“Of course. And if you’re still in the Christmas spirit of giving, a Birkin under my tree would really make my holiday.”
I chuckle. “Thanks, Mina.”
Back in the room, Alex waits with his hands in his pockets. “Approved?”
“Moving now,” I say. “No trail.”
He nods. He likes clean money.
“Security,” I change the subject. “Soft watch on this floor until the surgery. No soldiers. No talking. If someone who shouldn’t be here takes interest in Clara’s room, you follow, take photos discreetly, and report to me. No scenes in the hospital.”
“Got it,” he says. “Cassandra?”
“Back at the house. My assistant keeps her schedule tight.”
“Understood.”
We step out of the room. I look again at Clara. Cassandra sold a month of herself for this. She lied well but told me the truth when it counted. I can work with that. It’s understandable thatshe didn’t want to tell me that her sister might only have a few weeks to live.
Mina’s question of why this one lingers in my mind.
I see Cassandra’s face when I laid down the rules—privacy, precision, truth. The way she looked at the ribbon like a brand on her wrist. The way she saidsir. Steel and softness together. Dangerous. Interesting.
I text Mina.
Thanks again.
She replies with a checkmark, a Christmas tree, and a handbag. I shake my head and chuckle.
I leave the hospital under a bruise-colored sky, the city lights glowing brightly.
It's past two a.m. when the car pulls into the garage. I shed my coat in the foyer, the weight of the day clinging tightly.
The gym calls. I need to burn off this restless edge that's been sharpening in me all day. I change into shorts and hit the treadmill, setting it to a punishing incline. The motor hums to life, my feet pounding in a grueling rhythm.
Sweat comes quick along with the images—unbidden and vivid.
Cassandra beneath me, wrists bound in that red ribbon, her body arching as I slide into her slick heat. Her gasps, the way her pussy clenches around my cock like a vice, pulling me deeper.Fuck. My strides falter for a second, blood rushing south.
I push harder, lungs burning, but she's still there, her thighs parting wider at my command, her moans breaking when I thrust deep, claiming.
I want her now. I want to storm into her room, wake her with my mouth on her clit, make her beg again.
Please, sir.The words echo in my head, a siren call. But I must restrain myself. She's earned rest. The job demands it—precision, control—not just hers, but mine as well. I cut the run short at twenty minutes, body wired, cock straining against fabric.
Shower. Maybe a cold one.
The master bath’s mirrors fog with steam as hot water jets hit my skin. I lean against the tile, water cascading over scars and ink—the serpent coiling on my bicep, the jagged line across my ribs from a knife that should've killed me years ago. Hard as hell, my cock throbs, demanding release. I close my eyes, wrap my hand around the base, and begin to stroke, slow at first.
I picture her on her knees, lips parting for me, tongue tracing the vein along my length. In my mind, she takes me deep, eyes locked on mine, that mix of submission and spark making her perfect. Her mouth hot and wet, sucking with just enough greed to test my control. I groan, fist tightening, pace quickening. Precum slicks the head, and I imagine her swallowing it down, humming around me.
The fantasy shifts, becoming more aggressive. I flip her onto all fours, hand fisting her hair, plunging into her pussy from behind. I thrust hard, her ass reddening from my palm—punishment for that lie, for making me care. She cries out, backarching, dripping for me as I drive deeper, stretching her tight walls.
"Mine," I growl in the vision, hips snapping, the slap of skin echoing. But then it turns intimate. My grip softens, pulling her back against my chest, one hand sliding to her clit, circling slow while I thrust deep and hard.
I flip her over and climb on top, her legs locking around my hips, our breaths syncing, her body melting into me. It’s not just fucking, it’s claiming, connecting.
She whispers my name, not sir, and fuck, it undoes me.
