“Here is another truth,” Lena said, chasing a crumb with her spoon. “Experience does not mean good, and inexperience does not mean bad. Good means attentive, good means curious, good means unafraid to receive instruction. When you are with the right people, the firsttime can be the best because you are paying attention like your heart is on the line, which it is, in the sweetest way.”
“Say more of that,” I said, greedy for the reassurance that felt like oxygen.
“Practice does not have to be mechanical,” she continued. “It can be joyful. It can be praising, giggling, and pausing to breathe. It can be trying something and saying, ‘not that,’ and laughing while you redo the blanket. You are not auditioning, you are collaborating. That’s a word you love using at work; bring it to this situation. Collaborate.”
I tasted the word and let it bloom. Collaborate. Yes. I pictured a whiteboard with arrows and hearts, a plan that felt like a poem.
“When I go home,” I said, “I am going to text them a small version of my map. Not everything. Just enough to start a conversation that does not rely on flirting to hide the real.”
“Good,” she said. “Send it and put your phone face down while you breathe. Let them meet you with the same clarity, my money says they will.”
We sat a while longer, letting the lemon and chocolate dissolve. I watched couples in love with their meals, friends telling stories with their hands, a woman at the bar reading a novel between sips of red wine. The world kept being ordinary around the miracle of me telling the truth and not falling apart.
“I am proud of myself,” I said, almost surprised to hear it out loud.
“I’m proud of you, too,” Lena answered, and her voice almost broke, but did not. “You are choosing yourself before you choose anyone else, that’s the only way thisworks.”
“Excuse me.”
My heart slammed into my ribs.
I looked up, and there he was. James. His muscular frame in a tailored navy suit, that slow, deliberate way he carried himself. His dark eyes locked on mine, unreadable. And right beside him, Calla. Elegant, poised, lips painted the color of sin. Behind them, two men I’d never met, one older, one younger, but they resembled Calla, so I assumed they were close relatives. The older one’s eyes were laser-focused on Lena, a fire burning behind his eyes, both dressed sharply, laughing about something until they caught the scene and went quiet.
It felt like the whole restaurant stilled.
Lena bit her lip, grinning like the devil herself. “Well, well, well,” she whispered under her breath. “Speak of the storm, and the storm arrives.”
James’ gaze flicked between me and Lena, then down to the wine bottle, the two glasses, the way I was gripping my napkin like a lifeline. “Amiyah,” he said, low and smooth, “didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Neither did I,” I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. Calla’s eyes lingered on me a beat too long. Sharp, assessing, like she could peel back my skin and read the truth pulsing underneath. The corner of her mouth lifted, just barely.
FREAKNIK 2.0
I gripped the steering wheel tighter than I needed to, leather groaning under my palms as the city lights slid past. My last meeting of the day had wrapped hours ago, but the conversations hadn’t left me. Not the numbers, not the designs, not the bid. No, what gnawed at me, what made my blood run hot and heavy, was her.
Calla.
She’d sat across that conference table, calm as ice, speaking sharp and polished, that kind of brilliance that cut men like me down to size without raising her voice. My mind had no damn business drifting back to Provocateur, but it did. To the way she commanded me there. The way she made me beg with my body, even while my mouth tried to hold on to pride. No disgust in her eyes when she looked at me after; it was the opposite. She saw me. Too much.
And then there was Amiyah. Sweet, brown-skinned, all those curves wrapped in professionalism and dimples, leaning over plans with that husky laugh that rattled my chest. I wanted to press her against the wall of that boardroom and show her exactly what I meant when I said dominant.
I wasn’t proud of the way my mind kept running bothdirections, toward the sadist who broke me open and the woman I wanted to break in, but my dick didn’t have pride; it needed to be relieved. The ache between my legs had been steady all day, pulsing harder every time I caught the silent current between the two of them. Calla’s cool glances, Amiyah’s half-hidden smiles. Sparks. And I was sitting right there in the middle, a fuse ready to blow.
By the time I turned onto my street, my jaw ached from clenching. My body was strung so damn tight I was ready to snap at the next red light. I needed release, bad.
But the sight waiting in my driveway knocked the breath out of me.
Calla.
She was climbing out of her sleek black car, heels clicking against the pavement, every movement deliberate. The night air wrapped around her like smoke, her hair catching the faint glow of my porch light. She didn’t look like the CEO right now. Didn’t look like the untouchable dominatrix either. She looked like both, and neither, an enigma walking straight toward my door.
I killed the engine and sat there for half a beat, pulse hammering, watching her. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t glance around, didn’t even check if I was home. She just moved with purpose, hips swaying, heading for my steps like she belonged there.
My chest ached, my dick throbbed, and my balls felt tight.
And all I could think was, what the hell was about to happen?
I pushed the door open and stepped out before my brain had the sense to catch up with my body. My pulse was a steady hammer against my ribs, every nerve ending tunedto the sound of her heels striking the concrete path to my door.
