One Night With The Possessive CEO

The wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin echoed from the master bedroom.

Bridget froze in the narrow hallway of her Brooklyn apartment. The custom velvet ring box in her coat pocket suddenly felt like a block of lead against her thigh. She had left the office three hours early, her chest tight with the anticipation of surprising Jacob on their anniversary.

Now, her heart slammed against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

She forced her legs to move. One step. Then another. The door was cracked open, a sliver of dim, yellow light spilling onto the hardwood floor. Her breathing turned shallow, the air burning her throat as she pushed the wooden panel.

The door swung open.

Jacob was on the bed. Their bed. His hands were gripping the waist of a woman whose face was buried in the pillows. The woman arched her back, and the silver bridesmaid bracelet on her wrist caught the light.

Chloe. Her best friend.

Bridget's vision blurred, the edges of the room turning black. A violent wave of nausea rolled through her stomach, pushing sour bile up her throat.

"Jacob," Bridget choked out.

The word tasted like ash.

Jacob's head snapped up. His eyes widened, the pupils dilating in sheer panic. He scrambled backward, his chest heaving as he frantically yanked the white duvet up to cover his naked waist.

"Bridget! Wait, it's not-" Jacob stammered, his voice cracking.

The absolute absurdity of his words snapped the paralysis holding Bridget's body. Her hand darted into her pocket. Her fingers curled around the velvet box. Without a single thought, she hurled it with every ounce of strength in her arm.

The heavy box flew across the room. The corner of the velvet box caught him squarely on the forehead, striking his skin with a dull thud.

Jacob let out a sharp cry, his hands flying up to cover the angry red welt blooming on his skin.

Chloe finally turned over. She pulled the sheet over her chest, letting out a high-pitched scream. But as her eyes met Bridget's, the corner of Chloe's mouth twitched upward. A subtle, silent taunt.

Bridget dug her nails into her palms until the skin threatened to break. She refused to let a single tear fall. Her hands shook violently as she pulled her phone from her purse. She raised it, the screen glaring in the dim room, and pressed the capture button. The flash blinded them for a split second.

"Evidence," Bridget stated, her voice devoid of any warmth.

Jacob threw the covers off, his bare feet hitting the floor.

"Bridget, please! Let me explain!" He reached out, his sweaty fingers grazing her wrist.

A full-body shudder ripped through her. She violently yanked her arm back, wiping her wrist against her coat as if he had infected her with a disease.

She turned on her heel and sprinted out of the apartment.

The brutal chill of the New York winter hit her the second she pushed through the lobby doors. The freezing wind slapped her face, and finally, the dam broke. Hot tears spilled over her cheeks, burning her freezing skin.

Her phone vibrated in her hand. The screen flashed with Gigi's name.

Bridget swiped to answer, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Gigi," she sobbed, her throat constricting.

"Hey, did you pick up the veil?" Gigi's cheerful voice came through the speaker.

"He's sleeping with Chloe," Bridget gasped out, her knees buckling slightly as she leaned against a brick wall.

A heavy silence fell over the line. Then, a string of vicious, creative curses erupted from Gigi.

" Get in a cab right now. Come to the lounge in Lower Manhattan. I'm going to get you so drunk you forget his name."

Thirty minutes later, Bridget pushed through the heavy glass doors of the exclusive underground lounge. The bass from the electronic music vibrated through the floorboards, rattling her teeth and drowning out the sound of her own ragged breathing. She kept her thin trench coat wrapped tightly around her shivering body.

Gigi grabbed her arm the moment she stepped inside, dragging her directly to the neon-lit bar. Gigi slammed a hand on the counter and ordered a full bottle of silver tequila.

Bridget didn't wait for the lime or the salt. She grabbed the first shot glass and threw it back. The alcohol burned a fiery trail down her esophagus, settling like a hot coal in her empty stomach. She poured another. And another.

By the fourth shot, the edges of her vision grew fuzzy. The crushing weight in her chest morphed into a reckless, buzzing heat. She wanted to erase the image of Jacob's hands on Chloe.

She turned her head, her hazy gaze scanning the VIP section.

Her eyes locked onto a man sitting in the shadows of a velvet booth. He was staring down at a crystal glass of whiskey. His jawline looked like it had been carved from marble, sharp and unforgiving. He radiated a dark, suffocating authority that made the air around him seem heavier.

