Chapter five.

Bridget arrived at Ridge Enterprises at 7:58 a.m. Tuesday. The building felt different today. Sharper edges, heavier air. She’d barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Alex’s face above her on that couch. His dark eyes, clenched jaw, the way he’d stopped himself even when she was begging. “Not yet. Not until you’re mine completely.”

She rode the elevator alone. Heart in her throat. Wet between her legs from the single text he’d sent at 2:17 a.m.:

*Door will be locked. Come straight to my office.*

The twenty-third floor was silent. Lights low. She walked the corridor like she was trespassing.

His door was closed. She tried the handle. Locked.

A soft click. It opened from the inside.

Alex stood there. Tie gone. Top two buttons of his shirt undone. Sleeves rolled, his eyes burning.

“You came,” he said.

“You summoned.” She stepped inside and he locked the door behind her.

The room smelled of coffee and him. The blinds were half-drawn. Rain started again outside, soft against the glass.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at her.

She lifted her chin. “Say it.”

He crossed the space in two strides and grabbed her face with both hands. He kissed her like he was starving.

Hard. Possessive. Tongue claiming. She moaned into his mouth. Hands fisting his shirt.

He broke away. Forehead to hers. Breathing ragged.

“You let him talk to you like that yesterday?” His voice was low. Dangerous.

“I told him no.” She dragged her nails down his chest. “I told him to leave.”

“Good girl.” The praise hit her like a drug. She arched against him.

He walked her backward until her thighs hit the edge of his desk. Lifted her onto it in one motion. Papers scattered. Neither cared.

His hands shoved her skirt up, found her soaked through her panties. He groaned against her neck.

“Fuck, Bridget. All this for me?”

“Since last night.” She spread her legs wider. “Since you left me aching.”

He tore the lace aside. Fingers sliding through her folds, circling her clit. Slow and teasing.

She whimpered. “Please.”

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Alex—fuck me like you mean it.”

He growled. Dropped to his knees and hooked her legs over his shoulders. His mouth on her in the next breath.

She cried out, her head falling back. Hands in his hair.

He devoured her. His tongue was relentless. Sucking. Flicking. Two fingers pushing inside. Crooking, pumping.

She came fast, screaming his name. Thighs clamping around his head.

He didn’t stop until she was shaking. Begging.

Then he stood. Unbuckled and shoved his trousers down just enough.

His cock was hard. Thick. Veined. Already leaking.

He lined up, then paused and looked at her.

Twenty-one years older.

Her father’s best friend.

The man who’d promised to watch out for her.

Guilt slammed into him like ice water.

He froze.

She felt it. Reached for him. “Alex—”

“I shouldn’t—” His voice cracked. “This is wrong. I know it’s wrong. Patrick trusts me. He asked me to protect you, not… not this.”

Her heart twisted. She cupped his face and made him look at her.

“Then stop.”

He didn’t move. He couldn’t.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him closer.

“I want this,” she whispered. “I want you. Even if it’s fucked up.”

His eyes searched hers.

“I’m old enough to be your—” He swallowed. “I’ve watched you grow up. I carried you on my shoulders. I promised him—”

“And now you’re going to fuck me on your desk.” She rocked against him. Let him feel how wet she still was. “Say it. Own it. Or walk away.”

He shuddered then closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the guilt was still there, but the want was stronger.

He thrust in. One hard stroke. Buried to the hilt.

She gasped. Nails raking his back.

He stilled. Forehead pressed to hers. He didn’t wait for her to get adjusted to his length.

“Twenty-one years older,” he rasped, “and I still own this pussy.”

She moaned and clenched around him.

He started moving. Slow at first, then faster. Harder. Desk creaking. Papers sliding to the floor.

“Say it again,” he demanded.

“I’m yours.”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Alex—fuck—yours—”

He pounded into her. His hand on her throat, not squeezing, just holding. Possessive.

“You feel that?” he growled. “No one else gets this. No one else gets you.”

“No one,” she gasped. “Only you.”

Guilt flickered again. He heard Patrick’s voice in his head. *You’re the only one I trust with her.*

He fucked her harder. Like he could outrun it.

She came again. Clenching. Screaming. Legs shaking.

He followed. Growling her name, spilling deep.

They stayed tangled like that, sweating and breathing hard.

He didn’t pull out. He just held her. His arms around her back, face buried in her neck.

“I don’t want to let go,” he murmured.

“Then don’t.”

Minutes passed. The rain was louder now.

He finally eased back and looked at her. Her face was flushed with sweat dripping.

“We keep this secret,” he said, his voice rough. “No one knows. Not Patrick. Not Jake. No one.”

She nodded. “No one.”

He helped her off the desk and fixed her skirt. Buttoned her blouse with careful fingers. He kissed her forehead and stayed there for a moment.

She touched his jaw. “You’re still guilty.”

He exhaled. “I’ll always be guilty.”

“Good.” She kissed him softly. “Means it matters.”

He watched her leave, the door clicking shut behind her.

He sank into his chair, his head in his hands.

The guilt was still there. A sharp, permanent guilt.

But so was the taste of her on his tongue.

And the need to do it again.

His phone buzzed.

Bridget: *I can still feel you.*

He closed his eyes. He was starting to get hard again.

Then another buzz. From Patrick.

*Jake called again. Says he wants to apologize to Bridge. I told him to come by the house tonight. Thought it might help her close the chapter.*

Alex’s blood went cold.

He stared at the message.

Then typed to Bridget:

*Tell him to stay the fuck away. Or I will.*

Sent it.

He leaned back, his jaw locked.

The affair had started.

And the fallout was already here.