Married to the Wrong CEO

Chapter 103: Ecstasy

Even as she hurried back toward the bar, apologizing breathlessly to the manager Llara still couldn’t get the rejection out of her head.

"I’m so sorry," she said for what felt like the hundredth time, her voice rushed and unsteady as she set her tray down behind the counter. "My stomach started acting up—I think it was something I ate earlier. It won’t happen again, I swear."

Her hands moved quickly as she spoke, wiping down the counter, straightening bottles that didn’t need straightening, doing anything to keep busy and distract herself. But it didn’t work. The moment she stopped moving, his voice replayed in her mind.

I’m not interested in fucking you.

The words hit her again like a slap.

"I promise this will never happen again," she added quickly, her voice cracking despite her efforts to sound composed. "I’ll work an extra thirty minutes—an hour if you want—just to make it up."

Her manager looked at her for a long moment, taking in the apology, the tension in her shoulders, the faint shine of unshed tears in her eyes. Then he sighed and waved a hand dismissively.

"Don’t worry about it," he said. "Just don’t make a habit of it."

Relief flooded her so suddenly that her knees nearly buckled.

"Thank you," she said, bowing her head slightly. "Really. I’m sorry."

She apologized once more out of sheer reflex before grabbing her tray and heading back upstairs. A smile was fixed on her face, practiced and convincing, even if her eyes were noticeably colder.

When she reached the VIP section, she slipped seamlessly back into her role, weaving between tables with professional ease. She didn’t spare Matteo so much as a glance.

Not once.

She worked with something bordering on vengeance. Her movements were sharp, efficient, precise. Even when she passed his table to serve drinks, she kept her gaze forward, her expression neutral, as though he didn’t exist at all.

You picked up my pride and threw it right back in my face, she thought bitterly. And then you had the nerve to walk away.

It took everything in her not to march over to him and slap him across the face. Instead, she focused on her work with tunnel vision, pouring drinks, clearing glasses, responding to requests with clipped politeness.

Classist bastard.

The conclusion settled in her mind with bitter certainty. What other explanation could there be? He was clearly wealthy, powerful. And she was just another waitress in a tight uniform, working for tips.

That’s what this is about, she told herself, anger burning hot in her chest. You think you’re better than me.

Luck—or perhaps exhaustion—was on her side, because time seemed to move faster than usual. When someone finally came over to take over her shift, Llara blinked in surprise.

Already?

Relief washed over her as she handed off her tray and headed back downstairs. She made a point of not glancing toward the VIP area, even though every nerve in her body seemed tuned in that direction.

Instead, she went straight for her bag and headed to the bathroom to change.

She avoided the cubicle they had shared earlier like it was cursed, choosing the farthest stall instead. Her movements were quick, efficient. She shrugged out of her work clothes and slipped into a short, shimmery black dress that barely covered her backside. The fabric clung to her in a way that made her feel more like herself again.

If I’m going to forget him, she thought, I might as well enjoy myself.

She swapped her conservative work shoes for higher black heels, stuffing her uniform into her bag before stepping back out into the sink area. The harsh bathroom lighting caught her reflection, and she paused, staring at herself in the mirror.

Unbidden, the memory of him wiping her lipstick from his lips surfaced.

Her fingers drifted to her mouth, brushing lightly against her lower lip as she recalled the taste of him.

A frown settled on her face.

"No," she muttered to herself, shaking her head. She reapplied her lipstick with care, rubbing her lips together before touching up her makeup and forcing the memory away.

Zipping her bag shut, she left the bathroom. The manager kindly offered to store her things in a secure area, and she thanked him before heading toward the lobby with only her purse.

Tonight was hers.

She ordered a cocktail and sipped it slowly, leaning against the bar as the music pulsed around her. The bass was heavier down here, louder, vibrating through the floor and into her bones.

He doesn’t know what he’s missing, she told herself stubbornly.

The anger slowly dulled into something more manageable as she finished her drink, nodding along to the beat. The lighting was dim, broken only by colorful flashes that swept across the room, rendering faces half-visible, half-hidden.

She was just setting her empty glass down when a man slid into the seat beside her.

He didn’t introduce himself. Didn’t offer to buy her a drink.

"Do you want to dance?" he asked instead.

Normally, that alone would have been enough for her to say no. But tonight, she wanted distraction. Any distraction.

"Sure," she said, getting to her feet.

As they stepped onto the dance floor, a sweep of colored light passed over his face, and she nearly stopped short. The expression there—too hungry, too obvious—made her skin prickle.

It’s just a dance, she told herself firmly.

The music was upbeat but slow enough to sway to. He moved behind her, close, and she leaned back against him, letting her hips move with the rhythm. For a few seconds, she let herself get lost in the music.

Then she felt his hands slide lower.

Too low.

She swatted them away without turning around, continuing to dance, hoping he’d get the message. He didn’t. Instead, his grip tightened, and suddenly two other men shifted behind her, blocking her path.

Her heart jumped into her throat.

Fear barely had time to take root before there was a sudden loud cry—painful, startled.

The man behind her was gone, scrambling backward on the floor. His friends followed just as quickly, retreating like startled animals.

Llara turned, her breath catching.

Even in the dim light, she recognized him.

Matteo.

"Do you want to dance?" he asked, his voice unmistakable.

She leaned back against him without thinking, hating how natural it felt. How right.

"Are you going to run away again?" she asked him directly.

The question was sharp, daring, carried on the pulse of the music as it throbbed through the floor and into her bones. Even as the words left her mouth, her hand slid back to find his waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as though anchoring him in place. She leaned into him deliberately, pressing back until she felt the solid line of him behind her, close enough that there was no mistaking the intent.

He wasn’t hard yet but she could feel his huge member between his legs pressed against her butt.

She expected him to step away.

Expected restraint. Distance. Another cold rejection like before.

Instead, he moved even closer.

The change was subtle but unmistakable—his body aligning with hers, his presence enclosing her until she felt surrounded by him. His breath brushed against the sensitive skin of her neck, warm and unhurried, sending a shiver down her spine. She sucked in a breath as his lips followed, trailing just beneath her ear, lingering there in a way that made her pulse stumble.

Oh, she thought, startled despite herself. So you do want me.

Whatever they were doing could no longer be called dancing. It was too slow, too deliberate, their movements guided less by the music and more by the tension coiling tightly between them. Her body responded instinctively, every shift of her weight, every small movement met by him without hesitation.

The darkness wrapped around them, the flashing lights offering only fleeting glimpses—his jaw, the sharp line of his cheekbone, the intensity in his eyes when she finally turned her head just enough to see him. The world beyond them blurred into sound and shadow, irrelevant and distant.

Each touch sent warmth spreading through her, loosening something inside her that had been tightly wound since the moment he’d walked away earlier.

This is happening, she realized, her breath uneven. After everything... this is actually happening.

She tilted her head back slightly, giving him silent permission, and felt his lips return to her neck—unrushed, deliberate, the kind of attention that made her forget the crowd entirely. Her fingers tightened at his sides, grounding herself as the sensation built, her knees threatening to weaken beneath her. freewebnoveℓ.com

His hands glided down between her legs and unlike before she saw no reason to swat it away parting her legs to give access.

Their eyes met in the dim light, something unspoken passing between them, charged and unmistakable. His expression was darker now, focused, intent in a way that stole her breath as he brought her to ecstasy.

For a moment, they stayed like that—locked together in the middle of the noise and motion, the rest of the world falling away.

And then the lights flashed again.

The music surged.

And whatever came next was theirs alone, hidden in the shadows, where words and time no longer seemed to matter.