“I work. I run. I spend time with my father,” he says flatly, like a checklist he’s used before. “That’s how I decompress.”
I nod. “Good relationship with your dad, then?”
Something in him eases. He nods, shifting his arm on the chair. “Yes. I admire him. He built everything we have. Taught me discipline, work ethic. Loyalty.”
I wait a beat, then ask quietly, “And your mother?”
The air shifts again—this time sharper. He stiffens, just enough for me to feel it.
“She died,” he says simply.
“I’m sorry,” I offer, and I mean it.
He brushes it off with a wave of his fingers. “It was nearly sixteen years ago.”
Still, it’s recent in the lines around his eyes. The silence that follows tells me everything his words won’t.
The weight of her isn’t gone.
Just buried.
I let the quiet linger a moment longer. Let the weight of her absence settle into the corners of the room like dust. Then I smooth my voice into something softer—silkier—as I guide us back.
“Let’s go back to sex,” I murmur. “What you like. What you want.”
Grant gives a faint frown. “What I want?”
I smile, slow and coy, sliding to the very edge of my chair. “Preferences, Grant.” I slip one heel off, then the other, lining them neatly beside my chair. “Surely you have them.”
He watches warily. “What are you doing?”
I don’t answer. Not directly.
Instead, I lower myself—graceful and deliberate—onto my knees. The cool bite of the floor on my skin sends a pulse through me. I crawl toward him, letting my hips sway, my shoulders roll, every movement intentional.
Calculated seduction.
His eyes darken.
“Do you like to give or take?” I ask, voice a breath. “Do you like to control… or be controlled?”
He doesn’t move.
I reach his chair and settle back on my heels, knees spread just a little too wide. The stretch of my pencil skirt strains, so I slowly push the fabric up, inch by inch, until it clears the tops of my thighs. I know what he can see now.
Just the hint of bare pussy. No lace. No barrier.
His gaze drops—finally.
And stays.
His jaw is tight when he runs his tongue along his bottom lip. His hands are gripping the arms of his chair like he’s clinging to his control.
And I love that. Because I’m about to take it from him.
I let my hands glide up the insides of his thighs, starting at the knees and working higher, massaging as I go. Slow, teasing circles. My thumbs drag just shy of his groin, pressing into the firm muscle there, careful not to rush.
“I wonder,” I murmur, eyes still locked on his, “if you’d like to tell me what to do. Where to put my mouth. How soft. How deep.”
