Chapter 15

After countless sleepless nights, back-to-back site visits, and enough paperwork to crush a grown man, the project was finally—mercifully—wrapping up.

The final structural walkthrough had been signed off. The client, who had once been the human embodiment of a laser level, had stopped obsessing over every bolt and beam.

The air in the site office felt lighter. Looser. Like we could finally breathe without a hard hat.

"So... beach trip?" Carla piped up, already half-draped over her desk. She was our site scheduler as she stood beside her desk cause she doesn't want to go near Cassian's room which is near hers.

"Yes," I said immediately. "I want waves. I want sand. I want a drink served in a coconut by someone named Diego."

Marc, our structural analyst, seduced by hearing juicy rumors immediately came closer. "I second that. If I don't see a shoreline in the next week, I might throw myself off one of the beams I designed."

Carla rolled her chair closer, grinning. "I'm writing an email. Subject: Post-Project Recovery Plan. Body: one week of sun, sin, and absolutely no spreadsheets."

"Add a line about hazard pay," Marc said. "For emotional trauma."

I leaned back in my chair, smirking. "Make it heartfelt. Tell Cassian this team needs a tropical intervention."

Carla laughed, typing air-keys like she was serious. "Dear Sir. We are broken. Please fix us with beach."

"I just want to not wear steel-toed boots," I sighed. "Or a reflective vest. Or be screamed at by a foreman named Randy."

That's when Marc turned to me with a suspicious squint. "Speaking of reflective vests... what's the ETA on your 'site walk' with the boss? You know, the private check-ins."

Carla let out a scandalous gasp. "Right! The suspiciously long check-ins. The ones where you both somehow return looking... flushed."

"Oh my god," I muttered, throwing a crumpled Post-it at her. "He's the boss, I'm the secretary. Do we need reasons to meet privately?"

"Uh-huh. Coordinate bodies?" Marc offered with a grin.

"Literally illegal," I said, deadpan. "Also, highly inappropriate."

"And yet... so convenient," Carla chimed in.

I opened my mouth to defend myself when my work phone buzzed.

From: Cassian

Got a minute? Step into my office.

The air shifted. Slowly, dramatically, all three of them turned to stare at me.

"Ohhhh, busted," Marc said, delighted.

"He so heard us," Carla whispered, eyes wide with mock horror. "He's calling you in for... punishment."

"You people are unwell," I said, already standing and pretending not to check my reflection in the darkened screen of my monitor.

Ava stood and offered a solemn salute. "Godspeed. If we hear knocking against the drywall, we'll know."

Carla was grinning so hard her face could crack. "Tell Daddy Cassian the crew wants Bora-Bora."

I walked away, pulse slightly faster than it should've been, my steel-capped boots thudding softly against the vinyl.

We weren't doing anything wrong.

Not really.

Except… we totally were.

And no one knew it.

I walked in, and before a single word was exchanged, I was licking his hand.

Tracing my tongue over his knuckles, over his palm, over the veins on his wrist. Forgetting anyone in this weird world of theirs.

I barely noticed when he moved his hand away.

Because I knew what came next.

His fingers trailing over my body.

His fingers swept across the swell of my breast, brushing over the sensitive peak with the lightest, most maddening touch—just a ghost of contact, as if he knew exactly how to drive me insane without even trying.

My back arched, breath trapped in my throat, and yet he didn't press harder.

He lingered.

Toyed.

Teased.

And every nerve in my body lit up like a live wire, desperate for more.

Then—he moved.

Lower.

A slow, deliberate descent that felt more sinful than if he had torn the clothes from my body.

I didn't stop him.

Didn't even dare to breathe.

Because I was too spellbound by the sight of his hand slipping beneath my skirt, fingers trailing along the inside of my thigh with reverence that felt almost worshipful.

The anticipation burned hotter than the touch itself.

And when he finally found the heat between my legs—

Oh God.

He didn't rush.

He stroked over me, featherlight at first, as if testing just how soaked I already was.

As if he already knew.

And then he pressed.

Not hard—no.

But enough to make my hips jerk, my body begging.

Then—

He slid a finger inside me.

My mouth fell open. No sound came.

Then another joined the first, stretching me, filling me, and I could feel the slick glide of his skin against mine. The way he moved was torturously slow, controlled—like he wanted to memorize the feel of me from the inside out.

My heart pounded so loudly I swore he could hear it.

My hands flew to his arm, nails biting into his skin—not to stop him, but to ground myself.

Then he began to move.

A rhythm.

A claiming.

One thrust.

Two.

Three.

And I broke.

It wasn't just pleasure—it was a detonation. A full-body unraveling that shattered something deep inside me. I clenched around his fingers so hard it was almost painful, but I couldn't stop. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

Only feel.

My body trembled uncontrollably as I came, a cry spilling from my lips—raw, breathless, needy.

My legs gave out.

My head fell forward.

I was wrecked. Floating. Oblivion.

And still his hand stayed there, steady, buried deep in me as I trembled through the aftershocks.

My nails dug deeper into his wrist. I felt wetness, sweat, breath, skin—everything all at once, overwhelming.

I clung to him, like he was the only thing keeping me from dissolving completely.

And Cassian?

He just watched.

Like he had just broken me open and was memorizing every second of it.

When it was over, when I finally regained some form of sanity,

I fixed my skirt.

Grabbed my bag.

And walked out.

I went straight home.

Straight into the shower.

And stared at myself in the mirror, breath still ragged, fingers still trembling.

Because this?

This had to stop.

We were going somewhere we couldn't take back.

And if we kept going?