The tequila whispered in her ear.

Bridget pushed away from the bar. Gigi grabbed her elbow.

"Bridge, where are you going?"

Bridget ignored her. She stumbled forward, her broken heels clicking unevenly against the dark floor. She walked straight toward the VIP booth.

A massive bodyguard in a black suit stepped into her path, raising a hand to stop her.

The man in the booth didn't look up, but he raised two fingers in a microscopic gesture. The bodyguard immediately stepped back, melting into the shadows.

Bridget reached the booth and let her knees give out. She collapsed right next to the man on the leather sofa. She leaned in, her alcohol-laced breath brushing against the shell of his ear.

The man slowly turned his head. His eyes were pitch black, bottomless and terrifying. As his gaze locked onto her face, his pupils dilated rapidly. The knuckles of the hand holding his glass turned completely white.

Bridget was too drunk to notice the storm raging in his eyes. She reached out, her trembling fingers grabbing the knot of his silk tie. She pulled him closer, the fabric sliding against his crisp collar.

His breathing hitched. His chest expanded, but he didn't pull away. He let her drag him across the invisible boundary.

"Take me out of here," Bridget whispered, her voice cracking with a mixture of tears and intoxication.

The man stared at her lips for a long, agonizing second. Then, his large hand clamped around her waist. In one fluid, powerful motion, he stood up, hauling her off the sofa and into his arms.

Bridget gasped, her hands instinctively flying up to grip his broad shoulders. Her face pressed into his neck, and her lungs filled with the crisp, clean scent of cedarwood and expensive soap.

He carried her through the crowded lounge. People stared, but he didn't spare them a single glance. His jaw was set, his strides long and purposeful.

A sleek black Maybach was idling at the curb. A driver scrambled to pull the rear door open. The man shielded her head with his hand and practically shoved her into the spacious backseat, climbing in right after her.

The door slammed shut, sealing them in a dark, quiet bubble.

Bridget's blood was boiling. She operated purely on instinct. She reached out in the dark, her hands finding his face, and smashed her lips against his.

The man's Adam's apple bobbed violently against her palm. He let out a low, rough groan that vibrated against her mouth. His hands tangled in her hair, and he took complete control, kissing her back with a devastating, consuming hunger.

Morning sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, bright streaks across the tangled sheets of the Four Seasons penthouse suite.

Jevon opened his eyes. The heavy fog of sleep vanished instantly. He turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto the woman sleeping soundly beside him. The cold, impenetrable mask he wore for the world was completely gone, replaced by a raw, consuming intensity.

Bridget shifted in her sleep. The silk sheet slipped down her back, exposing her right shoulder blade.

Right there, against her pale skin, was a faint, coin-sized red birthmark.

Jevon's breath caught in his throat. His fingers curled into tight fists against the mattress. The memory of a dark, damp basement ten years ago slammed into his brain. He remembered the terrifying grip of the kidnappers, and he remembered the brave little girl who had stood in front of him, shielding his trembling body.

It was her. He had suspected it last night in the dim light of the lounge, but seeing the mark confirmed it. The girl he had searched for relentlessly for a decade was lying in his bed.

His chest he heave. He reached out, his large hand trembling slightly as he moved to brush a stray lock of hair from her cheek.

Before his fingers could make contact, the phone on the nightstand erupted into a harsh, vibrating buzz.

Jevon's jaw clenched. He snatched the phone to silence it, throwing a quick glance at Bridget to ensure she hadn't woken up. He slid out of bed, his bare feet silent on the plush carpet, and strode out to the soundproof balcony.

He pressed the phone to his ear.

"Speak," he ordered, his voice dropping back to its usual freezing temperature.

His executive assistant, Alex, sounded frantic on the other end. The European division was facing a catastrophic financial hemorrhage. The board of directors was demanding the CEO's immediate presence on a secure video conference.

Jevon pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked through the glass doors at the woman in his bed. His muscles tightened with the overwhelming urge to crawl back under the covers and lock the doors to the outside world.

But the logical part of his brain took over. He couldn't let the company burn. He turned away from the glass, walking briskly into the massive walk-in closet. He pulled on a custom-tailored suit, the fabric acting like armor, transforming him back into the ruthless billionaire the world knew.

