Ruined

The ambient candlelight of the swanky Boston restaurant danced across our linen-covered table, but did absolutely nothing to soften the dark, hungry intensity burning in Thatcher's eyes. Even after two years together—and one year with his diamond sitting heavy on my left ring finger—that predatory look still managed to paint a deep, uncontrollable blush across my cheeks.

I dragged my knife through the grilled Branzino, attempting to anchor my focus on anything other than his stare. I brought the fork to my mouth, letting out a soft, involuntary moan as the rich flavors of ginger, lime, and piquant basil exploded on my tongue.

Thatcher’s Adam’s apple bobbed against the collar of his crisp, unbuttoned white shirt. His jaw tightened as he reached for his wine glass.

"Stop moaning like that," he warned, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that barely carried over the quiet hum of the restaurant. His lips hovered inches from the rim of his glass, his blue eyes entirely fixed on my mouth.

I bit my lower lip, heat radiating down my neck. He stared at me like I was the main course, his gaze practically dragging the little black dress right off my body. I needed to steer this conversation into safer territory.

"Anything exciting happen at work today?" I asked, deliberately changing the subject. I took a sip of my own drink, trying to cool the sudden dryness in my throat.

He smirked, clearly amused by my deflection. "I should be asking you that. You've got that look."

I let out a heavy sigh, my shoulders dropping a fraction. "You know Camilla Simone?"

Thatcher’s dark brows tilted upward in mild surprise. Being a highly sought-after defense attorney, he knew every high-profile name in Boston. "Reginald Simone's daughter?"

"Exactly," I said, setting my fork down. "She walked right into the WPPR office today and specifically demanded me. She stood in my office, looking like she just stepped off a yacht, and gave me this whole speech." I raised my fingers, sketching air quotes in the space between us. "'Daphne told me you are the best in this field. I need you to work for me.'"

Thatcher leaned back, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Interesting."

"It’s completely bizarre," I continued, shaking my head. "Daphne Marquez and I absolutely despised each other when I handled her account. She was a total nightmare, incredibly demanding, and cursed me and my roots to hell and back. For her to actually recommend me to someone like Camilla? It makes zero sense."

I traced the condensation on the rim of my glass, the stress of the day finally catching up to me. Over the last four years, I had clawed my way up the corporate ladder at Whitmore Prescott Public Relations, bleeding for every promotion.

"So, you accepted Camilla's campaign," Thatcher stated. He always knew how to read me perfectly. A single sigh, a minor shift in posture, and he knew exactly what was running through my mind.

"What choice did I have?" I groaned. "Valeria aggressively backed me into a corner with an ultimatum. I either handle Camilla’s campaign, or I take on a demanding Miami billionaire’s crisis case. Valeria candidly dislikes me, and I think she’s setting me up to fail."

Thatcher didn't hesitate. He leaned across the table, his large, warm hand covering mine. His thumb began to gently, deliberately stroke across my knuckles. The simple, repetitive friction sent a jolt of comfort straight to my chest.

"Elena," he murmured, his blue eyes locking onto mine with absolute sincerity. "You’ve worked way too hard to make it this far. This is your dream job. Don't let a bitter senior executive like Valeria hinder your goals. You're the best at what you do."

His validation washed over me, melting away my lingering anxiety. I flipped my hand over, intertwining my fingers with his.

A wicked, familiar smirk suddenly curled the corners of his mouth. The supportive fiancé vanished, instantly replaced by the hungry predator I had provoked earlier. "Besides," he added, his thumb now pressing into the sensitive center of my palm. "I know the perfect way to help you relax."

I leaned closer over the table, playfully tracing the deep lines of his palm with my index finger. I arched an eyebrow, my voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "Oh yeah? Is that a proposition?"

Thatcher caught my wandering fingers in a tight grip. He huffed a harsh breath, his eyes darkening to a shade of midnight blue. "Sounds like you are challenging me, baby girl."

"Maybe I am."

His voice dropped an octave, entirely devoid of humor. "Challenge accepted."

The drive to his upstate mansion was an absolute blur. Thatcher aggressively shaved a solid five minutes off the commute, his hands gripping the steering wheel with impatience. The tires screeched slightly as he unceremoniously parked at the roundabout.

The second the engine died, he was out of the car. He wrenched the passenger door open, practically plucking me from the seat. Before I could catch my breath, he slammed the door shut with a loud thud, trapping my body hard against the cold metal.

His hands plowed into my hair, tilting my head back as he smashed his lips against mine. The kiss was bruising, desperate, and tasted fiercely of dry red wine. I opened my mouth for him instantly, tangling my tongue with his as he devoured me in the cool night air.

He pulled back just enough to speak, his hot breath fanning across my wet lips. "I am going to fucking ruin you tonight, Elena," he growled, his eyes trailing down to completely devour the outfit I had chosen. "You know it drives me insane when you show off your legs like this, yet you purposely chose this sinfully short dress for a Wednesday workday."

