Chapter 7; THE CEO PRIVATE PATIENT

Chloe’s POV

I woke to the dull, lingering ache between my thighs, a deep throb that pulsed with every shift of the sheets. Richard’s body still haunted mine—his weight, the stretch of him, the way he’d driven into me until I swore I could still feel the blunt press of him against my womb. My hand drifted low, fingertips brushing the tender heat that hadn’t fully cooled. Panic flickered under the satisfaction. I couldn’t risk it. Not now. Not when everything hung on the divorce and the shares I still needed. I slipped out of bed, swallowed the emergency pill with a grimace of cold water, and pulled on the shirt he’d left me—the soft, oversized one that still carried the faint spice of his cologne and the warmer, saltier scent of his skin.

William was already on the sofa when I entered the sitting room, legs crossed, phone loose in his hand. He looked up with that careful, practised concern he used when he wanted something.

“You’ve been getting home late.”

The words were mild, almost gentle, but I felt the probe beneath them. I leaned against the doorway, the hem of Richard’s shirt brushing mid-thigh, and met his eyes without blinking, “Do I answer to you now?”

His gaze dropped, lingering on the fabric that wasn’t his. The air between us tightened. I could smell the coffee he’d made and the faint trace of Rachel’s perfume that always seemed to cling to him these days—something sweet and expensive that didn’t belong in this house.

“Whose shirt is that?”

He had the nerve. Heat rose under my skin, part anger, part of the residual ache Richard had left. I wanted to throw the truth at him—every late-night drive, every hotel receipt the investigator had handed me, the six years of their little secret that had started before our vows. But the shares were still locked behind the divorce papers, and the evidence sat quiet in a folder I wasn’t ready to open. So I kept my voice even, almost bored, “Borrowed it from a coworker.”

He stayed calm. Too calm. His thumb moved over the phone screen, and I knew Rachel had already whispered whatever version of last night’s confrontation she’d spun. He was testing me—trying to decide if I was bluffing out of jealousy or if I actually knew. The thought of how long I’d made excuses for them—just friends, just colleagues—made my stomach turn. Six years. Even before the wedding.

He stood, closing the space until I could feel the warmth of his body and the cool edge of his control. His breath brushed my ear.

“Let me remind you,” he murmured, soft enough to sound intimate, “you’re still married.”

I didn’t step back. I turned my face just enough that our mouths nearly touched and let the words land sharp.

“Aren’t you?”

For a second, neither of us moved. The power shifted, thin, and electric, his an attempt to claim ownership colliding with the quiet knowledge I held like a blade. Then his phone lit up. Rachel’s name. He answered without looking away from me, voice dropping into that easy, familiar tone he used with her. I rolled my eyes, turned, and walked into the kitchen, the shirt whispering against my skin with every step. Behind me, I heard the front door click shut as he left to meet her, the sound soft and final.

I stood at the counter, palms flat on the cool marble, and let the silence settle. The ache between my legs pulsed once more reminders and warning both. The game had only just started.

I decided to stay in tonight.

It was the weekend, and I had no work left. I ordered drinks to keep myself company, but they still hadn’t arrived.Just then, my phone rang. It was Richard.

“Come downstairs. I’m waiting in your driveway.”

“No. I want to stay home tonight. I’ve finished all the work. Most of your meetings are already booked for next week.”

“The pizza delivery isn’t coming anytime soon,” he teased. “I already tipped the guy and paid him off.”

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, already giving in.

I changed into something casual—a soft shirt and a hoodie—and headed downstairs. When I slid into his car, he looked at me with a quiet kind of warmth.

“I missed you, Chloe.”

That look made me wonder. From the beginning, I told myself this was only about sex. About his possessive nature. About him wanting me purely for his own pleasure but the way he was looking at me now… it didn’t feel that simple.

We stopped in front of a building that looked like a private getaway. He opened the door for me, and I stepped out.

“Isn’t this where you bring all your women?” I teased as we stepped inside.

Richard’s mouth curved, slow and deliberate. “No. Only the ones who take me the way you do.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. The memory hit without warning—the stretch of him, the way my body had struggled and then yielded until every inch of him was buried inside me. I still couldn’t believe I’d managed it. That thought alone made my thighs press together.

The private suite smelled of warm maple and something citrusy. Food was already laid out: stacks of golden pancakes, bowls of fruit, honey in a small glass jar. I didn’t wait. I sat and dug in, the first bite melting on my tongue, sweet and rich. Richard laughed, low and genuine, the sound rolling through the quiet room.

“I haven’t seen this side of you before,” I said around a mouthful. He looked different like this—carefree, the sharp edges of the boardroom softened by a simple black T-shirt that clung to his shoulders. I caught myself staring. He noticed. Of course he did.

His hand came across the table, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth, collecting the honey that had escaped. He brought it to his own lips and licked it clean, eyes never leaving mine. The gesture was almost casual. The heat behind it was not.

The afternoon stretched into games and easy conversation, the kind that made me forget, for a while, how carefully I usually guarded myself with him. Then, the dog the staff had trained barreled through the open patio doors and shook a spray of wet mud across my clothes. I yelped, half laughing, already heading for the bathroom to change.

I had just pulled the stained shirt over my head when the door opened.

“Richard”

His mouth cut the protest short. The kiss was deep, unhurried, claiming. I should have pushed him away. I should have told him to wait. Instead, my hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt as he backed me toward the shower, turning the water on with one hand while the other kept me against him.

He washed me like he was learning me all over again. Soap-slick palms moved over my shoulders, down my spine, lingering at the curve of my waist.

Every place his mouth followed left a trail of heat that the water couldn’t cool. When his lips closed around one nipple and sucked, I arched, a broken sound escaping me. His fingers found the other, pinching just hard enough to edge the pleasure with a sharp sting. I was already wet for him—embarrassingly so—and the difference from every other time we had done this was impossible to ignore. This wasn’t rushed. This wasn’t just taking. This was something that felt dangerously close to reverence, and that terrified me more than his intensity ever had.

“Are you ready for me?” he whispered against my throat, the head of his cock already nudging between my thighs, sliding through the slickness there without entering.

I hated how easily the words came. “Yes. Please—fuck me, Richard.”

He didn’t. Not yet. He kept teasing, rolling the blunt head against my entrance, pressing just enough to make me feel the stretch and then pulling back. My nails dug into his shoulders. I tried to push down onto him; his hands locked around my hips and held me still. The power imbalance was deliberate, and it made the need inside me twist sharper.

Only when a frustrated sound left my throat did he give me what I wanted—one long, controlled thrust that forced every thick inch of him inside me. The burn was immediate, perfect, stealing my breath.

Then he began to move, and the pleasure that followed was so intense it bordered on too much.

That was when I understood the real danger.

I wasn’t just taking him anymore.

I was starting to need him.