Chapter 11

I was done.

Friendship? Didn't care.

Years of working together? Irrelevant.

I needed her. Everywhere.

Not just on my hands. Not just on my wrists, my fingers, my knuckles.

I needed to feel that hot, wet mouth on the rest of me.

So I stopped thinking and stopped pretending.

And simply made my move.

"Sienna," I said casually, leaning against her desk. She was filing the documents we needed for the presentation. "We need to finish the zoning analysis before the morning meeting."

She barely looked up. "I know. I was going to go over it after dinner." 

I exhaled, waiting a beat before dropping it.

"Come over tonight," I said sounding as casual as I can. Pretending as if it isn't the first time I asked her to work in my apartment.

Finally, she glanced up, brows furrowing. "We can just do it in the office."

"No, we can't."

"Why?"

Because I want you in my apartment. In my space. Where I can actually touch you without the threat of HR involvement.

But obviously, I couldn't say that.

So I bullshitted.

"My Wi-Fi's faster."

She narrowed her eyes. Suspicious. "Cassian, that's the worst excuse I've ever heard."

I shrugged, smirking. "Yet, you're still thinking about it. I promise to be the best host"

She rolled her eyes, sighing. "Fine. I'll come over after dinner."

When she arrived, we actually worked.

For two straight hours.

Spreadsheets, zoning regulations, structural analysis—actual, productive work.

And it should've been fine.

But I couldn't focus.

Because she was in my apartment.

Sitting on my couch, laptop on her lap, looking so fucking at home in my space that something inside me snapped.

I watched her work—watched the way she absently chewed her lip, the way she stretched her fingers before typing, the way her eyes flickered with concentration.

I shifted in my seat, clearing my throat. "Need a drink?"

She barely glanced up. "Water's fine."

I went to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle, taking a second to breathe.

Because I was so close to losing it.

So close to just dragging her onto my lap and letting her do whatever the hell she wanted.

I walked back, tossing the bottle to her. "Here."

She caught it easily, muttering a quick, "Thanks."

I dropped onto the couch beside her, resting my arm on the back of it, half-testing her.

She didn't even flinch.

Which only made me want to push harder.

"Cass," she murmured, eyes still on the screen. "I swear to God, if you don't stop staring at me, I'm going home."

I smirked. "I'm not staring."

"You're always staring."

"Can you blame me?"

She paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Then, slowly, she turned to me, fully aware that something had shifted.

The air between us was too thick, too heavy.

And for the first time, she didn't have an excuse to leave.

Because this wasn't the office.

Sienna just…

Rolled her eyes.

Like I was nothing.

Like I wasn't a six-foot-something, broad-shouldered, well-built, objectively attractive man sitting right next to her.

Like I didn't have women falling over themselves just to get my attention.

But her?

Nothing.

She didn't give a single shit about my face.

Didn't care about my body. Didn't even look at it.

All she ever wanted was my hands.

And that pissed me off.

She stretched, sighing, and stood. "I'm getting a drink. You want one?"

"No." I focused on my laptop not on her dainty feet or how sexy she looks right now.

I sounded pissed.

Because I was.

Because I was sitting here, so painfully hard for her I was practically vibrating, and she was acting like this was just another work session.

Like she wasn't currently ruining my life.

Sienna gave me a look, sehrugged, and walked off toward my kitchen.

I sat there, seething.

A few minutes later, she returned with not just a drink—but a whole damn bottle.

Whiskey. Strong shit.

She set it on the table between us, poured herself a glass, and took a slow sip, watching me.

Like she was waiting for me to snap.

I exhaled hard, grabbed the bottle, and took a long burning swallow.

If she wasn't going to acknowledge the insanity happening between us, then fine.

I'd bury it.

I'd pretend like I wasn't two seconds away from losing my mind.

I leaned forward, setting the bottle down with a sharp thud, and pulled my laptop closer.

"Let's finish this," I muttered.

Sienna smirked. "Thought you'd never say it."

And so we worked.

In utter silence.

Both of us ignoring the fact that I wanted to throw her onto my bed and ruin her.

We had just finished working.

Tension still hummed between us, thick and suffocating, but I had forced it down, buried it under spreadsheets and zoning plans.

And then she had to start it.

"I should go home," Sienna murmured, stretching slightly.

"Call an Uber," I said flatly, still pissed.

She tilted her head. "Why are you mad?"

I scoffed. Like she didn't know.

Like she wasn't the sole reason I was drowning in frustration.

She sighed, setting her empty glass on the table, and then—**completely unfazed by my mood—**she looked at me and said, "Give me your hand."

And like a goddamn idiot, I did.

Because of course, I did.

Because I had been trained for this.

Conditioned.

The moment her fingers wrapped around mine, my brain shut off.

She did the usual—**stroking, admiring, kissing, licking—**except tonight, she wasn't as careful.

She wasn't holding back.

Because the alcohol had made her brave.

I barely had time to process before she traced my fingers again.

And just like before, she followed it.

From my wrist, up my arm.

Licking.

Like a goddamn animal following a treat. Tongue so hot it burns me.

Like she was wired to do this.

Her mouth reached my **bicep, my shoulder, my neck—**and then she latched on.

Like a damn leech.

I let out a sharp breath, fisting my hands, stomach tightening. 

Her tongue flicked over my pulse, her lips hot and wet and shameless.

She wasn't thinking.

She wasn't even aware of what she was doing.

Because if she was, she would've realized she had just thrown gasoline on an already raging fire.

My patience snapped.

I sat back, reached for my shirt, and yanked it off.

Leaving me in just my boxers.

I dragged a finger from my collarbone down my chest, over my nipple, then further down.

"Follow it," I murmured.

And she did.

Like she was made to.

Like she was completely, utterly lost in this.

Her tongue flicked over my chest, tracing the exact path I laid out for her.

Slow. Methodical. Like she had no other purpose but to follow.

Then, lower.

Down to my stomach.

My navel.

Lower.

And that was when I knew—

She wasn't stopping.

She was doing this on purpose.

She was ruining me.

And I was going to let her.

This wasn't just teasing anymore.

This wasn't fun.

This was the most dangerous thing I had ever done.

Because I couldn't stop her.

Didn't want to stop her.

She was still following my hand, still letting my fingers guide her, still licking and kissing like she had no other purpose.

And then—

I did it.

I let my hand drop lower.

Between my thighs.

To my aching, pulsing, desperate dick.

I wrapped my fingers around the base, my head tilted back against the couch, exhaling hard.

I didn't say a word.

Didn't have to.

Because she followed.

Her tongue flicked out, just barely tracing the tip— Her wet tongue licking my fingers. Grazing on my hard dick as I slowly pump. Groaning and lost.

And I fucking exploded.

It was instant.

Like a fuse had been lit, like the pressure had built too much, too long, and the moment she made contact—

I came.

Hard.

Everywhere.

Her face.

Her hair.

I kept going.

Jerking in pleasure, in complete short-circuiting bliss, unable to stop.

She went completely still.

Like a deer in headlights.

Like she had just been caught in a nuclear blast.

And me?

I was still coming.

Still twitching, throbbing, leaking, gripping my thighs so hard my knuckles turned white.

I had never—never—had an orgasm that just kept going like this.

She stared.

Cum dripping down her forehead, into her lashes, onto her cheek.

I was too dazed to move, too wrecked to say anything.

Then, she took a deep breath, slowly got up, and excused herself.

Didn't wipe her face. Didn't look at me. Just—walked out the front door.

With my cum still hanging in her hair.

I watched her leave, still half-hard, still trying to catch my breath.

And then?

I passed out.

Slept like a fucking baby.