Be with me?

I woke up sluggishly, the sun streaming in through the curtains.

For a moment, I didn’t realise where I was. The room was strange, and my mind felt foggy.

Also, it hit me.

I was in Mr. Wolfe’s bed.

And he was holding me.

His arm was heavy around my body, his body pressed forcefully against my back. I sat, my breath catching in my throat. His warmth strained into me, and I couldn't ignore the steady rise and fall of his breathing against my skin.

I tried to move, but the shift only made matters worse.

That’s when I felt it.

It was insolvable to miss—the unmistakable pressure against the small of my back. My face burnt as I realised what it was. Morning wood. His cock was pressed against me.

Bloody hell!

My heart quickened, my heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it.

I had to get out of there.

Swiftly, I slipped out from under his arm, moving as quietly as I could. His grip tensed compactly, and I felt my body stiff. But then he coughed, relaxing again, and I took my chance.

Once I was free, I hastened to the door, glancing back at him one last time.

Mr. Wolfe was still asleep, his expression softer than I’d ever seen it.

I left snappily, closing the door behind me as still as I could.

Back in my room, I leaned against the door, trying to calm my racing heart.

What the hell had just happened?

I rubbed my face, the heat still moping in my cheeks. I told myself it wasn't a big deal, that it didn't mean anything.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about the way it had felt to wake up in his arms.

Later that morning, my phone buzzed.

It was a call from Mr. Wolfe.

“Come to my room. Need help. ”

I goggled at the screen, disgruntled for a moment before replying. “Be right there.”

When I entered his room, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his injured ankle propped up on a pillow. His shirt was partially unbuttoned, hanging approximately on his shoulders.

“Evidently,” he said, his tone impatient. “I can’t do this alone.”

“What do you need?” I asked, stepping near.

He signalled toward his clothes. “I need to get changed.”

My face grew hot really fast. “You want me to.”

“Unless you want me to struggle and make it worse,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

I sighed, walking over to him. “Fine. But don’t get used to this. ”

Helping Mr. Wolfe get changed was harder than I anticipated.

Every movement brought us closer, the air between us growing heavier with each passing second.

His shirt slipped off his shoulders, revealing smooth, tan skin and a body that was far too perfect for someone who spent so much time behind an office.

I kept my eyes concentrated on the task, refusing to let them wander.

“Relax,” Mr. Wolfe said suddenly, his voice low.

“I'm relaxed,” I replied, though my hands quivered slightly as I reached for the buttons on his pants.

He scowled. “You’re terrible at lying.”

“Just shut up,” I murmured, concentrating on undoing the button.

The pressure in the room was suffocating. Every encounter of my fingers against his skin transferred sparks shooting up my arm.

Eventually, I finished, stepping back snappily. “There. each done. ”

He leaned back against the pillows, looking far too amused. “Thanks.”

I didn’t respond. I demanded to get out of there before I embarrassed myself further.

But I wasn’t done helping him yet.

“Dylan,” he called as I headed toward the door.

I turned back, formerly dreading what he was about to say.

“I need to use the restroom.”

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Can’t you—”

“I can’t walk,” he interjected, waving to his injured ankle.

Of course, he couldn't.

I walked back over, helping him stand. He leaned heavily on me, his arm slung over my shoulders.

The trip to the restroom felt like it took forever. Every step was awkward, and I couldn't ignore how close we were. His scent—subtle but distinctly him—wrapped around me, making it hard to concentrate.

By the time we got back to the bed, I was exhausted.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I said, half-joking.

He scowled. “A little.”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t respond.

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

I stayed by Mr. Wolfe’s side, helping him with anything he demanded. Water, food, conforming the pillows—he was demanding, but I didn’t mind.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

The pressure between us no way eased. Every look, every touch, every word felt loaded, like we were both worming around something we didn’t want to say.

By the day, it was clear we couldn’t stay.

Mr. Wolfe’s injury made it insolvable for him to join any further of the conditioning, and I wasn’t about to leave him alone.

“We should head back,” I said as I packed up his stuff.

He jounced, his expression neutral. “Make the arrangements.”

It was the first thing we’d agreed on all day.

The auto lift back to the apartment was quiet.

Mr. Wolfe rested his head against the window, his eyes closed. I sat beside him, gaping out at the passing decor.

The pressure between us dialed up, clear but inarguable.

I couldn't stop thinking about everything that had happened. Waking up in his arms. Helping him get changed. The way he looked at me, like he was searching for something he couldn’t find.

It was oh too important.

And yet, I couldn't ignore the way my body tensed every time I looked at him.

When we eventually arrived at his private jet hanger, I helped him inside jet, guiding him to sit.

“Do you need anything?” I asked, standing awkwardly by the door.

He shook his head. “No. Just rest. ”

I shifted, but I didn’t leave right then.

There was something about the way he sat there, quiet and still, made me tense.

“Mr. Wolfe,” I said softly.

He looked up at me, his dark eyes unreadable.

“Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he sighed, leaning back against the cushions. “I’m fine, Dylan. Go home.”

His tone was dismissive, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more he wasn’t saying.

“Okay,” I said finally, stepping toward my seat.

But as I sat, I couldn’t help glancing back one last time.