CHAPTER 8
Gabriel's Pov
I woke up hard.
It wasn't new — not after last night.
I had spent a solid twenty minutes in the shower, one hand braced against the tiled wall, the other wrapped tight around myself, stroking to the rhythm of a fantasy that had no business being that vivid.
My little vixen.
That wicked mouth. That breath over my ear. That damn smirk as she walked away, leaving me in a women's bathroom with my control shattered around me like broken glass.
I thought coming would help. That if I let the tension break — hard, fast, with her name damn near torn from my throat — maybe I could sleep.
But no.
She followed me into my dreams.
This time, she was beneath me. Naked. Moaning. Biting her lip and whispering things I didn't dare repeat. I had her hips pinned, her wrists held tight, her back arched as I drove into her like she belonged there—under me, around me, mine.
And now here I was. Sheets tangled. Cock aching. My mind is still full of the one woman I shouldn't want this much.
It was going to be a long goddamn morning.
I sat up, scrubbing a hand over my jaw, still tasting her in my imagination. Still seeing her — red dress, dark eyes, skin like cream and sin.
She wasn't just under my skin now. She was in my bloodstream. A slow-burning venom I didn't want to cure.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood, ignoring the stiffness between my thighs. Shower. Suit. Office. I needed to bury myself in anything that wasn't her.
But even as the water hit my back, even as I suited up in the usual armor of sharp lines and darker moods, I couldn't stop replaying it all.
The look in her eyes when she leaned in.
The way she played me like a fucking instrument, right to the edge… and stopped.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
And worse, she knew exactly what it did to me.
I should've been pissed.
Instead, I was obsessed.
This wasn't a fling. This wasn't fun.
This was war.
And I had every intention of winning.
No matter how long it took.
The elevator dinged just as Cole started rattling off my schedule.
"Board call at eleven," he said, scrolling through his tablet. "Investor lunch at one. You've got twenty unread messages from legal and—"
I waved a hand. "Summarize it."
"Legal's panicking. Something about zoning on the new East Side property. But before all that…" He paused, tapping the tablet. "You've got Stephen Whitaker. The meeting's scheduled in thirty minutes. At his office."
I groaned, scrubbing a hand down my face. "I'd almost managed to forget." I exhaled sharply. "Fine. Get the car. Let's get this over with."
Ten minutes later, we were cruising through midtown. The sky was too bright for my mood. My reflection in the window looked colder than usual.
The building was a gaudy glass box — new, soulless, and reeking of money that didn't care where it came from.
We stepped out of the elevator on the top floor, polished floors gleaming like they were waxed every hour. The corridor stretched ahead, quiet and clinical.
I walked past the assistant's glass office before I thought I saw her.
A flash of movement. Dark hair. That curve of the jaw. The posture. Her.
My little vixen.
I stopped mid-stride.
What the hell—
I stepped back.
Empty chair.
No one in sight.
I stared a second longer.
Nothing.
My mind was playing tricks. Painting her shadow into places.
You're losing it, Anderson.
I pushed forward, jaw set, and reached Stephen's door.
Didn't bother knocking.
I opened the door and stepped inside.
"Let's begin," I said flatly.
And shut it behind me.
Stephen looked up from behind his ostentatious glass desk, the kind that screamed overcompensating. His smile stretched too wide, too fake.
"Gabriel," he boomed, standing to extend a hand. "Finally. Thought you'd given up on me."
"I had," I muttered, taking his hand for the briefest moment before sitting down across from him. "This meeting is a formality. Let's keep it short."
Whitaker chuckled like I'd made a joke. I didn't.
He tapped his intercom. "Two coffees in the office. Now."
Then he turned back to me, clasping his hands together like a priest preparing to bless someone with sin.
"I'll get right to it," he said, eyes gleaming. "Your company has reach. Mine has roots. Together, we'd be unstoppable. Logistics, offshore accounts, European contracts—"
"No," I said flatly.
Stephen blinked, caught mid-sentence.
"No?" he echoed, as if unfamiliar with the word.
"I'm not interested in laundering money through your 'roots.' You want credibility, and you think aligning with me gets it. I get nothing out of it."
"You get growth," he snapped, composure cracking just a bit. "You get access to markets you've never even touched. You get—"
"An ulcer," I deadpanned, bored now.
He leaned forward. "You're missing a golden opportunity, Gabriel."
"I've missed worse and come out fine."
Before Stephen could retort, a knock broke the tension.
He glanced toward the door. "Come in."
The door opened.
A pair of heels clicked softly against the marble floor.
"Here's the coffee. Is there anything else you need, Mr. Whitaker?"
I froze.
That voice.