His Private Hell - Chapter 42: Chapter 42

She had no business being in his penthouse.
Yet here she was, her back pressed to the wall, her breathing shallow as Garrison Wolfe paced like a storm contained only by the sheer will of his jawline.
“This isn’t how I usually handle things,” he muttered, his voice low, dragging across her skin like velvet soaked in gasoline.
“Good,” Eella whispered, pulse fluttering in her throat. “Because I’m not like the others.”
That stopped him.
Garrison turned slowly, his eyes unreadable in the ambient gold of the penthouse lights. Everything here was curated. Controlled. From the monochrome furniture to the spotless glass windows that framed the skyline like a cage. Yet nothing in this room felt more dangerously curated than him.
“You’re not,” he agreed. “That’s exactly the problem.”
She didn’t know whether to take that as a warning or a confession. And maybe she didn’t care.
The tension had started earlier that day.
He’d summoned her to his private office again, claiming a vague meeting that never took place. He’d spent the better part of an hour watching her. Not speaking. Just watching. His gaze followed every twitch of her fingers, every shift of her weight, every breath she dared to take. Like he was memorizing her.
Like he was deciding what to do with her.
She hadn’t flinched. She’d met every look, every flicker of disapproval with practiced neutrality. But underneath, the truth was a live wire—she’d been soaking wet the entire time. Her body responded to his control like a violin string to a bow.
And now, here in his home, she was done pretending she didn’t want to be played.
“You like power, don’t you?” she asked, stepping away from the wall. Her heels clicked softly against the marble. “Is that why you’ve built an empire out of secrets?”
His eyes darkened.
“You think this is about power?” he asked, his voice colder now. “No, Eella. This is about control. There’s a difference.”
“Then lose it.”
The command hung between them like a lit match.
For a second, he didn’t move. And then he crossed the space between them so fast, her back hit the wall again with a thud.
“You think you know what that means?” His hand closed around her wrist, lifting her arm over her head. The other gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “You think because you’ve seen me stare at you across a boardroom that you understand what I want?”
“I know what I feel,” she said. “And I think you do too.”
He leaned in, lips brushing her jaw, her cheek, her ear. “I feel like you’re playing a game you can’t win.”
“Then show me the rules.”
His control cracked.
He spun her toward the glass, pinning her front-first against the towering windowpane. The city sparkled below them, indifferent to the way his body pressed against hers, hard and hot and unmistakably aroused.
“You want a taste?” he rasped.
She nodded, her breath fogging the glass.
“I want all of it.”
He ripped open the back of her blouse, silk tearing like paper. She gasped at the sudden exposure, the brush of cold air against her spine. His hands were fire against her skin, roaming down to grip her hips.
“No panties?” he murmured, finding bare skin beneath her skirt. “You wore this for me?”
“I didn’t know I’d end up here.”
“Liar.”
He slid two fingers between her thighs. Wet. Soaking. He groaned into her neck, his breath uneven.
“You’re already addicted to me,” he said. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”
“Then stop talking,” she hissed. “And do it.”
He pulled her skirt up roughly, exposing her fully to the city behind the glass. One hand stayed on her hip, the other reached between them to undo his belt, his zipper, releasing himself with a sound that made her clench in anticipation.
“Garrison—”
He didn’t let her finish.
The first thrust was deep, hard, and shocking in its intensity. She cried out, her fingers splaying against the glass for balance.
“Yes,” she moaned, hips rocking back into him. “Just like that.”
He set a brutal rhythm, taking her like he needed to erase something—her doubts, his demons, the line between sanity and obsession. Every snap of his hips was a promise he didn’t know how to keep.
“I warned you,” he growled. “I’m not gentle.”
“Good,” she gasped. “I don’t want gentle.”
She wanted his madness.
She wanted to drown in it.
Her moans grew louder, matching the tempo of his thrusts. The glass vibrated under their bodies. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized someone could probably see them—but the thought only turned her on more.
She was unraveling. And he was unmaking her.
Her climax hit her like a slap, sudden and violent. She cried out his name, clawing at the window as her body spasmed around him.
He wasn’t far behind.
With a guttural sound, he thrust once more, buried deep, and stilled—his body shuddering as he spilled into her.
They stayed like that, bodies trembling, breaths uneven.
Then he pulled out slowly, stepping back, his gaze unreadable again.
“You should go.”
She turned, stunned. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“But—”
“This is the last time.”
She laughed, bitter. “You keep saying that.”
“This time I mean it.”
“Then why are you shaking?”
He didn’t answer.
She gathered what remained of her clothes, refusing to let him see her flinch. Not when she knew he was the one bleeding from the inside.
He watched her dress. Silently. Like she was something he didn’t know how to let go of.
At the door, she turned one last time.
“Garrison?”
He didn’t move.
“You can’t unburn what’s already ash.”
And with that, she left him to .
Alone. Again.
And maybe that was the most dangerous thing of all.