Chapter 16
1093 Words
"This isn't obsession, Elara. It's possession."
Her pulse roared in her ears.
Nicholas stood too close, his touch too firm, his presence too overwhelming.
She should push him away. Should fight him.
But her body betrayed her.
Her skin burned where he touched her.
Her breath hitched when his fingers slid lower—just the barest graze along her collarbone.
A smirk tugged at his lips.
"You feel that, sweetheart?" Nicholas's voice was low, dark, dangerous.
"You can lie to yourself all you want, but your body—" his fingers ghosted along her wrist, where her pulse was racing wildly "—it already knows who owns it."
Her nails dug into his chest. Hard.
"You're delusional," she snapped.
He chuckled. "Am I?"
His grip tightened.
And suddenly—he pulled her flush against him.
A gasp escaped her lips.
His heat seared into her.
Every inch of him was hard, strong, unyielding.
Her stomach clenched.
Her knees wavered.
And Nicholas saw it.
Felt it.
A wicked smirk played at his lips. "I could prove it to you right now."
Her breath came ragged, uneven.
"Try it," she whispered, voice filled with challenge.
Nicholas’s eyes darkened.
For a moment, she thought he would.
That he’d kiss her, devour her, ruin her.
But then—
He did something worse.
He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, his voice a dark promise.
"Not yet."
His fingers dragged down her arm, slow, torturous.
He released her.
Stepped back.
And just like that—the heat, the tension, the fire between them?
It turned into a slow, agonizing burn.
Elara’s nails curled into fists.
Her breath was still uneven.
She hated him for this.
Hated that he had all the control right now.
That he could leave her wanting. Shaking. Burning.
Nicholas smirked, knowing exactly what he’d done.
"Careful what you wish for, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice laced with dark amusement.
Then, with one last lingering look—he walked away.
Leaving Elara to deal with the fire he had started.
And this time?
She wasn’t sure she could put it out.
Elara stood there, her breath uneven, her body still burning from Nicholas’s touch.
The bastard had walked away.
Walked. Away.
Like he hadn’t just shattered her defenses. Like he hadn’t just turned her world upside down with one sentence—
"Not yet."
Her nails curled into fists.
Oh, he thought he had all the control?
That he could leave her shaking, wanting, powerless?
Not a chance.
Nicholas Wolfe wanted to play games?
Fine.
She’d make sure she played them better.
Elara straightened, pushing back the heat still lingering on her skin.
If he thought she’d just sit back and wait for him to come ruin her, he was dead wrong.
She wasn’t some damsel waiting to be conquered.
She was a storm.
And it was time Nicholas Wolfe learned that the hard way.
Nicholas sat in his office, his fingers tapping against the desk, his thoughts consumed by her.
Elara.
The way she looked at him—fire and defiance, rage and desire.
The way her breath hitched when he touched her.
The way her pulse betrayed her.
He should have taken what was his.
But no.
No, he wanted her to break first.
To come to him.
To admit what she refused to say out loud.
That she wanted him.
That she needed him.
That she was already his.
A slow smirk curled at his lips as he leaned back.
She could fight all she wanted.
In the end, she’d lose.
His phone buzzed.
A message.
From her.
His brows furrowed as he unlocked his phone.
It was a single line.
Dinner tonight. My place. Don’t be late.
Nicholas’s smirk widened.
Oh, sweetheart.
She thought she was setting the trap.
But she had no idea she was already caught.
Elara watched the clock.
7:59 PM.
One more minute.
She sat on the edge of her dining table, her legs crossed, a glass of wine in hand. The apartment was dimly lit, casting soft shadows against the sleek furniture.
She had set the perfect trap.
Nicholas Wolfe thought he had control?
Not tonight.
Tonight, she’d be the one calling the shots.
Because if there was one thing she knew about men like him—they didn’t like losing.
And nothing would piss him off more than her playing him at his own game.
8:00 PM.
The doorbell rang.
Right on time.
A slow smirk played on her lips as she stood, adjusting the thin strap of her satin dress. It wasn’t overtly revealing, but it was dangerous in all the right ways—soft fabric clinging to curves she knew he couldn’t ignore.
She took her time walking to the door.
Let him wait.
Finally, she unlocked it, pulling it open with a calm, unreadable expression.
Nicholas stood there, dressed in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled up, exuding danger and control.
His eyes swept over her, dark and assessing.
Then—his lips curved.
"Playing hostess now, sweetheart?" His voice was smooth, but the edge was there.
Good.
That meant she was already under his skin.
Elara stepped back, motioning him inside. "Would you rather I be playing something else?"
Nicholas’s smirk deepened, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped inside, his presence consuming the space instantly.
Elara closed the door, her pulse steady, her every movement deliberate.
"Wine?" she offered, pouring herself another glass.
Nicholas leaned against the counter, watching her like a predator studying prey.
"Sure," he said, voice low, almost amused. "Let’s see what you’re up to."
She handed him a glass, her fingers brushing his—a barely-there touch.
Nicholas’s jaw tightened, but he took the glass, swirling the dark liquid before taking a slow sip.
Elara did the same, letting the moment stretch.
Letting the tension build.
Then—she tilted her head, her voice light, teasing.
"You seem tense, Wolfe. Did you think this was some kind of trap?"
Nicholas exhaled a soft laugh, setting his glass down.
His eyes locked onto hers.
"Sweetheart," he murmured, stepping closer, closing the space between them.
Then—his fingers brushed her chin, lifting it just slightly.
"You and I both know..." His voice dropped, dark and full of warning.
"I don’t fall into traps. I set them."
Elara’s breath hitched—but she didn’t back down.
Her lips curled into a slow, wicked smile.
"Then I guess we’ll find out tonight," she whispered.
The tension snapped tight.
And just like that—the game was officially on.
- Writer
