Page 34 of Wolfish Player
“You’re actually—” I start, breathless.
“Bend for me,” he cuts me off, sliding the condom on with practiced precision. His voice drops, wicked and low. “I’m not letting you pretend this didn’t happen later…”
By Sunday afternoon,I’m staring at a number I never thought I’d see again: ten thousand words. My body aches, my fingers ache, but for the first time in months, my pulse is thrumming with life.
And I don’t let myself think twice about the fact that I’ve screwed Adrian four more times this weekend and spent every night tangled in his arms.
THE CEO
ADRIAN
The following weeks slide by faster than I expect.
Days are all business—Heather and I moving through meetings, author calls, release schedules, acting like we’re nothing more than boss and employee. She’s sharper than most of the executives I’ve ever hired, quick with ideas I actually keep, relentless when she believes in something.
But when the office clears out at night, the pretense vanishes.
She locks the door. I drag her across my desk. We ruin each other in ways that would make HR combust if they had the faintest clue. And somehow, when she slips out hours later, I still want more.
Weekends are spent at the retreat house. She writes in one room, I write in the other, and sometimes we switch—reading each other’s words in the quiet. She tears into my pages without hesitation, pointing out weaknesses no editor has ever dared to name. I mark up hers with equal brutality. Neither of us holds back, and I’ve never liked the process more.
It’s different with her, dangerously different.
I catch myself watching her when she’s bent over her laptop, chewing her pen cap, brows knit as if she’s carrying the weight of every world she’s creating. I tell myself I like her discipline, her fight, her talent. But the truth is more insidious. It stirs something in my chest I don’t want to name.
I don’t do feelings.
Not for women. Not for employees. Not for anyone.
Yet every time I sleep with Heather, it’s like she’s dismantling me piece by piece, leaving me hungry to know what comes next.
And that—more than any late manuscript or missed deadline—terrifies the hell out of me.
THE AUTHOR
HEATHER
“So, you’re screwing a billionaire whenever you’re not working under him, and you haven’t asked him about exclusivity?” Joanna stares at me from across the dinner table Sunday night.
“He’s really good at making me forget about that.”
“I need you to return to being my best friend for a second.” She tilts her head to the side. “You know, the woman who doesn’t put up with half-assed relationships.”
I zone out again, daydreaming about all the ways Adrian has ruined me this week. The way he touches me like he’s memorized my body. The way he looks straight into my eyes while he’s inside me, like it’s not just about sex at all. Like maybe—just maybe—I matter to him more than I should.
“Um, hello?” Joanna sets down her fork. “Can you join me in reality, please?”
“I don’t really like it there.”
“If he can’t claim you as his, you’ll never be okay with it. You’ll just spend the next couple years crying to me about why it didn’t work.”
“I’m going to kill off your character in my next book.”
“He’s yourboss, Heather.” She squeezes my hand, pleading with her eyes. “He’s probably done this before, and he’ll do it again once he’s done with you. End this for your future self. Your heart will thank you for it.”
As much as I want to tell her that she’s wrong, that he’s developed feelings for me like I’ve developed feelings for him, I know she’s right.
“Fine. I’ll deal with it next time I see him.”
