The CEO's Unspoken Love

Eleanor POV

I’m tangled in the sheets, my body pressed against Derek’s, the heat of his skin searing into mine. His blue-gray eyes lock onto me, glinting like storm clouds under moonlight, and I feel my breath hitch.

We’re in our bed, the one we’ve shared for years, but tonight it feels like a stage for something raw, something primal. My fingers trace the hard lines of his jaw, down his neck, to the taut muscles of his chest. He’s solid, real, and yet there’s a dreamlike haze to this moment, like I’m floating in a current I can’t control.

Derek’s hands find my waist, his grip firm but tender, pulling me closer until our hips align. I feel his cock, hard and insistent, pressing against my thigh, and a shiver runs through me. My own heat answers, my cunt already slick with want, pulsing with a need I can’t name.

I shift, straddling him, my knees sinking into the mattress as I position myself above him. His eyes never leave mine, and there’s a hunger there, a silent promise. I lower myself slowly, guiding him to my entrance, feeling the stretch as his tip breaches me. A gasp escapes my lips—sharp, involuntary—as I take him in, inch by inch, until he’s buried deep inside.

He groans, low and guttural, his hands tightening on my hips. I start to move, rocking slowly at first, savoring the way he fills me, the way my walls clench around him. My hands brace against his chest, nails digging into his skin as I find a rhythm.

His hips buck to meet me, each thrust sending a jolt through my core. The friction is exquisite, a slow burn building to something fierce. I lean forward, my breasts brushing his chest, and he catches one nipple in his mouth, sucking hard enough to make me moan. The sensation shoots straight to my clit, and I grind against him, chasing that spark.

“Eleanor,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice rough with desire. His hands slide to my ass, guiding my movements, urging me faster.

I oblige, riding him harder, the bed creaking beneath us. My thighs tremble, my breath coming in short, desperate gasps as the pressure builds. His cock hits that perfect spot inside me, again and again, and I’m unraveling, my body tightening around him. I feel him tense, his grip bruising now, and I know he’s close too.

One of his hands slips between us, fingers finding my clit, circling with just the right pressure. It’s too much—I cry out, my orgasm crashing over me like a wave, my cunt pulsing around him as he thrusts once, twice, then spills inside me with a groan.

I collapse onto his chest, our breaths mingling, sweat slicking our skin together. His arms wrap around me, and for a moment, everything is perfect. But then the edges of the world blur, the weight of him fading. I blink, and the room shifts, the warmth of his body replaced by cool sheets. My eyes snap open, and I’m alone in our bed, the ache between my legs a cruel reminder.

It was a dream—Derek’s gone, and this empty bed is all that’s left. My heart twists, but I push it down, staring at the ceiling as dawn creeps through the curtains.

--

My fingers still stung slightly from rose thorns as I examined the wedding arrangement I'd just completed for a wedding at Trinity Church.

The cascade of white roses and delicate baby's breath filled the shop with their intoxicating fragrance, each petal a silent witness to promises I knew were often as fragile as they were.

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the bay windows of Four Seasons Florals, casting golden patterns across the polished hardwood floors that had once represented my single triumph outside the Wells family shadow.

Just as I stepped back to assess my work, my phone rang.

"Eleanor Linch," I answered, injecting professionalism into my voice despite the exhaustion seeping into my bones. Despite being married to Derek Wells for three years, I'd insisted on keeping my father's surname professionally. My clients didn't need to know I was connected to the Wells, and maintaining this separation gave me a small sense of identity that was truly mine.

"So you're alive after all!" Olivia's voice boomed through the speaker, vibrant and unapologetic as always. "I've texted you three times! Let me guess—you're busy playing the dutiful wife because your husband is back in town?"

My heart didn't just skip a beat. "What are you talking about?"

"Seriously? Derek. He landed at Logan this morning. You didn't know?" The surprise in Olivia's voice quickly crystallized into righteous fury.

I gripped the counter edge until my knuckles turned white, the smooth marble cool against my palm—a stark contrast to the heat rising within me.

The next second, my phone pinged with an incoming message from Olivia: a candid photo of Derek at Logan Airport. Even in the grainy image, his sharp jawline, piercing eyes, and that permanently furrowed brow were unmistakable.

"Setting aside the fact that there's basically no emotional foundation to your marriage," Olivia added, "your husband has a face that's criminally handsome. It should be illegal to look that good while being such an eloquent phantom in your life."

I stared at his profile, feeling the familiar ache bloom in my chest, unfurling like one of my hothouse peonies—beautiful and doomed to wilt. Not even Olivia knew the depth of my feelings for Derek. That secret I'd kept buried for years, telling myself there was no point in sharing a love that would never be reciprocated.

"I should go," I managed, suddenly aware of how the air around me had thinned.

I quickly closed the shop, ignoring the light-headedness that spiraled through me from having skipped lunch. Outside, Newbury Street pulsed with the evening crowd—students with carefree laughter, tourists mapping generations of wealth through architecture, locals parading dogs groomed more meticulously than some children. None of them could see the invisible countdown clock hanging over my head.

During the cab ride to Beacon Hill, I wondered if Derek would even come to our townhouse. He might go straight to his parents' mansion instead, as he'd done the last time he was in Boston.

Inside, the house was silent and pristine—a state I maintained myself, having dismissed the housekeeper last week. What was the point when I lived alone most of the year? The only sign of life was the excited barking coming from the kitchen, where my recent addition to the household was waiting.

"Hey, Sunny," I called, a genuine smile breaking through as the golden retriever puppy bounded toward me, his whole body wiggling with excitement. I'd adopted him three weeks ago, a decision I hadn't bothered to consult Derek about. After all, he was hardly ever here, and I needed someone to come home to.

I spent the evening playing with Sunny in the small garden behind our townhouse, then took him for a walk around the neighborhood. When we returned, I fed him, then climbed the stairs to my bedroom.

While absently scrolling through social media after my shower, a post caught my eye. Thomas Stone, one of Derek's friends, had shared a photo captioned "Welcome home!" There was Derek at the Somerset Club, surrounded by friends, a glass of whiskey in hand and his collar casually open—the universal sign he was relaxed and enjoying himself.

I put my phone down, the ache in my chest intensifying.

After a long shower, letting the hot water wash away my disappointment, I wrapped myself in my silk nightgown and settled into bed with a book I'd been meaning to finish.

Unable to focus on the words on the page, I recalled the day I first arrived at the Wells home.

I was thirteen, newly orphaned after my parents' deaths in that financial fraud scandal that no one in the Wells family ever discussed. I was terrified, clutching my small suitcase. Fifteen-year-old Derek had barely acknowledged me, too busy with his lacrosse gear to notice the scared girl in his foyer. How strange that over ten years, we'd gone from strangers to family, only to become strangers again after marriage.

Then I thought I heard something.

I sat up quickly, pulse racing, the silk sheets whispering against my skin like secrets being exchanged.

Next thing I knew, my name was spoken in a voice both intimately familiar and strangely foreign, as if it wasn’t my name at all.

"Eleanor."