Chapter 170: Over-fucked or Fucked Over

NOAH

The first thing I felt wasn’t love. It wasn’t post-coital bliss or the lingering warmth of a lover’s touch. It was pain.

Pure, unadulterated, localized pain.

Before my eyes even opened, before my brain had even finished loading the basic parameters of human consciousness, every nerve ending in my body sent back a status report, and the consensus was unanimous: I had been hit by a train. No, a train was too kind. I had been dismantled and put back together by someone who didn’t follow the instruction manual.

Ow, I thought. It was the only word my brain could manage.

My muscles weren’t just sore; they were protesting my very existence. My lower back felt like it had been used as a structural support beam for a skyscraper. My thighs were heavy, trembling with a deep-seated fatigue that made the prospect of walking feel like a marathon. And then there was the most pressing issue—the epicenter of the earthquake.

My ass was WRECKED.

There was no other way to put it. It was a deep, aching soreness that throbbed with every heartbeat. It felt swollen, puffy, and incredibly tender. My skin felt raw, oversensitive to the touch of the sheets beneath me. Even the movement of breathing seemed to irritate the places where Cassian had… well, where he had been.

I lay there for a long time, eyes still closed, drifting in that hazy limbo between sleep and the cruel reality of the afternoon. I wanted to stay there for forty-eight hours. Maybe seventy-two. Just me, the charcoal sheets, and a complete lack of physical responsibility.

Eventually, the light became too insistent to ignore. I let my eyes flutter open, immediately squinting against the soft, muted glow filtering through the heavy curtains. This wasn’t my room. The ceiling didn’t have a water stain. There were no piles of laundry in the corner.

Right. Cassian’s room. That happened.

I tried to shift my weight to get more comfortable, but my body issued a formal cease-and-desist order.

Okay, my internal monologue started, firing up with its usual inexplicable energy.

Okay, so. I can’t move. That’s fine. This is fine. Everything is fine. I’m just paralyzed. From getting dicked down. By a billionaire murderer. Cool, cool, cool. This is a very normal Tuesday.

I stared at the ceiling, waiting for the panic to set in. It arrived in waves.

Wave One: I had sex. With a man.

Wave Two: That man is Cassian Wolfe. My boss I think? The CEO. A literal criminal.

Wave Three: HOLY SHIT, I FUCKED CASSIAN WOLFE. Or rather, he fucked me. Multiple times. For hours.

The memories started loading like a high-speed montage I hadn’t asked to see.

I, Noah Bennett, age twenty-six, formerly-sort-of-straight (maybe?), had been absolutely destroyed. Scientifically speaking, Cassian’s dick should be registered as a lethal weapon. It’s a health hazard. It’s a violation of several city ordinances.

I closed my eyes again, but my brain was already replaying the highlights. I saw his hands, those big, scarred, possessive hands… gripping my hips so hard I knew there would be finger-shaped bruises.

I felt the phantom sensation of his fingers in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat. I heard his voice, that low, commanding rumble that made my toes curl even now.

“Good boy.”

“You’re mine.”

“Beg for it.”

I groaned, burying my face in the pillow. I had moaned. I hadn’t just moaned; I had made sounds I didn’t know the human vocal cords were capable of producing. I had drooled. I had cried. And God help me, I had begged. Enthusiastically.

What is wrong with me? I wondered, my face burning against the fabric. I’m a background character! I’m supposed to have a boring life! I’m not supposed to be getting folded like a lawn chair by a man who looks like he was carved out of granite and bad intentions.

I tried to think about something else. Taxes. The weather. The price of eggs and milk. But my brain immediately returned to the sensation of being impaled.

It was like being hit by a battering ram made of steel and audacity. It felt like dying, but it also felt like ascending to a higher plane of existence.

It was the most intense, overwhelming thing that had ever happened to me, and the realization that sex with a man was that good was a crisis I wasn’t prepared to handle.

I spotted my phone on the nightstand.

It looked like it was approximately one million miles away. I reached for it, my arm trembling with the effort.

Ow, ow, ow. My fingertips barely brushed the edge of the device. I stretched, my muscles screaming in protest, feeling utterly humiliated by my own physical ineptitude. I finally snagged it, only to immediately drop it directly onto my face.

“OW! FUCK!” I hissed, clutching my nose.

Once I stopped seeing stars, I checked the time. 2:47 PM.

“What?!” I croaked. My voice was hoarse… definitely from the screaming. “It’s the afternoon?”

I did the math. We started around evening. It went on until… well, until the sun was thinking about coming up. I had been unconscious for fifteen hours. Just existing. Recovering from dick. This is my life now.

As I lay there, I realized something strange. I felt… clean. I remembered passing out in a haze of sweat, cum, and probably a fair amount of drool, but my skin felt fresh. I didn’t feel sticky or gross.

Did he… clean me?

The mental image of Cassian Wolfe… the man who probably makes world leaders sweat… gently wiping me down while I was dead to the world made my heart do a weird, painful somersault.

