His Private Hell - Chapter 41: Chapter 41
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Eella woke to the hum of the city leaking through her window, the sunrise painting her sheets a bruised pink. Last night’s fire still thrummed in her veins—his name a mantra on her lips, her body still remembering the weight of him, the taste of him. She’d fallen asleep tangled in silk and sweat, Garrison’s scent a promise on her skin.
She lay still, eyes closed, listening to her heartbeat, and tasted the ghost of him on her lips. Then, she moved—slow, deliberate, aching—sliding her hand beneath the silk of her nightdress. She didn’t need him to remember the way he’d claimed her thigh, the way his fingers had mapped her with bruises. She needed to feel the heat of him again, to ignite the wound that no boardroom or blackmail could ever truly heal.
She let her fingers trace that old path—first teasing, then pressing—and closed her eyes as the memory of his voice echoed in her mind: “Eella… you’re mine.”
A soft gasp escaped her as pleasure coursed through her, and she pushed her hand deeper, imagining it was his strong palm guiding her. Her other hand found the waistband of her panties, peeling them down with a fingertip, letting them pool at her ankles like an offering. The city light caught on bare skin, turning her into a living sculpture of desire and sin.
She came hard—shaking, breathless—whispering his name like a prayer and a curse. The silk nightdress slipped off completely, leaving her naked except for the thin gold chain at her throat. She lay back, sated and trembling, skin still buzzing with phantom touches.
He’d given her hell. She would give him heaven.
⸻
The elevator ride to the thirty-third floor felt like a descent into obsession. Eella’s silk buttons were already straining against her blouse, the fabric stretched tight across curves he knew like scripture. She walked into his office without knocking—because the door was never locked to him. Always waiting.
He wasn’t behind his desk this time. He was at the window, phone to his ear. When he saw her, his jaw clenched. He ended the call with a single, sharp click.
“Did you come here to worship me again?” he asked, voice low.
She stood at the threshold, hips swaying in that tight pencil skirt. “I came for business.”
His eyes flicked to her chest, to the whorls of lace peeking through her blouse. “Business.”
She closed the distance until the edge of his desk cut into her hip. “Your private hell is spreading.”
He dropped the pen he’d been holding. “You broken everything.”
She pressed her palm to his desk, leaning in, face inches from his. “I didn’t break you. You let me in.”
His hand snaked around her waist, fingers splaying against her hip. “You’re dangerous.”
“As is hell,” she whispered, and tipped her head up.
He kissed her then—not urgent, but slow and deliberate, tasting her, testing her. His mouth was fire on her lips; his tongue a blade. She found the open collar of his shirt and traced the tattoo at his throat, a black swirl that pulsed with meaning she didn’t yet understand.
“Tell me what it means,” she breathed against him.
He groaned, breaking the kiss. “Later.”
She smiled, wicked. “After you promised to show me everything.”
He backed up, hands still on her hips. “After you promise to survive.”
She kissed him again—harder. “I’ve survived hell.”
His eyes burned then. “Not mine.”
He spun her around, lifted her onto the desk, and cleared the papers with one hand. The desk rocked beneath her as he dropped to his knees, undoing her skirt zipper with practiced ease. She braced herself, legs parting for him.
His mouth met her thigh, then her hip, then the soft lace of her underwear. Each kiss a deliberate step closer to sin. She gasped, fingers twisting in the dark wood of the desk, as he traced the wet heat of her core.
“Eella,” he murmured, voice thick, “you belong to me.”
His tongue found her clit, circling, plunging, coaxing moans from her, building her need like a lit fuse. He alternated gentle licks with firm suckling, sending waves of heat through her. She cried out, the sound echoing off the cold walls, raw and beautiful.
She reached down, dragging his head closer, and he groaned, deep and feral. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her, as he fanned her need with expert precision. Then, abruptly, he stood, discarding his shirt and pants, revealing skin etched with muscle and promise.
She met him halfway, pulling him into her, her nails grazing his shoulders, her mouth ravenous on his chest. He lifted her off the desk, her legs wrapping around him as he carried her to the leather couch by the window.
They collapsed together in a tangle of limbs, breath and want thick around them. He sank into her with one smooth thrust, and they both cried out—a symphony of need and release. Each motion was brutal, deliberate, as if he’d been starving. As if she was the only thing that could keep his darkness at bay.
She arched into him, matching his pace, her nails digging into his back in a silent plea for more. He shifted, pressing deeper, finding angles that left her gasping. Their movements were a conversation—ofs grace and violence, of control surrendered and reclaimed.
He reached down, finding her clit with two fingers, and she came again, body shaking against him, mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure and pain. He rode out her orgasm, then held her through the tremors, pressing soft kisses across her shoulder.
When he finally stilled, they lay entwined, pulses slowing, the city humming below.
