Chapter 3 FUCK HER

CHAPTER 3

Wyatt's POV 

I sit through another meeting, listening to voices I don’t care for. Well, I usually do, but…not today. Numbers, reports, graphs… all the same shit I’ve seen a thousand times. My assistant, James, flips through the documents like a machine, pointing out the profit margins, the loss gaps, and the solutions. I nod at the right times, but I hear none of it. My mind drifts.

It drifts back to her.

Constantine Windsor. The woman who was late to the interview this morning. The woman who looked me dead in the eye and threw words back at me like she wasn’t scared. The woman who stood there in coffee-stained clothes, holding her pride in both hands even when she was drowning in embarrassment.

I didn’t even mean to spill the coffee on her. I saw her too late. The moment the hot liquid hit her skin, she’d gasped, looking so... raw. Her lips parted, her hair a mess, her eyes wide. The stain on her white shirt clung to her chest, drawing my eyes there even when I didn’t want to look. 

She should’ve looked pathetic. But she didn’t.

She looked good. Better than good. She looked…sexy.

Now I can’t get her out of my head. A woman I’ve spoken to for less than ten minutes. A woman I shouldn’t give a damn about. My mind keeps pulling her back. The way her voice cracked when she tried to defend herself. The way she squared her shoulders even when she wanted to cry.

I tap my pen against the desk, cutting James off mid-sentence.

‘We’re done here.’

James hesitates, blinking behind his glasses.

‘Sir? We haven’t gone over the last quarter’s revenue.’

‘I said we’re done.’ I stand, buttoning my suit jacket, not waiting for anyone to follow. I walk out of the boardroom, my steps sharp, cold. My head is heavy with thoughts of her. I don’t like this feeling. I need to clear it out.

The night falls fast and the city lights blink like dying stars. I drive to a club I frequent. Own, actually. You would be surprised at the amount of property to my name in this city and beyond. I enter, the bouncers clearing the path for me, bowing and greeting. The music is loud, the air reeks of alcohol and sex. It’s the perfect place to lose myself.

I head straight to the bar, order whiskey, neat. A woman slides into the seat beside me. I barely glanced at her, but noticed she had blonde hair, heavy makeup, dress tight enough to tell me all I need to know. She runs her hand over my thigh. I don’t stop her.

She whispers in my ear, but I don’t hear the words. Maybe it was because of the loud music, or maybe because I don’t care to listen. I finish my drink and stand. She follows, like a dog chasing scraps. I lead her to the back, a private room. The second the door closes, her hands are on me, pulling at my belt. 

I growl, pushing her against the wall, gripping her hands and lifting it over her head. She whimpered at my roughness, but i didn't care. I am not here to make love. I lean closer but my lips don’t touch hers. I don’t kiss. I don’t need a connection. I only need release.

‘No touching,’ I hiss, ‘The only one doing the touching would be me.’

Her dress rides up as I lift her. She moans, clinging to me like I’m more than just a man trying to forget. I pin her against the wall with one hand, unbuckling my belt with the other, lowering my trousers. I don’t wait for anything, I bury myself inside her, fast and rough, with no tenderness, no care. She wanted a fuck? She was fucking going to get fucked. I don’t think about her. I don’t look at her. I close my eyes and all I see is Constantine.

Her face, her voice, her fire. The way her body looked when I had run my hands over it last night. How her clothes clung to her skin when I had poured coffee on her outfit this morning. 

It makes me angry. It makes me push harder, move faster. The girl whimpers under me, trying to hold on. 

‘Please–’ she wanted to say, but my hands clamp around her mouth, gripping it tight as i take her against the wall. 

I finish inside her, not giving a damn about what she wants or if she got anything from it.

I pull out, zip up my pants, and grab my wallet. I toss a few bills onto the bed. She doesn’t even look at me, already lighting a cigarette. I step out onto the balcony, away from the heavy scent of sweat and smoke. 

I had fucked a woman and came, but I still felt fucking hard and hot. I groan, rubbing my palm over my face.

The cold air hits my face. The view of the club spreads below me. I see bodies of people moving, grinding, losing themselves in the music. I take a sip of whiskey, the burn cutting through the fog in my head. I scan the crowd without thinking. My eyes drift.

And then I see her.

Constantine.

She’s at the bar, with a glass in her hand, her head tilted back in laughter. Her eyes are half-lidded, drunk. The soft curve of her neck is exposed as her hair falls away from her face. Her clothes cling to her like a second skin. The way the fabric hugs her hips, her chest, her legs. I feel my jaw tighten. I suddenly feel hotter.

Fuck, she is hot.

She sways on her feet, light and careless. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips slightly parted. She’s drunk. Too drunk. And she’s alone.

I watch as a man approaches her. He was tall, broad, and the smile on his face stretched too wide. He leans in, his hand resting on her waist. She doesn’t push him away. She laughs, moving with the music, eyes glazed over.

The man moves closer, his hands sliding lower. He dances behind her, pressing against her, fingers gripping her hips. She stumbles but doesn’t fight it. Her head falls back against his shoulder, eyes closed. He grips her ass.

I exhale through my nose, long and slow. My hand tightens around the glass. I finish the drink in one swallow, set the glass down on the balcony ledge, and turn.

I head downstairs.

My steps are steady, controlled. The music grows louder as I walk through the crowd, but it doesn’t touch me. I move through the bodies like a shadow, my eyes fixed on one thing.

Him. 

The man is still there, hands roaming, mouth close to her ear, whispering something. Her eyes flutter, too drunk to focus. His hand slips lower, sliding under her dress.

I reach them, grab the bastard by the back of his collar, and yank him back so hard he stumbles. He spins, ready to throw a punch and I snarl, my fist connecting right into his nose. Again, again and again till he was a fucking bloodied mess.

I don’t say a word. I grab him by the front of his shirt, drag him through the crowd, and shove him out the club doors, leaving him gasping on the sidewalk. He knows better than to fight back.

I return to the bar. She’s still standing there, swaying, her glass empty. Her head lolls to the side, her eyes glassy. She doesn’t even know what just happened.

I stand there, my fists clenching. Then she comes over to me, giggling like a high-school teenager, her hands over my body. 

‘Hi!’

Fuck.