Chapter 2

The bathroom door swung open, and a wave of steam poured out. Rake stepped into the room, a single towel wrapped around his hips, water still dripping from his dark hair, clinging to his forehead.

His gaze landed on me—sprawled on the floor, my dress a mess, cheeks flushed an unnatural red, one hand frozen awkwardly between my thighs.

A heavy silence pressed down on us.

But I saw it—the instant shift in his calm gray eyes, a dark fire igniting.

"Manager?" Rake's voice was low, husky, laced with a dangerous edge.

I jerked my hand back, scrambling to tug my skirt down over my exposed thighs. Shame burned through me like molten lava, scorching my face, but the hollow ache deep inside pulsed harder under his stare.

"I… I was just…" My voice trembled, shaky, barely managing a weak excuse.

He didn't step back. Instead, he took a step forward. Those massive bare feet pressed silently into the carpet, closing the distance.

He crouched down, his eyes level with mine. The clean scent of body wash mixed with his raw, masculine musk wrapped around me like a net.

"Are you sick?" he asked, but there wasn't much question in his tone. Then, without warning, he reached out. His broad, rough palm pressed against my forehead, unapologetic, demanding.

A jolt—like fire meeting fuel—exploded through me.

It wasn't just a touch. It was ignition. His hand was dry, warm, calloused. The rough texture scraped against the delicate skin of my forehead, sending an electric current down my spine, straight to my core.

I couldn't stop it—a tiny, whimpering sound escaped me.

Rake's movement froze for a split second, but he didn't pull back. Instead, his thumb grazed my temple, a slow, probing motion, before sliding down my cheek and pressing against my trembling lips.

"You're not feverish, Olivia." It was the first time he'd used my name, not "Manager." The way it rolled off his tongue carried an unsettling intimacy. "But you're shaking."

His gaze darkened, drifting downward, lingering between my tightly clenched thighs. There, a damp spot had seeped through the fabric between my thighs, dark and unmistakable.

"Do you need help?" The words sounded like concern, but they carried a veiled invitation.

Every shred of logic screamed at me to yell, to tell him to get out, to bolt for the bathroom and lock the door. But my body betrayed me, shaking its head no, then nodding yes, caught in a shameful tug-of-war.

"I… the medicine… I didn't bring it…" My words stumbled over each other, tears welling up in desperation. "Please, don't look at me."

"Look at me." His voice turned sharp, commanding—the tone he used on the ice, barking orders during a game, leaving no room for disobedience.

I forced my head up, meeting his stare.

"I know what you need." He dropped the pretense of the respectful colleague. In one swift motion, he gripped my ankle, pulling me toward him with terrifying ease.

My back hit the edge of the bed, my legs forced apart as he positioned himself between them. The bulge beneath that towel pressed against the inside of my thigh, hard as stone.

"Rake, no, we're colleagues…" I made one last feeble protest, my hands pushing against the unyielding wall of his chest.

"Not right now, we're not." His low growl was a warning, thick with dominance. One hand pinned my wrists above my head with effortless strength, while the other slid straight under my skirt.

I wanted to fight, to push him away, but my instincts took over, refusing to obey.

When those rough fingers brushed against the soaked mess between my legs, my mind shattered with a deafening buzz. Every wall, every defense, crumbled like glass under a sledgehammer.

His fingers moved with ruthless precision, not just touching but teasing, knowing exactly where to go. Each stroke drove me to the edge of insanity.

"Oh God… ahh…" I bit down on my lip, my neck arching back until it felt like it might snap. My mind was blank, consumed by the heat spreading through me, uncontrollable.

I knew how wrecked I looked, but I couldn't stop. The mix of shame and raw pleasure was a toxic cocktail, pushing me to the brink of madness.

"You're soaked, Manager." He chuckled darkly in my ear, his hot breath tickling my neck, making me shiver. His tone was mocking, but his fingers didn't relent—instead, they slowed, deepened, as if savoring the torment.

"Tell me, when you're staring at us in the locker room, is this what you've been fantasizing about?"