I’m close, so close, teetering on the edge. The world has narrowed to this: the cold metal under my hands, the smell of sweat and sex, the sound of our bodies meeting, and the exquisite friction of him moving inside me.
“I’m not… I can’t…” I gasp, my words fracturing.
“You can,” he snarls against the curve of my neck. “And you will.”
His hips slam into mine, a final, devastating thrust that sends us both careening over the edge. A raw, guttural groan tears from his throat, vibrating through my back and into my bones.I shatter around him, a silent scream caught in my throat as my entire world whites out into pure, undiluted sensation.
My knees buckle, but he holds me up effortlessly, his body a cage of muscle and heat that keeps me from collapsing. The waves of my climax are prolonged, drawn out by the hot, pulsing release of him deep inside me. He stays there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades, his breath coming in ragged, open-mouthed gasps against the sweat-dampened fabric of his jersey.
A slow, supremely satisfied smile curves his lips, as if he can read my thoughts. “Look at you,” he says, his voice low and full of warmth. “Standing in my locker room. In my jersey.Filledwith my cum.” The crudeness of the words, spoken with such possessive tenderness, makes a fresh heat bloom low in my belly.
He leans in, his lips finding mine in a kiss that is startlingly soft.
A firm knock cuts through the heat between us.
Cast’s voice echoes through the locker room: “Let's go, you two!”
Damien exhales, forehead falling to mine as laughter breaks between us. “Perfect timing, as always.”
I’m already laughing too, breathless as I pull the jersey down over my thighs. “He knows you too well.”
“Knows us too well,” he says, grinning as he grabs his towel. “Guess we’ll call this the pre-celebration.”
“And when will the celebration be?”
He leans in close with a devious smile on his face. “When you are so cum drunk you can’t say your name.”
We giggle like conspirators while getting dressed, still flushed with the taste of victory and something more dangerous. Outside, the crowd chants Damien’s name, but all I hear is the low hum of his laughter and the promise of more waiting at home.
2
VINCENT
“What do you mean,there’s thirteen point five billion dollars missing?”
The words slice through the boardroom, cold and merciless.
No one moves. Not even a breath.
The only sound is the low mechanical hum of the ceiling vent and the faint whine of the projector as it casts pale blue light across the long oak table. The chart on the wall looks clean, and clinical.
“Sir,” Edgar says finally, voice cracking on the single syllable. “We’re seeing what appears to be a pattern of micro-transfers. Small, unflagged payments—under audit thresholds—dispersed through secondary vendors.”
“Secondary vendors,” I repeat slowly, each word tasting like metal. “You mean ghosts. You mean companies that don’t fucking exist.”
He hesitates, throat bobbing. “We… haven’t located full registrations for all of them.”
The others avoid my eyes. The board full of men and women I’ve known for years sit stiff, silent, with expressions that look guilty by association. The faint rustle of wool suits, the tap of a pen. Every sound is too loud.
“When,” I ask, voice dropping low, dangerous, “were you planning to mention that Beaumont Incorporated has lost nearly fourteen billion dollars?”
Anita, my legal counsel, clears her throat delicately.
“We discovered the discrepancies this morning,” she says carefully. “We wanted to confirm the scope before escalating to your level, Mr. Beaumont.”
My level. As if there’s anyone above it.
“Congratulations,” I deadpan, the words scraping raw from my throat. “You’ve confirmed it. Escalation achieved.”