Stop being cute, you psychopath, I muttered to the empty room.

I looked around properly for the first time.

The room screamed Cassian. It was all dark colors, expensive textures, and military precision. No clutter. No mess. Even the discarded clothes from the night before were gone.

Just controlled power. It was intimidating, but also strangely intimate, being in his most private space without him there.

Then I saw the bedside table.

There were multiple plates covered with silver domes, a bowl of fresh fruit, a water pitcher, and a glass. He had left food. He knew I’d be hungry. He knew I wouldn’t be able to make it to the kitchen.

Dread and affection fought a war in my chest. Damn it. Stop making me like you.

With a Herculean effort, I propped myself up against the headboard, breathing hard from the exertion. I uncovered the plates one by one. Eggs, perfectly cooked. Buttered toast. Fresh fruit cut into beautiful slices. Pastries. Orange juice. Everything was still somehow warm. I started eating, realizing I was absolutely starving. Mrs. Chen was a goddess, I decided. Or Cassian paid her enough to be one.

I checked my messages while I ate.

Mason: “DUDE where are you”

Mason: “You didn’t come to work. Is everything okay??”

Mason: “Did you die? If you’re alive please confirm.”

I typed back with one hand: Alive. Sick. Will explain later.

Then there were the ones I dreaded.

Mom: “Very disappointed in you, Noah. Your brother made time for Sunday dinner. Why can’t you? Are you still acting out because of what your father said?”

Nick: “Mom’s pissed. Call her so she stops bothering me.”

I deleted them without a second thought. Not today, Satan. I wasn’t letting my family’s practiced guilt-tripping ruin the weird, terrifying, wonderful bubble I was currently floating in.

Because that was the most shocking part. Despite the pain, despite the fact that I was currently a domestic casualty of a billionaire’s libido, I felt… good.

I felt satisfied. I felt happy.

When was the last time I’d felt real happiness? Not the “I’m getting through the day” kind of happy, but the “I feel alive” kind?

Was that all I needed? To get railed like a train on tracks by a criminal? Apparently, yes. Apparently, I needed to be folded in half to feel like a person again.

A gentle knock at the door shattered my reflection. I froze, clutching the sheet to my chest. Oh no. Oh god. I’m naked in my boss’s bed. This is it. This is the end.

“Mr. Bennett? May I come in?”

Mrs. Chen.

“Um. Yes. Come in,” I called out, my voice still hoarse.

The door opened, and Mrs. Chen stepped in, carrying fresh towels. She looked at me, and for a split second, our eyes met.

She knew. She definitely knew. She saw me sitting there, shirtless, covered in a map of hickeys that looked like I’d fought a very horny vampire.

My neck, my collarbone, my chest… there were marks everywhere. Finger-shaped bruises on my arms. Bite marks on my shoulders. I looked thoroughly, undeniably fucked. Because I was.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bennett,” she said, her voice perfectly neutral, though there was a slight, knowing curve to her lips. She emphasized the word afternoon. It was polite torture.

“Um. Hi,” I said, trying to pull the sheet higher and failing to look dignified. There was no dignity left in this zip code.

“Mr. Wolfe asked me to check on you,” she said, setting the towels down. “To ensure you were still alive.”

“Yep. Still alive,” I said, gesturing weakly at myself. “As you can see. Barely.”

The unspoken hung between us like a physical weight. We both knew why she was checking. We both knew the walls weren’t that thick. I wanted to die of embarrassment.

“Mr. Wolfe also asked if you needed anything,” she continued, her hands folded. “Are you hungry? I can prepare whatever you’d like.”

My heart did that weird somersault again. He’s checking on me. He’s making sure I’m okay. “I’m okay. There’s food here,” I said, gesturing to the plates. “Thank you, though ma’am, the eggs are amazing.”

She smiled then, a real, warm smile. “Mr. Wolfe prepared those himself.”

I froze, a piece of toast halfway to my mouth. “What?”

“He told me he didn’t want me to disturb you, and that he would handle the meal before he left for the office,” she said casually, as if she hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb on my mental state. “He’s quite a capable cook when he chooses to be. Enjoy your meal, dear. I’ll come to check on you again later.”

She turned and left, closing the door softly behind her.

I sat there, the toast forgotten.

Cassian. Made. This.

The murderer. The man who breaks laws and probably ribs. He made me breakfast. He stood in a kitchen and cooked for me because.. what? He didn’t want the housekeeper to wake me up?

My chest felt tight, my eyes stinging. Don’t cry over eggs, Noah. Don’t you dare.

Why was he being nice? Why did he care? This wasn’t just sex. This wasn’t how you treated a “side character” or a temporary distraction.

I was fucked.

As I sat there in his massive bed, surrounded by the scent of him and the marks he’d left on my body, I realized I was in so much more danger than I ever was in Spain. Because Cassian Wolfe hadn’t just taken my body; he was taking everything else, too.

I am so fucked, I thought, taking a bite of the eggs. And not just in the fun way.

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