His rock-hard erection pressed aggressively against my hip bone, sending a heavy, aching throb straight between my thighs.

I clutched the lapel of his expensive suit, breathless and unapologetic. "That was exactly my intention."

Thatcher let out a feral groan. He gripped my jaw, kissing me hard one last time before grabbing my hand and yanking me inside the mansion. He entirely bypassed the grand staircase, his heavy footsteps steering us straight down the hallway and directly into the massive kitchen.

He spun me around, pinning my back firmly against the hard edge of the kitchen island. The warm corner lights illuminated the dangerous hunger carved into his face. He leaned down, pressing his open mouth against the side of my neck, kissing a wet, fiery path down my throat.

"Tell me you're mine," he demanded, his voice a harsh rasp against my skin. His large hand palmed my breast, squeezing firmly through the fabric, while his other hand eagerly reached for the side zipper of my black dress.

I gasped as he bit down on my collarbone. "I'm yours. I am all yours."

That was all the permission he needed. Abandoning any semblance of slow, romantic foreplay, Thatcher gripped the fabric of my dress and yanked. The sound of tearing fabric echoed in the kitchen as the zipper gave way. He practically tore the garment away from my body, letting it fall in a ruined heap around my ankles. My black thong suffered the exact same fate, snapped at the hip and tossed aside.

I gasped as the cool air of the kitchen hit my flushed, entirely bare skin, my naked back pressed against the freezing counter.

The clink of his belt unbuckling echoed loudly. He shoved his dress pants and boxers down, freeing his thick, fully erect cock. It was massive and jutting angrily between us. Pushing my thighs wide apart, he stepped right between them.

His hands gripped my bare hips, hoisting me up slightly on the counter. I was already dripping wet, my pussy slick and throbbing for him.

Thatcher didn't hesitate. He lined the blunt head of his cock against my wet opening and shoved his hips forward in one brutal, aggressive thrust.

I screamed his name as he buried himself deep inside my tight pussy, stretching me wide open. It was a flawless, dominating invasion. He pulled almost all the way out, the friction dragging a filthy moan from my lips, before slamming his hips forward and burying his hard cock to the very hilt once again.

"Fuck," he grunted, the veins in his neck bulging as he set a punishing, relentless rhythm.

His hands clamped down on my thighs, holding me in place as he pounded into me. The wet, slapping sounds of our bodies colliding echoed loudly in the empty kitchen. Every thrust was deep, angled perfectly to grind against my clit, sending violent shockwaves of pleasure crashing through my nervous system.

"You belong to me, Elena," he snarled, his grip tightening on my hips, leaving bruises I would feel for days. "Only me."

"Yes! Thatcher, God, please!" I cried out, my nails digging into his broad shoulders.

He proved exactly what he meant when he said he would ruin me. He marked and owned every inch of my body, thrusting into my soaking pussy with primal force until the pleasure became entirely too much. My walls clamped down hard around his rigid cock, and I shattered into a blinding, trembling climax. Thatcher roared, driving his hips flush against mine one final time as he completely unloaded deep inside me, leaving me a trembling mess against the cold counter.

Hours later, physically spent and thoroughly satisfied, I found myself tangled in the expensive sheets of Thatcher's massive bed.

I woke up groggy in the pitch-black darkness, a pressing urge to use the bathroom dragging me from my deep sleep. I carefully untangled my limbs from Thatcher, who was fast asleep on his stomach.

I slipped out of bed, shivering slightly in the cool air of the room. As I turned toward the en-suite bathroom, a relentless, continuous blinking light caught the corner of my eye.

It was Thatcher’s phone on the nightstand, the screen repeatedly lighting up the darkness around it.

My brows furrowed. It was the middle of the night. A rapid succession of text messages at this hour usually meant a client had been arrested or someone was in the hospital. Assuming it must be an urgent emergency that he needed to deal with, I walked around the foot of the bed and approached his side of the mattress.

I reached out to gently shake his shoulder, but as I glanced down, my entire body froze.

The glowing notifications on his locked screen instantly burned their way into my vision. The words didn't compute at first. My brain scrambled to make sense of the harsh black letters illuminated against the bright screen.

‘I warned you, Thatcher.’

A second notification popped up right beneath it, vibrating silently on the nightstand.

‘I’ll tell her myself if you can’t.’

My heart slammed against my ribs. All the air evaporated from the room. My hand hovered over his shoulder, shaking violently. Who was texting him? Warned him about what? What did someone need to tell me?

A sudden, sickening curiosity completely overrode my respect for his privacy. My fingers trembled as I reached out and picked up the device. The screen prompted for a passcode. Without thinking, I typed in my birthday.

The screen unlocked with a quiet click.

I tapped on the message thread. I stared at the screen, my blood turning to pure ice in my veins. The messages I uncovered in that dimly lit room shattered my entire reality in an instant. The crushing weight of betrayal slammed into my chest, stealing the breath from my lungs.

He had promised to ruin me tonight, and as I read the devastating secrets hiding in his phone, I realized he truly just did.