Begged To Be Ruined

Tate

I saw her before she saw me.

And that was the first sign something was wrong.

I see women all the time—flawless, styled, polished to perfection. Hair just right. Lips painted. Eyes batting on cue.

They’re beautiful. In a way. But it’s the kind of beauty that performs. That expects to be noticed. I don’t register it anymore. Not really.

I don’t stop. I don’t stare. I don’t notice.

Not in the middle of a workday. Not when I’ve got shit to do.

But her?

It was like something in the universe shifted.

Like my attention had already been pulled before my eyes caught up.

It wasn’t just her body—though Christ, that alone was enough to make me pause.

Tight black cycling shorts clung to the curve of her ass, ending just high enough to make me wonder what they barely covered.

Long, toned legs. Smooth, tanned, and utterly distracting.

An oversized crop top hung loose over her frame, slipping off one shoulder like it had no intention of staying put. Slouchy. Careless. Dangerous. It moved with her, catching on curves that didn’t need highlighting.

But it was more than that.

She looked undone.

Like she’d just been thoroughly fucked… or was about to be.

And she had no idea.

She didn’t notice the way men looked at her.

Didn’t clock their gazes dragging down her legs, lingering too long, full of hunger.

She didn’t care.

Didn’t pose. Didn’t adjust. Didn’t flirt.

She wasn’t trying to be seen.

She just was.

Unbothered. Natural. Lethal.

Like sex woven into skin and sweat and sunshine.

And she didn’t even know it.

But her?

She was the only one who’s ever made me stop. The only one who ever pulled my attention like that. It was like I was supposed to notice her.

I watched her as she queued for ice cream. Arms crossed. Foot tapping. Radiating impatience—like she had somewhere far more important to be, but this ice cream came first. Something about the sheer determination in her expression made me smile.

She finally reached the front. Ordered a double scoop vanilla in a waffle cone. And the moment she took her first bite, her whole body softened. As if it was the only good thing that had happened to her all day. Like she really needed it.

I don't know why, but that got to me. A stranger. Someone I didn't even know. And yet I was watching her like I was already emotionally invested.

Then she turned— And walked straight into me.

Ice cream. Everywhere. My suit. My shirt. My tie. Sticky vanilla dripping down my chest.

She gasped—looked at the ruined cone in her hand, then up at me. Horror twisted into rage.

“Watch where you’re going, asshole.”

She snapped at me like I was the one in the way. Like I was the inconvenience.

I barely heard the words—because I was still looking at her. Properly looking.

Full, pouty lips. Green, mischievous eyes, narrowed with fury. And then—she sucked the ice cream off her fingers.

Not licked. Sucked.

Slow. Thoughtless. One finger at a time, pulling each into her mouth, tongue curling around the tips like it was routine.

My cock twitched so hard I nearly groaned.

I imagined those lips wrapped around me. That tongue. That mouth. It wasn’t even a choice—just need. Immediate. Raw. Instinct.

There was no seduction. No intent. Just frustration. Annoyance. An attempt to clean up the mess I’d made.

And it wrecked me.

I gritted my teeth, forcing my mind back into place, forcing my expression to stay blank as she let out a furious huff, still glaring at me.

I should’ve wiped the ice cream off my thousand-pound suit, climbed into my car, and left her standing there in the middle of the street, sulking over her stupid ice cream. But I didn’t.

Instead, I stood there—ice cream dripping down my chest—staring at the woman in front of me as she tore into me like I was just another man on the street.

Not Tate Blackwood. Not the man who owned this city. Just a man.

“What is it with men like you?” she snapped, arms waving, voice sharp with outrage. “Strutting around like you own the whole bloody pavement! You need to watch where you’re going, mister.”

I looked down. My tailor-made Savile Row suit now had more ice cream on it than a child’s birthday cake, and I was supposed to be in a meeting in twenty minutes.

But somehow that seemed irrelevant. Before I even had a chance to speak, she carried on.

“And don’t even get me started on my ice cream!” she fumed.

“Do you know how much this cost me? Seven pounds. SEVEN!

That’s more than I spend on dinner most days.

My one treat of the week—ruined—because you’re too damn important to look where you’re going!”

I should’ve been furious.

But for the first time in my life, I was speechless.

No one—and I mean no one—had ever spoken to me like that before.

I was Tate Blackwood.

Son and heir to the Blackwood empire.

My family were practically royalty.

People changed their schedules for me.

Women tailored their personalities to fit what they thought I wanted.

Events were rearranged if I couldn’t attend—because if a Blackwood wasn’t there, your event didn’t matter.

And yet here she was.

Wild. Unapologetic.

