Chapter 2

That Saturday evening I escaped to my favorite dimly lit bar, the one with the low jazz and amber lighting that made everything feel like a secret. I ordered my usual—a dirty martini, extra olives—and then another. And another. Richard had left again that morning for another “critical” trip. No goodbye kiss. No promise of when he’d be back. Just the sound of the front door closing behind him like a full stop.

By the fourth cocktail, the room tilted softly. My anger had curdled into something sharper—grief, maybe, or self-loathing. I replayed our last fight in vicious loops.

I’d cornered him in the bedroom, voice cracking.

“Tell me what I’ve done. Tell me why you treat me like I disgust you.”

He’d caught my wrists when I shoved at his chest, not hard, just desperate.

“Get a grip, Payton,” he’d said quietly, eyes flat. “I’ll be back in a week. We’ll talk then.”

Then he walked out

Now the alcohol burned behind my eyes. I pushed off the stool, unsteady, determined to get home before I embarrassed myself further.

The floor rushed up.

Strong arms caught me before I hit the tiles.

That scent—clean cedar, expensive aftershave, something darkly masculine—hit me like memory.

I looked up through the haze.

Teddy.

“Oh great,” I slurred, laughing once, bitterly. “Now I’m hallucinating.”

My hand lifted on its own, fingertip tracing the sharp line of his jaw, then brushing across his lips.

“Oh, Teddy…”

He caught my finger gently between his teeth—a small, teasing bite—then released it.

“Are you drunk?” Concern edged his voice, but his eyes were dark, pupils blown.

Instead of answering, I surged up and kissed him.

It was reckless, hungry, three years of pent-up want poured into one collision. His mouth opened under mine instantly, hot and sure. His hands found my waist, pulling me flush against him until there was no space left for guilt. I moaned into the kiss as his tongue slid against mine—slow, claiming—and my fingers curled into his shirt like I’d drown if I let go.

We broke apart gasping, foreheads pressed together, his breath ragged against my swollen lips.

“Wow,” he whispered, the word rough.

My head was spinning, but clarity was creeping back in cruel waves.

“What… what is happening right now?”

He tilted my chin up with two fingers, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“What do you mean?”

“I must be very drunk. I’m so sorry.” I tried to step back.

His hand closed around my wrist—not tight, just enough to stop me.

“Where are you going?”

I stared at him, chest heaving.

“What’s wrong? Teddy, I’m married. This never happened. I have to go.”

“At least let me take you home.”

I closed my eyes, took a shaky breath.

“You don’t have to. I’m… I’m sober enough now. I’ll take a taxi.”

I pulled free and walked away on trembling legs, feeling his stare burn into my back the entire way to the door.

Monday morning the elevator bank was crowded, air thick with coffee breath and Monday dread.My phone buzzed.

Richard: Baby! Sorry for not messaging sooner. Been slammed. Will call later. Love you.

I stared at the screen until it blurred, then shoved the phone into my bag without replying.

A warm presence appeared at my side.

Teddy.

I kept my eyes on the floor numbers, cheeks burning.

“Good morning, sir,” I mumbled.

The doors opened. People shuffled out. We stepped in. The doors closed—and suddenly it was just us.

He moved in front of me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him.

“Don’t even think of avoiding me,” he said quietly.

His hand rose, fingertips stroking slowly through the blunt ends of my hair, tucking a strand behind my ear.

“Sir, please,” I whispered, the plea thin and unconvincing.

“I told you,” he said, voice dropping lower, “call me Teddy.”

Those eyes—storm-dark now, unblinking—held mine hostage.

The elevator dinged. Doors slid open.

He stepped back smoothly, as though nothing had happened.

“Come to my office,” he said loud enough for anyone nearby to hear, already walking away. “I need to talk to you.”

I stood rooted in the hallway, heart slamming against my ribs.

I glanced around—no one was watching. Phones, conversations, rushing footsteps. Business as usual.

I swallowed hard.

Guilt and want twisted together in my stomach, sharp and sickening.

I should turn around. Go back to my desk. Pretend the weekend never happened.

Instead my feet moved.

One step.

Then another.

By the time I reached his door, my pulse was deafening. Pleasure—hot, traitorous—curled low in my belly, warring with the shame that tasted like bile.

I lifted my hand to knock.

Even if I denied myself, every trembling inch of me was already screaming for him.

I stood outside his door for what felt like an eternity, heart slamming against my ribs so hard I was sure the entire floor could hear it. One deep, shaky breath. Then another. My fingers curled into a fist, nails biting into my palm, before I finally raised my hand and knocked—three soft, uncertain taps.

The door opened almost instantly.

Teddy didn’t speak. He simply reached out, fingers closing around my wrist like a manacle made of heat, and pulled me inside with one swift, possessive tug. The door clicked shut behind us before I could even draw a full breath. My back hit the wall with a soft thud, and suddenly he was everywhere—his body pinning mine, one thigh sliding between my legs, hands braced on either side of my head.

“I want you,” he growled against my ear, voice rough and low. His tongue traced the sensitive shell, then dipped lower to flick the spot just behind my lobe—my secret weakness, the one that always turned my knees to liquid.

A broken sound escaped me. My hands flew to his biceps, gripping hard to keep from collapsing. “Teddy…”

He lifted his head just enough to look at me—those blue eyes dark with raw hunger. I felt the thick, insistent press of his arousal against my thigh, hot and unyielding through our clothes. My breath hitched. God, someone drag me out of here before I beg.

His hand moved between us, cupping one breast through my blouse, thumb circling the already-hard nipple until I arched involuntarily. “I can’t take it anymore, Payton,” he rasped, voice fraying at the edges. “I need you beneath me. I need to feel my cock buried deep inside you—slow at first, then hard. So hard you forget every other name but mine.”

“ Please stop I..I can't do this.” I whispered but didn't push him away.

He leaned in and licked the seam of my parted lips, tasting me, teasing, before claiming my mouth in a kiss that felt like possession. Savage. Desperate. His free hand slid to my thigh, hooking under my knee and lifting one of my leg to wrap around his hip. My skirt rode up as his palm glided higher, fingers digging into the soft flesh of my ass with bruising force.

“Fuck,” he groaned into my mouth, the word vibrating against my tongue.

I was lost. Every starved nerve in my body screamed for more. Three years of denial had left me hollow, aching, and now every cell was alight with the promise of being filled, stretched, taken. I wanted it rough. I wanted the edge of pain that would finally drown out the emptiness. I wanted him to fuck me until I couldn’t remember why I’d ever tried to resist.

Please,” he whispered against the frantic pulse at my neck, his lips leaving a trail of fire down to my collarbone. “Let me fuck you, Payton. Please.”

The words stopped me cold.

Wait—what am I doing?

Slowly, I dropped my leg and pushed him away, my hands shaking.

“Please… I can’t do this,” I said, 

breathless. “I’m married.”

He was breathing just as hard.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

But he didn’t listen. He pressed me back against the wall, tried to kiss me again. I turned my face away—

—and then the office phone rang, shattering the moment.