“Business,” he said softly, voice husky.
She smirked. “Hell, everything’s business with you.”
He kissed her temple. “Your hell.”
⸻
She showered to wash the silk and sweat away, but she couldn’t rinse the memory of him. She leaned against the tile, letting the water cascade over her, eyes closed, mind replaying every touch.
When she toweled off, she found a note on the bathroom counter.
“Midnight. Rooftop. Be alone.”
No signature.
She considered ignoring it. But hell was nothing if not seductive.
At midnight, she slipped through the penthouse to the rooftop. The city sprawled around them, lights glittering like sin. Garrison was already there—leaning against the low wall, coat open, shirtless.
“Come to worship your hell?” he asked, voice low as the breeze.
She crossed the rooftop, heels clicking on concrete. “I came for the reprisal.”
He pushed off the wall, stepping into the center, the moonlight playing across the hard planes of his chest. “This is no place for mercy.”
She unbuttoned her blouse. “I left mercy at the door.”
He caught her wrist. “No mercy for me?”
Her pulse raced. “Only for your darkest sins.”
He kissed her then—slow, sweet, a sin she couldn’t resist. She melted into it, pressing closer, the world narrowing to his mouth and the roar of her blood.
He guided her down onto the rooftop lounge—thick cushions, low table. He kissed her neck, collarbone, unzipping her skirt with one hand. She reached under his shirt, tracing the scars along his ribs, every mark a confession.
His hand slid under the lace of her panties, and she sighed, arching. The night air was cool against her skin, heightening every sensation as he teased her, fingers gliding, coaxing. Her hips lifted, matching each stroke, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts.
He thrust into her then, careful not to slip off the edge, and she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper. The view was dizzying—city lights, dark sky, two bodies colliding at the edge of reason.
She reached down, palming him through his trousers, guiding him, until he lifted, yanked her panties away, and sank into her. The rooftop echoed with their cries, a private hell of flesh and want.
He kissed her mouth fiercely, gripping her hips, driving harder. She moaned, legs tightening on him as she came, body folding around him. He followed, eyes closed, voice raw.
They collapsed together, breathing hard, a tangle beneath the stars.
⸻
The next morning, Eella awoke alone. The rooftop door creaked as she descended—nothing left but a single silk glove on the lounge.
She smirked, pocketed it.
Back in her apartment, her phone rang. Unknown number.
She answered.
“No more games,” said a woman’s voice, cold. “I know everything. Your hell is about to get darker.”
Eella’s lips curved. “Bring it on.”
was never about escape.
It was about surviving the fire.
She lay still, eyes closed, listening to her heartbeat, and tasted the ghost of him on her lips. Then, she moved—slow, deliberate, aching—sliding her hand beneath the silk of her nightdress. She didn’t need him to remember the way he’d claimed her thigh, the way his fingers had mapped her with bruises. She needed to feel the heat of him again, to ignite the wound that no boardroom or blackmail could ever truly heal.
She let her fingers trace that old path—first teasing, then pressing—and closed her eyes as the memory of his voice echoed in her mind: “Eella… you’re mine.”
A soft gasp escaped her as pleasure coursed through her, and she pushed her hand deeper, imagining it was his strong palm guiding her. Her other hand found the waistband of her panties, peeling them down with a fingertip, letting them pool at her ankles like an offering. The city light caught on bare skin, turning her into a living sculpture of desire and sin.
She came hard—shaking, breathless—whispering his name like a prayer and a curse. The silk nightdress slipped off completely, leaving her naked except for the thin gold chain at her throat. She lay back, sated and trembling, skin still buzzing with phantom touches.
He’d given her hell. She would give him heaven.
⸻
The elevator ride to the thirty-third floor felt like a descent into obsession. Eella’s silk buttons were already straining against her blouse, the fabric stretched tight across curves he knew like scripture. She walked into his office without knocking—because the door was never locked to him. Always waiting.
He wasn’t behind his desk this time. He was at the window, phone to his ear. When he saw her, his jaw clenched. He ended the call with a single, sharp click.
“Did you come here to worship me again?” he asked, voice low.
She stood at the threshold, hips swaying in that tight pencil skirt. “I came for business.”
His eyes flicked to her chest, to the whorls of lace peeking through her blouse. “Business.”
She closed the distance until the edge of his desk cut into her hip. “Your private hell is spreading.”
He dropped the pen he’d been holding. “You broken everything.”
She pressed her palm to his desk, leaning in, face inches from his. “I didn’t break you. You let me in.”
His hand snaked around her waist, fingers splaying against her hip. “You’re dangerous.”
“As is hell,” she whispered, and tipped her head up.
He kissed her then—not urgent, but slow and deliberate, tasting her, testing her. His mouth was fire on her lips; his tongue a blade. She found the open collar of his shirt and traced the tattoo at his throat, a black swirl that pulsed with meaning she didn’t yet understand.