Before leaving, Jevon stopped at the mahogany writing desk. He picked up a hotel notepad and a heavy fountain pen. He hesitated. Writing his real name might send her into a panic, considering she had just caught her fiancé cheating and was emotionally fragile.

He pressed the nib to the paper.

Wait for me.

He placed the note on the nightstand. Next to it, he set down his limitless black card, resting it atop a secondary, thicker piece of hotel stationery. On it, he quickly penned Alex's direct line: If you need anything, call this number. Your safety is my priority. It was a silent promise of protection, a physical manifestation of his desire to give her everything. He leaned over, pressing a feather-light kiss to her forehead, and walked out the door.

Thirty minutes later, Bridget groaned. A blinding headache pulsed behind her eyes. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples and forced herself to sit up.

The silk sheet fell to her waist. She looked down and gasped. Her skin was covered in dark red marks. The fragmented memories of last night's absolute madness exploded in her brain. The lounge. The Maybach. The desperate, sweaty heat in this very bed.

She whipped her head around. The luxurious suite was completely empty.

Panic seized her throat. Bridget scrambled out of bed, dragging the sheet with her. Her bare feet sank into the thick wool rug as she stumbled toward the nightstand.

Her eyes fell on the piece of paper and the sleek black card resting beside it.

She picked up the card. The heavy metal felt like ice against her palm. A sickening wave of humiliation washed over her. She had given herself to a stranger to numb her pain, and he had left her a credit card. He thought she was a high-end escort. He thought he could buy her.

Her stomach churned violently. She threw the black card back onto the desk, the metal clattering against the wood. She grabbed the note, not even registering the handwriting, crumpled it into a tight ball, and hurled it into the trash can.

She ran into the marble bathroom. She turned the shower on freezing cold and stood under the icy spray for a long time, letting the freezing water numb her chaotic thoughts and overheated body. She closed her eyes, desperate to wake up from this surreal hangover and clear her head of the lingering scent of cedarwood that clung to her senses. She pulled on her wrinkled trench coat from the night before, her fingers fumbling with the buttons.

In the entryway, she found her shoes. The heel of her right pump was completely snapped off.

She didn't care. She shoved her feet into the ruined shoes and limped out of the suite, sprinting down the hallway and throwing herself into the elevator like a criminal fleeing a crime scene.

She stared at her pale, terrified reflection in the elevator doors. She bit her lower lip hard, tasting copper. She swore to herself that last night never happened. It was a nightmare, and she was waking up.

She burst through the hotel lobby doors and into the chaotic morning traffic of Manhattan. The freezing air shocked her system. She threw her hand up, flagging down a yellow taxi, and practically fell into the backseat.

"Brooklyn. Fast," she told the driver.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. Five new texts from Jacob, begging for forgiveness. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a second before she hit block. She deleted his contact entirely.

The taxi pulled up to her apartment building. Bridget took a deep, shaky breath. She had to pack her things. She had to get out of that apartment today.

She pushed open the front door, expecting the place to be empty.

Jacob was sitting on the living room sofa. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair a greasy mess. He looked up as she walked in.

His gaze immediately dropped from her eyes to her neck. The collar of her trench coat had slipped, exposing the dark, unmistakable bruises blooming across her collarbone.

Jacob's face turned a sickly shade of gray, the muscles in his jaw twitching violently.

Jacob shot up from the sofa, his finger trembling as he pointed at Bridget's neck.

"Where the hell were you last night?" he yelled, his voice cracking with rage.

Bridget let out a harsh, dry laugh. The sound scraped against her throat. "Are you seriously asking me that? Do you think you're the only one allowed to screw around in other people's beds?"

Jacob choked on his next breath. His face flushed a dark, angry purple. "You did this to get back at me! You threw away three years of our relationship because of one mistake!"

Bridget felt a surge of pure disgust. She didn't waste another breath on him. She marched straight past him into the bedroom, dragging her large suitcase from the closet. She started throwing her clothes inside, not caring if they wrinkled.

Jacob lunged forward, grabbing the handle of the suitcase. "You're not leaving!"

Bridget's blood ran cold. She grabbed the heavy ceramic lamp from the nightstand and smashed it against the wooden doorframe. The ceramic shattered with a deafening crack, sending sharp shards flying across the floor.