Licking ice cream off her hand like I wasn’t even worth noticing.

I forced my jaw to unlock.

Forced my voice to stay calm.

“Feel better now?” I asked, amusement curling at the edges of my voice.

Her glare sharpened. Christ, she was fire. I could almost feel the heat radiating off her.

“I may not have been looking,” I continued, tilting my head just enough to let my eyes drop, slowly, down her body before flicking back up, watching the flush spread deeper, “but neither were you.”

Her mouth opened, ready to argue but I carried on.

"Usually when I have ice cream smeared on me, I'm not wearing a suit."

I pause maintaining eye contact, giving her the opportunity to take the bait, to react. To picture it.

She didn't. She just carried on glaring at me. Shit.

"Now if your excuse me, I need to go change."

She scoffed. No apology. No guilt. Not even a flicker of regret. And as I stepped into my sleek black limo, her voice cut through the air like a blade.

“Asshole.”

I should have driven off without a second thought. Should have let it go. Should have let her go. But I didn’t. As the limo pulled away, my thoughts stayed on her.

She wasn’t just attractive—she was magnetic. That kind of wild, natural beauty that didn’t even know it was beautiful. The kind that didn’t care if anyone was looking. She wasn’t trying to be sexy. She just was.

And that—that was dangerous.

I'd dropped the bait. Women usually leap at it. Flirt. Smile. Offer to help peel off the ruined suit. But her? She didn’t even twitch. Didn’t want me. Didn’t try to impress me. Didn’t give a single fuck who I was.

That should’ve made her forgettable. Instead, it made her unforgettable.

Then I realised, of course the cameras would have caught it. I knew exactly where they were pointing. It was my hotel—like so many others across the city. Hotels. Restaurants. Clubs. All ruled under my empire.

I pulled out my phone. Called my secretary.

“Anne, get security to send me the footage from outside the hotel just now. I want the name and background of the woman I ran into.”

A pause. “Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Anne?” My fingers tightened around the phone. “Cancel my meetings for the rest of the day.”

A sharp intake of breath. Anne wouldn’t dare question me, but I knew she was stunned.

This was unheard of. Even I was surprised.

“Driver. Take me home.”

I headed straight to the shower the second I got back to my penthouse. Turned the water scorching hot. Braced my hands against the marble tiles. Let the heat burn away whatever the fuck this was. It didn’t work. She was still there. Her voice, sharp, unfiltered, so unlike the careful, practiced women I was used to.

Her eyes flashing with fire, daring me to fight back. And that mouth…

Licking the ice cream off her fingers, completely oblivious to the fact that she had just fucking destroyed me.

It should not have haunted me so much. It was just a crazy woman with an attitude who hated the world. But here I was standing here, dragging my nails over my scalp, trying to wash away a moment that had already buried itself deep under my skin.

This was ridiculous. I'd had women before. Lots of them. They served a purpose. Scratched an itch. Didn’t fucking stay. Blackwood’s didn’t feel. We led. We owned. We dominated. This wasn’t me. I didn’t get distracted. I didn’t get intrigued. And I sure as hell didn’t get… obsessed.

I dried myself off and dressed in a pair of shorts before heading downstairs. I sank into my chair, opened my laptop, and pulled up the security footage. Hit play. And there she was. I leaned back, running a thumb over my lower lip as I studied the screen.

She was… so  alive. Not polished. Not poised. Just raw, real, free. Something dark twisted inside me. When was the last time I’d met a woman who wasn’t trying to impress me? She hadn’t cared who I was. She still didn’t know. And for some reason, that sent a sharp, possessive thrill through me. She hadn’t looked at me with admiration. Hadn’t batted her lashes or forced a coy smile. She had looked at me like I was just another man. Like I was nothing.

At thirty-two, you’d think I’d have grown out of this. But one look at her licking vanilla off her fingers and I was hard like a bloody teenager—re-watching CCTV footage like it was porn.

But fuck me, there was something about her. Something raw. Unscripted. Completely out of my reach.

I forced myself to drag my attention to the attached file, my eyes scanning through the details:

Nikita Monroe. Damn, even her name was sexy.

Age 25.

Works at a stationery store. I tutted. A woman with that kind of fire wasting away selling notebooks to people who barely looked her in the eye. She deserved better.

My eyes landed on the next line.

Single.

My brow lifted. Seriously?

How the hell was a woman like her still untouched?

Not claimed. Not kept.

What kind of idiot had a taste of her—and still let her walk around the world available?

Something dark twisted in my chest.

Good.

Because whoever she should have belonged to…

Had now missed their chance.

Because now?

She was on my radar.

And I don’t miss.