His Private Hell - Chapter 43: Chapter 43

Eella didn’t remember opening the door to her apartment.
But she remembered Garrison’s mouth.
Hot. Possessive. Dangerous.
He kissed her like a man starved for something he hated needing. His tongue swept past her lips, tasting, claiming, demanding submission she wasn’t even sure she had left to give. The door slammed behind them with a resounding finality that made her breath catch.
This wasn’t a kiss. This was arson.
His jacket hit the floor. Hers followed. She didn’t recall undoing the buttons—only the slide of silk against her skin, the scrape of his teeth at her throat.
“You were wearing this at work,” he growled, his voice a dark rasp. “All day. Smelling like me.”
Eella’s breath hitched as Garrison shoved the blouse off her shoulders, exposing the black lace beneath. His fingers dragged across the skin of her collarbone, possessive, reverent, like he was memorizing the feel of her.
“You want to drive me insane?” he asked.
Her lips curved, breathless and reckless. “Maybe.”
“You’re playing with a wolf, Eella. Do you think I won’t bite?”
He didn’t wait for her to answer. His mouth was on her again, kissing her like he was unraveling. She moaned into it, opening for him, welcoming the surge of heat and violence in his touch. He guided her backward, step by step, until the backs of her knees hit the edge of her couch.
“I can’t stop wanting you,” he said, every word like a promise and a curse. “Even when I’m drowning in everything I hate about myself, I still want to bury myself inside you.”
Eella’s body ached at the confession. “Then do it,” she said, sliding her hand down to where he strained against his slacks. “Don’t make me beg.”
His hands dropped to her thighs, lifting her in one swift motion. She wrapped her legs around his waist, gasping as he walked them into the bedroom without breaking eye contact.
“I’ll ruin you,” he warned.
“Then take your time.”
The bed hit the backs of her knees and she tumbled, laughing softly—until he gripped her ankles and pulled her toward him with a force that made her breath catch again.
He tore the lace panties down her legs and spread her thighs apart with deliberate force. “You’re soaked.”
“You did that.”
“I haven’t even started.”
He dipped his head, tongue flattening against her center in a single, devastating stroke that made her cry out. She writhed, fingers clutching the sheets as he devoured her, like she was the sin he never intended to resist. His tongue worked her mercilessly, slow at first, then faster, rougher, until her hips bucked against his face and she sobbed his name.
“Garrison—God—don’t stop—”
He didn’t.
He sucked her clit into his mouth and pressed two fingers inside her, curling until her entire body seized around him. She came hard, thighs trembling, cries broken and frantic. But he didn’t let her rest.
He climbed up her body, eyes feral now.
“Turn over.”
“Garrison—”
“Now.”
Her body obeyed before her brain did. She rolled onto her stomach, and he pulled her hips up until she was on her knees, back arched, completely exposed to him. She heard the sound of his zipper, the low hiss of breath as he freed himself.
Then he slammed into her from behind.
She gasped, knuckles white in the sheets.
His rhythm was brutal, unrelenting. Her body clenched with every thrust, over-sensitive, over-stimulated, and desperate for more.
“This is what happens,” he said, breathless. “When you walk into my life and don’t leave.”
“I never said I wanted to leave,” she moaned.
“I’m not giving you a choice.”
He reached under her, fingers rubbing tight circles around her clit as he fucked her deeper, harder. Her body trembled again, heat coiling tight in her belly until she shattered beneath him a second time.
“Mine,” he growled, emptying into her as he spilled over the edge too.
They collapsed together, bodies tangled, breath ragged.
Minutes passed. The silence was deafening.
She turned toward him, still panting. “You always disappear after, don’t you?”
His jaw tightened. “I told you—this isn’t—”
“Normal?” she finished, brushing hair from her damp forehead. “Neither am I.”
He looked at her like he didn’t know whether to kiss her again or run from her completely.
And then his phone buzzed.
Garrison cursed, sitting up with a scowl. The name flashing across the screen made his entire expression shutter.
“What is it?” she asked softly.
“Nothing you want to be part of,” he said, standing and grabbing his clothes. “I need to go.”
“You can’t keep pretending I don’t exist when it’s convenient.”
“I’m not pretending,” he said tightly. “I’m protecting.”
“From what?”
He looked at her. Really looked. And something in him shifted.
“From me.”
⸻
The next day, Eella wore red.
A power suit—fitted, bold, unapologetic. Garrison’s absence from the morning meetings had twisted her insides into anxious knots. She sat at the head of the table, presenting the campaign draft with steady precision, but her mind was fractured.
Everyone noticed the difference.
Even Ronnie pulled her aside afterward.
“You okay, boss lady?” Ronnie asked, her gaze sharp. “You look like you ran into a hurricane.”
Eella almost laughed. “Close.”
Ronnie smirked. “Let me guess. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Smells like sin?”
Eella blinked. “Am I that obvious?”
“No, but I see the way Garrison watches you like he’s starving.”
“Not anymore.”
Ronnie’s smile vanished. “What did he do?”
“Exactly what I should’ve expected.”
Ronnie hesitated, then offered a slow nod. “Men like him don’t break easy, Eella. You want to stay in his orbit, you better know how to survive the fallout.”
“Thanks for the warning,” she said, even as her chest ached. “But I’ve already walked through fire.”
⸻
That night, the knock came at two in the morning.
Eella opened the door without checking.
Because she knew.
Garrison stood there, eyes bloodshot, hair a mess, his tie undone. He looked like a man losing the battle with himself.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“You are.”
He stepped inside. But he didn’t touch her.
“I need to tell you something.”
She crossed her arms, spine straight. “Go on.”
He took a breath like it hurt. “There’s something about me—my past. The reason I keep the door locked on the 33rd floor. The reason I don’t let anyone in.”
“I figured.”
“Then you should also figure I’m not safe.”
“I don’t want safe,” she said. “I want real.”
His shoulders slumped, defeated. “There’s a name. Darcie.”
Eella flinched. She’d heard it before. In whispers. In warning.
“She was my assistant. And more. She… didn’t make it out.”
Eella’s breath caught. “Are you saying you—”
“No,” he snapped. “But I didn’t stop it. I saw her unraveling and I let her. Because I needed to be needed. And she drowned. Because I wasn’t strong enough to walk away.”
“And now?”
“Now you’re here,” he said. “And I’m burning again.”
She stepped closer, resting a hand against his chest.
“You don’t scare me, Garrison.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t think I can survive losing you too.”
They stood in the silence, raw and broken.
And then she kissed him. Soft this time. Not to seduce, but to save.
They ended up on her couch again, bodies slow this time, tangled in warmth instead of fire. His fingers caressed instead of claimed. His kisses lingered, tasting of desperation and something dangerously close to hope.
After, he stayed. For once.
She fell asleep on his chest.
And somewhere, far beneath the noise and the madness and the guilt, Garrison Wolfe dreamed.
Of her.
Of hell.
And of a world where maybe—just maybe—he could learn to live inside both.