the floor below. Margaret wasn't here. I was letting my guilt bleed into reality.

But the terror had served its purpose. It was a cold splash of reality. This affair wasn't a reckless fling; it was an active threat to the foundation of my life, the company, and the legacy I had spent decades building. Chloe Anthony was not a temporary relief; she was a beautiful, defiant anchor dragging me into the fire.

I grabbed the phone from the couch. It was time to reinforce the wall. I needed to focus on the structure and stability. I needed to remind myself that my desire for Chloe was a momentary weakness, not a declaration of war.

I deleted the anonymous number. Blocked it entirely.

“That’s it,” I muttered, staring at the blank contact list. “It ends now. I won’t ruin my life for a child.”

But as I stared out at the cold city, the image of Chloe’s face, her wet, demanding eyes, the raw hunger in her pleas—burned through my resolve. I knew, with a terrifying certainty, that this was far from over. I had rejected her, but the taste of her remained, a poison working its way through my system, waiting for the moment it could consume me entirely.