Saved By My Husband's Best Friend

Back to The Lions Den

The drive back toward the penthouse was silent, the hum of the tires against the pavement sounding like a funeral march. I sat in the back, clutching the boutique bag so tightly the paper crinkled beneath my white-knuckled grip. My mind was a broken record, replaying Elena’s voice over and over: You could just leave. The words felt like a physical weight, a key I had been given but was too terrified to turn.

My phone buzzed in my lap, the vibration making me jump so violently I nearly dropped the bag.

It was a text from Jason.

Jason: Change of plans. Come back to the office. We need to talk before tonight’s gala.

My blood turned to ice, and a cold sweat broke out along my spine.

"Talk" never meant anything good in Jason’s vocabulary. It was a precursor to an audit of my behavior, a tallying of my sins.

I looked at the rearview mirror and saw Vance’s eyes move to meet mine. He had clearly received a similar message on his own encrypted device. Without a word, he took a sharp right, cutting across three lanes of traffic to double back toward the glass towers of midtown.

Panic began to set in, a frantic, fluttering thing in my chest. I knew exactly why he wanted me back. He hadn't forgotten the coffee. He had been stewing on it, letting the perceived insult rot until it became a weapon.

I reached into the bag and pulled out a fresh tube of the professional concealer. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely unscrew the cap, the plastic clicking against my teeth as I tried to use them for leverage.

I squeezed a thick, beige glob onto my finger and began frantically dabbing it over the raw, purple rings on my wrists. I didn't have a mirror, so I worked by feel, smoothing the heavy, wax-like paste over the chafed skin. It burned like fire against the open sores, but I didn't flinch. I couldn't afford a single tear.

I snapped the gold bangles back into place over the wet makeup, hoping the friction wouldn't rub the camouflage away. I had to be perfect. If I looked like I was falling apart, if I showed a single crack in the porcelain, he would only press harder until I shattered.

When I reached the executive floor, the usual end-of-day bustle had died down into a haunting quiet. The air conditioning hummed with a clinical, sterile energy.

I walked past Liam’s office. The glass door was ajar, the light spilling out into the hallway in a sharp, rectangular blade. I could see him sitting at his desk, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension as he poured over a stack of contracts. He looked up as I passed, his dark eyes tracking me with that same unsettling, clinical intensity. He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He just watched, as if he were observing a car wreck in slow motion. I didn't stop. I couldn't.

I pushed open the heavy oak doors to Jason’s private suite. The room smelled of expensive scotch and the lingering scent of my own fear. He was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to me, silhouetted against the setting New York skyline.

"There’s a dinner tonight with the commissioners," he said, his voice low and dangerously calm. He didn't turn around, but I could see his reflection in the glass—hard, cold, and utterly immovable. "I won't be able to go home first. I’ll have to meet you at the restaurant. Vance will take you to get changed."

"Oh... okay," I breathed, feeling a small, pathetic surge of relief that I wouldn't be alone with him in the car for the forty-minute drive to the restaurant.

"But," he turned then, his eyes cold and sharp as flint, "I haven't been able to stop thinking about that little performance you gave earlier. The coffee, Sarah? Really? You thought that was clever?"

"Jason, I just wanted to do something nice—"

"You made me look like a fool," he spat, his voice rising just enough to make me flinch. He stepped into my personal space, the air around him heavy with a brewing storm. "You made me look like a man who doesn't know the intimate details of his own marriage. Or worse, a man who forgets the 'milestones' his wife holds dear. You were trying to get back at me, weren't you? A little public revenge for last night?"

"No! No, Jason, I swear," I pleaded, my voice cracking as I took a desperate step toward him. I reached out, my fingers trembling as I laid them against the expensive wool of his suit jacket. I could feel the heat radiating off him. "I just... I missed you. I wanted to remember the way things were when we were happy. I wasn't thinking about how it looked to the others."

He looked down at my hand on his chest, his lip curling in a sneer of pure disdain. "Don't lie to me. You know I hate it when you lie."

"I'm not lying," I whispered, stepping closer until I could feel the buttons of his vest pressing into my chest. I had to diffuse the bomb. I had to redirect his anger into the only other emotion he understood: possession. I had to convince him that I was still his property, that I still craved the version of him that broke me. "I loved last night, Jason. Truly. I... I haven't c*med that hard in so long. My body is still shaking from it. You know my nerves better than I do."

He paused, the murderous tension in his shoulders dropping just a fraction. His gaze dropped to my lips, heavy and dark. "Really?"

"Yes, baby," I said, my voice dropping to a sultry, practiced murmur that I hated myself for perfected. "Let me prove it to you. I don't want to wait until tonight’s dinner. I want you now."

I felt the power shift. It was the only weapon I had left in my arsenal—the ability to give him what he wanted before he took it by force.

I sank slowly to my knees on the plush, charcoal carpet, my eyes never leaving his. I reached for his belt, my fingers working the leather with a focused, hungry intent. I heard his breath hitch as I slid the zipper down, releasing his thick, rigid c*ck from his silk boxers.

He was already hard, a testament to how much he thrived on the transition from anger to dominance. I leaned forward, my tongue flicking out to taste the salty pre-c*m at the tip before I took him into my mouth. I swirled my tongue around the broad head, heard him groan as I used my hand to stroke the length of him.

My gold bangles clinked rhythmically against each other, the sound echoing in the silent office, a metallic reminder of the bruises they were currently smearing makeup over.

I moved lower, taking one of his heavy b*lls into my mouth, teasing the sensitive skin with my teeth just enough to make his hips twitch in a desperate search for friction. I looked up at him through my lashes, the "doe eyes" back in place, wide and submissive, as I slid my lips back over the head of his c*ck. I took him as deep as I could, my throat tightening as I sucked with a rhythmic, desperate force. My hands wandered up to grip his thighs, my nails digging into the fabric.

He reached down, his fingers tangling painfully in my hair, pulling my head back so I had to look at him as I worked on him. He wasn't gentle; he pushed himself deeper, his c*ck hitting the back of my throat, but I didn't gag. I couldn't afford to.

I swallowed him, my tongue dancing over the sensitive vein on the underside of his shaft, drawing every ounce of his frustration into my mouth.

I wanted him to forget the coffee. I wanted him to forget the boutique worker’s offer. I wanted him to only remember the way I looked on my knees, completely and utterly his.

As he neared his peak, his breath became a series of ragged, animalistic growls. I increased the pressure, my lips tight around him, my tongue flicking faster against the crown. With a sharp, gutteral gasp, he buckled, his hands tightening in my hair until I thought he might pull it out by the roots as he spent himself in my mouth. I swallowed every drop, staying there for a long moment, my face pressed against his stomach, until he slumped back against the edge of his mahogany desk.

He looked down at me, his expression unreadable—a mix of satisfaction and lingering cruelty, but the murderous edge had been blunted. For now.

"Go get ready for dinner, Sarah," he said, his voice husky and rough. "And don't be late. I want you in that silver dress. The one that shows off your shoulders."

I stood up, my knees cracking. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, carefully checking the sleeves of my sweater to make sure the concealer hadn't been rubbed off against the carpet. I offered him one last, lingering, fragile smile before turning to leave.

As I walked out, the silence of the hallway felt even more suffocating than the office. I passed Liam’s office again. The door was still open, the light still cutting across the floor. He was standing there now, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't say a word, but the look he gave me was heavy with a silent, dark understanding. He saw the way I walked, the way I wouldn't meet his eyes, and the way I was clutching my wrists. He knew exactly what price I had just paid to keep the peace.

I kept walking, the clink of my bangles the only sound in the empty hall.