Inheritance ✔

Chapter 5 - Caught in the Act

Laurier Ashford

I couldn't stop thinking about his hands.

Not the way they pulled triggers or cracked bones.

Not even the way they pressed a cloth to my wound with careful precision.

No—what kept replaying in my head was the thought of those hands on me. Around my throat. On my hips. Gripping. Controlling. Possessing.

It was insane.
I'd almost died yesterday. A man had slammed my head into concrete. I'd been seconds away from being taken, from disappearing into some warehouse where no one could hear me scream.

And yet here I was.

Lying in bed. Legs spread. Fingers buried deep inside me.
Fantasizing about my secretary.

My fingers weren't enough. They never were. I tried. Again and again. I closed my eyes, whispered his name under my breath. I imagined him walking into my room, stripping that perfect black suit away, leaning down with that controlled rage barely hidden behind his usual composure.

I imagined him tying me up. Pinning me to the bed. Making me pay for every time I flirted with other men in front of him. I imagined him snapping—finally—and taking me.

"Renzo..." I moaned, back arching off the mattress, breath ragged.

I was so far gone I didn't hear the door open.
Didn't notice the creak.

Until I felt him.

I froze.

Eyes wide, my gaze snapped toward the door. And there he was.

Renzo Hart.

Standing just inside the room, his hand still on the doorknob. His face was blank—but his eyes... his eyes were on fire.

I yanked the blanket up, covering myself, mouth open but no sound coming out. My heart slammed against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

"I—I didn't mean to—" I stammered. "I was just— I wasn't—"

He said nothing.

Just stared.

At me. At the mess of my body. At the way the blanket barely covered my thighs. At the fact that I had been moaning his name.

"Say something," I whispered.

He swallowed hard. His jaw flexed once. "You were thinking about me."

It wasn't a question.

I didn't deny it.

"Yes," I said, breath catching. "I have been. Since that night. Since I saw you... do what you did."

Silence.

"I can't stop thinking about it," I admitted. "About you. About... what it would feel like if you weren't so damn composed all the time."

His hand dropped from the doorknob, clenched into a fist.

"I thought you didn't do repeats," he said. His voice was rougher than usual. Low. Controlled—but barely. "That men weren't allowed to come back."

"You're not a man I can use and forget." My voice was shaking. "And that scares the shit out of me."

He took a step forward.

Then stopped.

"I can't be one of your mistakes, Laurier," he said quietly. "I've wanted you since I was seventeen. Since we met at that stupid Taekwondo dojo and you kicked me in the ribs and laughed."

I blinked.

That memory hit me out of nowhere—like sunlight through clouds. I remembered that day. How I thought he was cute but too quiet. How I never expected him to stick around.

"You never said anything," I whispered.

"Because I knew what you were like. And I knew that if I crossed that line, you'd push me away."

My heart was pounding now for a different reason.

"And now?"

He stared at me. "Now I think I've waited long enough."

But instead of coming closer, he backed up.

"But not like this," he added. "Not when you're in heat and looking to blow off steam. I won't be one of your fuck-and-forgets."

My stomach dropped.

"So what—you're rejecting me now?" I snapped. "After all this time? After everything I just said?"

"I'm not rejecting you," he said. "I'm protecting myself."

And with that, he turned and walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him.

I sat there in stunned silence. Blanket tangled around my legs. Pulse still hammering in my chest.

He was hard. I saw it in the way he moved. Felt the heat radiating off him from across the room. He wanted me.

But he wouldn't touch me.

I'd been turned down before. Of course I had. But not like this.

Not by someone who'd killed for me. Not by someone I actually... wanted.

And that—that realization? It pissed me off more than anything.

For the next week, I didn't speak to him.

Not in meetings. Not during briefings. I gave orders through other assistants, passed signed documents through the crack of my office door, pretended he didn't exist.

He didn't push.

But I knew he hated it.

I could feel his eyes on me across the room, hear the tightness in his voice whenever he had to talk to someone else about my schedule. But he never confronted me.

Until one night— When I heard my bedroom door creak open again.