Torn inbetween millions

HAWTHORNE EMPIRE

"Where were you?," his low and hoarse rough voice—barely a whisper shattered the stillness as he asked.

My breath pauses as my heart raced. That tone-before now, it had always eluded me. As I ran my gaze around the faintly lit room, my eyes went to the fireplace. Seeing him in his leather armchair, a wine glass in hand whilst fixing his gaze on me. The shadows cast by the flames around the fireplace added to his enigma.

“I'm sorry," I murmured, throat tight. "It took longer than I expected, I was occupied. 

Blake set his glass down and rose from his seat, moving toward me with slow, deliberate steps. Each movement was controlled, precise-like a predator closing in on its prey.

“Occupied with what,” his tone was calm, extremely messed up.  

I felt the weight of his presence before he even reached me. My back stiffened.

"You know you have a job," he continued, his tone deceptively calm. "A job that requires your full attention-twenty-four hours a day."

"I know" I whispered 

“Then why make me wait, Ms. White?”

The formality of it stung—Ms. White, like we were strangers. I swallowed, forcing steadiness into my voice. "Switching to back formalities now, are we?" I said already getting pissed. 

"Not really, formalities bore me,"* he murmured, "but i'm not in the mood for sweet names now am i?

Then without warning he reached out, his hand rose with no hesitation— Calloused fingertips brushed my jaw, too gentle for the storm in his eyes. I stopped breathing. God, even after everything, my skin still kept trembling whenever he touches me that way.

Then before I knew what was happening, his hands slid around my waist, pulling me against him gently.

I gasped.

His lips grazed my ear - too intimate for the threat in his whisper. "I never want you coming in late again. We've talked about this." Hot breath spilled down my neck, raising goosebumps despite the warmth.

"Sir, I-" The word choked off as he stepped forward, his body herding me backward until cold wall met my shoulder blades. My pulse hammered where his fingers dug into my waist. Too close. Too familiar.

"What are you doing?" My voice barely held steady. "This isn’t—professional."

His chuckle wasn’t amusement—just air stirring the hair at my nape. Calloused fingers traced my hipbone through the fabric.

"Samantha." He let my name linger like a fingerprint on glass. "Don’t pretend you don’t feel this. Don’t pretend you don’t feel the tension between us."

"You’re drunk." The words ash in my mouth. His pupils were black holes, but his fingers—Christ, his fingers knew exactly where to press to make my breath stutter. 

His eyes darkened—that particular shade of amusement that always made my stomach flip. "Oh, love." His lips brushed my earlobe, the barest graze that somehow burned. The words came out rough, like he’d been holding them back too long: "I'm definitely sober."  His exhale warmed my ear lobe as he added, "And how many times have I warned you not to call me sir?"

His fingers skimmed my waist, the touch so light it burned. My chest rose and fell too fast, air scraping my throat.—God, not this. Not again.  

He leaned in until his mouth hovered over mine, close enough to taste. His gaze dropped to my lips, lingered. The quiet between us thickened with every uneven breath we shared.  

For one terrible, endless second—nothing existed but the warmth of him, the way my traitor body leaned in before my mind could stop it. 

His fingers dug into my hip—claiming, not asking. A rough exhale hit my neck. "Do you like this? Huh?  Tell me you want me to stop." The challenge in his voice sent ice through my veins. "Say it."

I swallowed. The lie stuck in my throat.

"That’s what I thought," he murmured. His thumb stroked the hollow beneath my ribcage—once, twice—before dragging upward. My breath shattered. 

Then, just as suddenly, he let go.  

The absence hit me first—cold where his hands had been. I swayed, just slightly, my body protesting the loss of contact before my mind caught up. He watched me, silent, that look I could never decipher. Then one deliberate step back.  

"Next time," his voice low, almost conversational as his head tilted—that predator’s considering angle, "don’t make me come looking for you. Or wait."

Not a threat. Not a plea. Just fact.  

And God help me, I already knew how this would end……