Nothing worked.
She acted like I was just noise. Like my flirting was some annoying buzz in her ear, she couldn’t wait to swat it away.
But then last night?
She had me cuffed and bent over in her private chamber at Provocateur, fucking me slow and then hard, dragging every filthy moan from my lips, pushing me so deep into submission I forgot what it felt like to stand.
She called me hers, touched me like I mattered.
She came because of me.
And now, I don’t know where we stand. Or if we’re even allowed to stand at all.
But what I do know is that last night changed everything.
I can’t go back to pretending I don’t see her. I can’t pretend that she didn’t take me apart with nothing but her voice and her strap. I can’t pretend that I don’t crave the feeling of her hand in my hair, her fingers on my skin, her power surrounding me like something holy.
Because when I’m at her mercy?
I don’t feel weak.
I feel free.
The meeting room was humming with tension, clicking pens, the dull rustle of paper, and the overly enthusiastic voice of Roger from Traffic Control running down peak-hour detour models like he was auditioning for a TED Talk. A dozen bodies sat around the conference table, eyes half-glazed, all of us pretending to be laser-focused on a $1.2 billion highway overpass modification.
I should have been focused.
But my mind was still stuck on the night before. Still playing the sound of her voice in my head like a fucking hymn.
Calla.
Or rather, The Black Dahlia.
I was already hard again when I walked into this meeting, the ghost of her strap still echoing in my hips, her words carved into my skin like scripture.
“Take it all for me.”
I cleared my throat and flipped to the next page in the binder in front of me, gripping my pen a little too tightly. I needed to get it together. My signature was already on halfthe damn paperwork. This wasn’t some backlot patchwork job; we were rebuilding a bridge, modifying the lane structure, reinforcing piers, and relocating utilities. People would be driving over this for the next fifty years.
I couldn’t afford to be distracted.
“James?”
That voice. That tone.
I didn’t even have to look to know who it belonged to.
Amiyah.
She was sitting to my right, close enough for the scent of her cinnamon and citrus perfume to drift into my lungs and coat every inch of common sense I had left. Her voice always had a soft confidence, as if she were letting you in on a secret. And it didn’t help that she looked exactly how trouble should look—warm golden brown skin reminded me of a sun-kissed afternoon, full lips always threatening a smirk, and a body that was hips, thighs, soft plush belly, and ass made for hands far more reckless than mine had permission to be. The plus-size beauty would be the perfect playground for my pleasure, if only she weren’t my right hand.
I finally turned my head, and there she was—dimples and all.
Thick curls pulled high and messy like she didn’t have the time to care how fucking sexy it looked. Black blouse stretched over her chest, her cleavage just visible when she leaned forward. The sleeves were rolled, revealing ink swirling down one arm—black and gray roses, a quote I’d never gotten close enough to read.
I’ve imagined tracing it with my tongue more times than I’ll admit.
And those pants? Hugged her in all the ways that madea man wonder how she moved when she wasn’t sitting still.