“Tell me what it means,” she breathed against him.
He groaned, breaking the kiss. “Later.”
She smiled, wicked. “After you promised to show me everything.”
He backed up, hands still on her hips. “After you promise to survive.”
She kissed him again—harder. “I’ve survived hell.”
His eyes burned then. “Not mine.”
He spun her around, lifted her onto the desk, and cleared the papers with one hand. The desk rocked beneath her as he dropped to his knees, undoing her skirt zipper with practiced ease. She braced herself, legs parting for him.
His mouth met her thigh, then her hip, then the soft lace of her underwear. Each kiss a deliberate step closer to sin. She gasped, fingers twisting in the dark wood of the desk, as he traced the wet heat of her core.
“Eella,” he murmured, voice thick, “you belong to me.”
His tongue found her clit, circling, plunging, coaxing moans from her, building her need like a lit fuse. He alternated gentle licks with firm suckling, sending waves of heat through her. She cried out, the sound echoing off the cold walls, raw and beautiful.
She reached down, dragging his head closer, and he groaned, deep and feral. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her, as he fanned her need with expert precision. Then, abruptly, he stood, discarding his shirt and pants, revealing skin etched with muscle and promise.
She met him halfway, pulling him into her, her nails grazing his shoulders, her mouth ravenous on his chest. He lifted her off the desk, her legs wrapping around him as he carried her to the leather couch by the window.
They collapsed together in a tangle of limbs, breath and want thick around them. He sank into her with one smooth thrust, and they both cried out—a symphony of need and release. Each motion was brutal, deliberate, as if he’d been starving. As if she was the only thing that could keep his darkness at bay.
She arched into him, matching his pace, her nails digging into his back in a silent plea for more. He shifted, pressing deeper, finding angles that left her gasping. Their movements were a conversation—ofs grace and violence, of control surrendered and reclaimed.
He reached down, finding her clit with two fingers, and she came again, body shaking against him, mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure and pain. He rode out her orgasm, then held her through the tremors, pressing soft kisses across her shoulder.
When he finally stilled, they lay entwined, pulses slowing, the city humming below.
“Business,” he said softly, voice husky.
She smirked. “Hell, everything’s business with you.”
He kissed her temple. “Your hell.”
⸻
She showered to wash the silk and sweat away, but she couldn’t rinse the memory of him. She leaned against the tile, letting the water cascade over her, eyes closed, mind replaying every touch.
When she toweled off, she found a note on the bathroom counter.
“Midnight. Rooftop. Be alone.”
No signature.
She considered ignoring it. But hell was nothing if not seductive.
At midnight, she slipped through the penthouse to the rooftop. The city sprawled around them, lights glittering like sin. Garrison was already there—leaning against the low wall, coat open, shirtless.
“Come to worship your hell?” he asked, voice low as the breeze.
She crossed the rooftop, heels clicking on concrete. “I came for the reprisal.”
He pushed off the wall, stepping into the center, the moonlight playing across the hard planes of his chest. “This is no place for mercy.”
She unbuttoned her blouse. “I left mercy at the door.”
He caught her wrist. “No mercy for me?”
Her pulse raced. “Only for your darkest sins.”
He kissed her then—slow, sweet, a sin she couldn’t resist. She melted into it, pressing closer, the world narrowing to his mouth and the roar of her blood.
He guided her down onto the rooftop lounge—thick cushions, low table. He kissed her neck, collarbone, unzipping her skirt with one hand. She reached under his shirt, tracing the scars along his ribs, every mark a confession.
His hand slid under the lace of her panties, and she sighed, arching. The night air was cool against her skin, heightening every sensation as he teased her, fingers gliding, coaxing. Her hips lifted, matching each stroke, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts.
He thrust into her then, careful not to slip off the edge, and she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper. The view was dizzying—city lights, dark sky, two bodies colliding at the edge of reason.
She reached down, palming him through his trousers, guiding him, until he lifted, yanked her panties away, and sank into her. The rooftop echoed with their cries, a private hell of flesh and want.
He kissed her mouth fiercely, gripping her hips, driving harder. She moaned, legs tightening on him as she came, body folding around him. He followed, eyes closed, voice raw.
They collapsed together, breathing hard, a tangle beneath the stars.
⸻
The next morning, Eella awoke alone. The rooftop door creaked as she descended—nothing left but a single silk glove on the lounge.
She smirked, pocketed it.
Back in her apartment, her phone rang. Unknown number.
She answered.
“No more games,” said a woman’s voice, cold. “I know everything. Your hell is about to get darker.”
Eella’s lips curved. “Bring it on.”
was never about escape.
It was about surviving the fire.
End of His Private Hell Chapter 41. Continue reading Chapter 42 or return to His Private Hell book page.