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.