His Private Hell - Chapter 4: Chapter 4

The sky cracked open with thunder by the time Garrison’s driver dropped her back at her apartment.
He hadn’t kissed her goodbye.
Just opened the car door, gave her a lingering look like he could still taste her, and said:
“Tomorrow. Seven. My place.”
A command, not a request.
She didn’t answer. Just stepped into the rain and let it soak through her dress.
Power wasn’t always taken. Sometimes it was withheld. And sometimes, just sometimes, silence spoke louder than surrender.
Eella was starting to understand the rules of this twisted game.
And how to bend them.
⸻
The next morning, her heels echoed through the marble of Ally’s Inc. like warning bells. Her lips were painted blood-red. Her silk blouse just sheer enough to earn stares. But it wasn’t for them.
It was for him.
She knew the second he saw her.
From across the open floor, through the glass walls of his office—Garrison Wolfe froze mid-sentence with a board member. His gaze dragged over her with the hunger of a starving wolf.
He didn’t blink.
She didn’t smile.
Let him feel the burn of not having her.
Let him stew in it.
Eella dropped her bag at her desk and opened her laptop like nothing had happened—like her thighs hadn’t been shaking on his table yesterday, like his tongue hadn’t been inside her, like he hadn’t said I killed someone and she hadn’t flinched.
Control could be intoxicating too.
It didn’t last long.
Ten minutes later, her phone lit up.
Garrison Wolfe:
My office. Now.
She let two more minutes tick by before standing.
When she stepped inside, he was alone.
The moment the door clicked shut, he moved.
Not with the calculated arrogance she expected—but with something feral. His hand slammed against the door beside her head. His body boxed her in.
“You think you’re clever?” he hissed.
“I know I am.”
“You wore that just to piss me off.”
“No. I wore it so you’d remember what you don’t own.”
His jaw clenched. “I told you last night—”
“And I didn’t agree.”
Silence. Dangerous. Tight.
Then, in a flash, he flipped the lock and shoved her back against the door. His mouth crashed into hers, brutal and punishing. She bit his lip, tasted blood. He didn’t stop. Just gripped her throat, not hard enough to hurt—but enough to say: Mine.
“You want to play?” he breathed. “Fine.”
He spun her around, palms to the door, his breath hot against her ear. “Don’t move.”
Then he slid her skirt up and yanked her lace underwear down to her knees.
“No foreplay?” she gasped, breath catching.
“You’re already wet. Don’t lie.”
And he was right.
He pushed into her with a groan that sounded like it had been clawing out of him since the moment she walked in. Hard. Deep. Unforgiving.
Each thrust pounded into her like he was trying to bury every protest she’d dared to make. Her fingers scraped the wood. Her moans turned to whimpers. She hated that she loved how much she hated it.
And loved it.
By the time he spilled inside her, they were both breathless.
He didn’t kiss her afterward.
Just pulled out, fixed his pants, and whispered, “Wear red tomorrow. And keep your mouth shut in meetings unless I ask for it.”
She turned to him slowly, cheeks flushed, chest heaving.
Then slapped him across the face.
Hard.
“You don’t get to control what comes out of my mouth,” she said.
His eyes burned—but he didn’t stop her as she walked out.
⸻
By lunch, the slap was already legend.
Someone in HR claimed they heard it through the glass.
Someone else whispered she’d been fired.
By 3 p.m., half the building thought she’d quit.
They were all wrong.
She was promoted.
A new badge appeared in her inbox.
Eella Hart – Executive Liaison to the CEO.
Direct report: Garrison Wolfe.
Effective immediately.
The woman in HR stopped her in the elevator. “That’s not a real title,” she said with a smile.
Eella smiled back. “Neither is your job if you keep talking to me like that.”
The woman shut up.
Power was better than perfume.
⸻
That night, Eella didn’t go to his place.
She waited until 7:03.
Then texted him:
Change of plans. You come to me.
Five minutes later, he was at her door.
Six minutes later, she had him on his knees.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, voice guttural, his tongue already flicking against her folds.
“I want you quiet,” she breathed, tangling her fingers in his hair. “For once.”
And he obeyed.
He devoured her like he hadn’t eaten in days. Groaning into her, gripping her thighs so tight she was sure she’d bruise. Her climax hit her like a slap—hot, hard, mind-breaking. She screamed his name and still didn’t give him the satisfaction of touching anything else.
When he stood, painfully hard, she kissed his cheek and whispered, “Goodnight.”
Then closed the door in his face.
⸻
The next morning, she found a box on her desk.
Inside: a red silk slip, barely enough fabric to cover anything. A diamond necklace worth more than her apartment. And a note.
Wear this. Come to me tonight. No games.
No signature. No threat.
Just command.
She wore it.
But she brought a knife too.
⸻
His penthouse was a fortress.
Security. Biometrics. Floor-to-ceiling glass that looked down on a city he could destroy with one phone call.
And yet when she walked in, barefoot in red silk, she wasn’t the one who felt naked.
He was waiting—whiskey in hand, tie gone, shirt open. His eyes dragged down her body with reverence and rage.
“You didn’t knock.”
“You didn’t ask.”
He crossed the room in three steps and kissed her like he’d been starving for years.
This time, he was slower. Still rough, but measured. His hands lingered. His mouth softened. He didn’t just take—he worshipped.
“Say it,” he whispered as he kissed down her stomach. “Say you want me.”
“I want you,” she gasped.
“Louder.”
“I want you.”
His mouth moved between her thighs, and her voice broke into a moan.
He made love to her like a man haunted.
And when she lay against his chest afterward, she asked softly:
“Who did you kill, Garrison?”
Silence stretched.
Then—
“My brother.”
She sat up, stunned.
His eyes were dead flat. “Accident. Rage. Doesn’t matter. He’s still gone.”
She didn’t speak.
“Still think I’m worth the risk?”
She leaned down, kissed him gently, and whispered:
“Maybe I like danger.”