Chapter 9

Cassian's POV

This had gone way past teasing.

Way past a joke.

I started this game, thinking it would be funny, thinking it was just a little power play, something to mess with her.

But I never expected her to lick my damn hand.

And the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

I liked it.

No—I felt it.

From the moment her tongue flicked against my skin, something sparked in my brain, shot straight down my spine, and settled like a fire in my gut.

Lower.

Aching.

Tight.

She pulled back too fast—like she hadn't even realized what she had done until it was too late.

And the look on her face?

First, innocence—like she hadn't just done something unhinged.

Then, absolute, mortified horror.

And then? She ran.

Left me there, at my desk, hard as a damn rock, staring at my hand like it was some kind of cursed object.

Like it was her hand now.

Like it belonged to whatever obsession she had built in her head.

And I let her go.

Because I was still processing.

Still sitting there, fingers curling into a fist, replaying the sensation of her tongue, hot and wet, just barely grazing my skin.

It shouldn't have done anything to me. Me?

It was just a hand.

It wasn't like that.

Except—it was.

Because suddenly, the way she looked at my hands wasn't just amusing anymore.

It was affecting me.

And now?

Now, every time she glanced down—every time her gaze lingered a little too long, every time her breath hitched just slightly when I stretched my fingers or adjusted my watch—

I felt it.

Felt it everywhere.

And suddenly, I wasn't teasing anymore.

I was waiting.

I had no idea what I was doing anymore.

This started as a joke—a little teasing, a little fun, something to mess with Sienna.

But then I gave her permission cause I need to lighten the mood. 

As a joke.

As in, "Well, sweetheart, if you liked it so much the first time, go ahead."

And she took it seriously and I couldn't take it back.

Now?

Now, we had sessions.

That was the only way to describe it.

Every day, she would come into my office, sit down across from me, and go to town on my goddamn hand.

Not just touching.

Licking. Sucking.

I should have stopped her.

I should have made a joke, pulled my hand away, told her she was completely insane.

But I didn't.

Because I was just as fucked in the head as she was.

So I let her.

Let her drag her tongue along my palm, let her press soft, wet kisses to my knuckles, let her wrap her mouth around my fingers, slow and experimental, like she was savoring every damn second.

And the worst part?

I had to pretend to work.

Pretend that I was not dying inside, that I wasn't aching, throbbing, clenching my jaw so damn hard my teeth might crack.

That I wasn't so hard it was actually painful.

And when she finished—**when she finally pulled away, eyes hazy, lips just barely slick—**she would leave.

Just like that.

Like this was nothing.

Like she was just fulfilling whatever twisted little fixation she had before clocking out for the day.

And me?

I sat there.

Staring at my wet, ruined hand.

Feeling so worked up I couldn't think straight.

And then, when the door finally clicked shut behind her—when I knew she was gone—

I slid my hand over my desk, pressed my forehead against it, and jerked off like a goddamn creep. Not wasting a minute. I used her saliva on my hand and imagined her tongue travelling somewhere more dangerous.

Because this wasn't a joke anymore.

This wasn't funny.

This was a problem.

We still worked—we were still us. Meetings, site visits, late nights hammering out contracts, dealing with clients. Business as usual.

Except, in between?

In between, she licked my goddamn hands.

And somehow, this was normal now.

I didn't question it. Not really.

Because I had let it happen too many times.

And now? I craved it.

We never talked about it. Not once.

It just… became part of our schedule.

Morning briefing. Emails. Site check. Lunch.

Hand session.

More emails. More meetings. Another hand session if she was feeling particularly stressed.

It should have been weird as hell.

Except, it already was.

She still avoided looking at the rest of me. Still treated my hands like they were the only part of me worth existing.

And me?

I was getting fucking weird about her.

Because now, I noticed things.

The way she looked at my hands before she touched them.

The way her breath hitched right before she leaned in.

The way she would kiss my palm absently while pretending to check her phone, like it wasn't completely deranged behavior.

And the worst part?

I wasn't doing this for her anymore.

I wanted it.

The feel of her lips, the warmth of her tongue, the way she sighed against my skin like this was something she needed.

And every time she left?

I had to sit there and pretend I wasn't two seconds away from losing my mind.

And it never stopped.

Because no matter how much work we buried ourselves in—no matter how professional we were outside of this madness—

We kept coming back.

Over and over.

Like it was routine.

Like it was natural.

Like we weren't completely, utterly deranged.