Jacob jumped back, his eyes wide with fear.

Bridget zipped up the suitcase, her hands shaking with adrenaline. She dragged it to the front door. She dug her apartment keys out of her purse and threw them as hard as she could. The metal keys hit Jacob directly in the chest.

"We are done," she spat, slamming the door behind her.

Out on the street, the adrenaline finally crashed. A sharp, pulling ache radiated through her lower abdomen. Her legs felt weak, The reckless physical exertion of last night had taken a severe toll on her body.

She dragged her suitcase to a nearby storage locker, then hailed another cab to a discreet private clinic in Manhattan.

The doctor in the emergency gynecology department examined her quickly. She handed Bridget a prescription for anti-inflammatory pills and a small tube of soothing ointment.

"No strenuous physical activity for the next few days," the doctor warned sternly.

Bridget's face burned with intense heat. She shoved the tube of ointment into the very bottom of her tote bag, burying it under her planner and makeup bag. She glanced at her watch and her stomach dropped. She was going to be late for work.

She sprinted the last two blocks to the massive glass-and-steel high-rise that housed her company. Her lungs burned as she pushed through the revolving doors into the grand, high-ceilinged lobby.

The moment she stepped inside, the atmosphere felt wrong. The lobby was dead silent. Every single employee was standing rigidly against the walls, their heads bowed, not daring to make a sound.

Bridget was too panicked about being late to notice. She kept running forward. Her broken heel caught on the polished marble floor. Her ankle twisted violently, and she pitched forward, bracing herself for the painful impact.

The impact never came.

A large, warm hand clamped around her wrist like a steel vice. The grip was strong enough to bruise. Bridget gasped, her body jerking to a halt. The sleeve of a custom suit brushed against her arm, and the cold metal of a Patek Philippe watch pressed into her skin.

She followed the arm up and collided with a pair of pitch-black, bottomless eyes.

Bridget's lungs stopped working. The blood drained entirely from her face, leaving her dizzy. It was him. The man from the lounge. The man who had left the black card.

"Watch where you're going!" A slightly angry voice rang out.

Bridget flinched. Standing right behind the man was Alex, the terrifying executive assistant to the CEO. Alex was glaring at her. "You are disrupting the CEO's inspection!"

CEO?

The word hit Bridget like a physical blow to the stomach. Her knees buckled. She had slept with Jevon Rocha. The highest authority in the company. The man who held her entire career in his hands.

Jevon's gaze swept over her pale, terrified face and her trembling legs. A dark, dangerous light flickered in his eyes. He didn't even look at Alex. He simply tightened his grip on Bridget's wrist and pulled her flush against his side.

"This employee looks severely ill," Jevon announced, his voice echoing coldly through the silent lobby. "She requires immediate medical assistance."

"Mr. Rocha, I'm fine, really-" Bridget stammered, trying to pull her arm away.

Jevon's hand slid from her wrist to her waist, his fingers digging into her side with an undeniable, possessive force. He practically dragged her toward the private executive elevator at the end of the hall.

The heavy metal doors slid shut, cutting off the shocked stares of the entire lobby.

The enclosed space instantly filled with the heavy scent of cedarwood. Bridget pressed her back flat against the cold metal wall, her chest heaving.

"Mr. Rocha, I am so sorry about last night," she babbled, her voice shaking uncontrollably. "I was drunk. I didn't know who you were."

Jevon stepped closer. He placed one hand flat against the wall right beside her head, trapping her. He leaned down, his face inches from hers.

"Why did you run?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

The sheer pressure of his presence made Bridget dizzy. She shrank back, her tote bag tilting precariously on her shoulder.

The zipper had been left open. The small tube of private ointment slipped out, bouncing off her shoe and rolling to a stop right between Jevon's polished leather shoes.

The elevator stopped at the top floor.

Jevon looked down. He read the medical label on the tube. His Adam's apple bobbed violently, and the air in the elevator seemed to freeze.

He bent down, picked up the tube, and wrapped his long fingers around it. Without a single word, he grabbed Bridget's wrist again and hauled her out of the elevator.

He dragged her down the empty hallway, shoved her into his private executive lounge, and slammed the heavy wooden door shut, The lock clicked with a loud.