Julian, his assistant, looks up from his monitor like a schoolboy caught staring. Twenty-two, a perfect age for devotion; he wears a tie that tries toohard and a mouth that apologizes before it speaks. He’s been mine for months now—eager hands, eager eyes, eager to be useful in every way that matters.
“Mr. Marshall is not in, Ms. Kingsley.”
Of course he’s not.
I let a small smile tilt my mouth.
“The small conference room,” I say. “Now.”
He stands so quickly his chair rolls back.
“Yes, Ms. Kingsley.”
The glass wall of the small room reflects us as we enter. He reaches for the panel and lowers the privacy screen; the glass turns from clear to milky in a smooth, obedient fade.
“Lock it,” I say.
He does.
I sit at the edge of the glass table, cross my legs slowly, and let silence set the temperature. He shifts his weight, waiting for instructions, needing them like air.
“The Queen doesn’t wait,” I murmur. “On your knees.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He never does. That’s what makes him useful.
He kneels. I rest one heel on his shoulder, light as a promise I might keep.
“Worship,” I order, lifting my skirt and opening my knees just enough to make him swallow. “Properly.”
He does. Greedy, reverent, grateful. He’s always grateful. I thread my fingers through his hair, guiding his pace, sometimes generous, sometimes not. I watch my reflection in the narrow mirror panel on the side wall. Beautiful. Worth kneeling for.
When the world narrows to warmth, and pulse, and those delicious little threads of power tightening low in my belly, I tug his hair and still him.
“Enough.”
He freezes, breath hot against my skin, eyes blown wide with the need to please.
“Stand up,” I say, smoothing my skirt back into place, leaving my legs parted just to watch his self-control fracture. “Now. Tell me where he is.”
“Mr. Marshall?” His voice is wrecked in a way that pleases me.
“Don’t be cute.” I drag a fingertip along the edge of the table, examining my nails. “Where?”
“At the lake house,” he says quickly. “He left yesterday morning.” A beat. “With her.”
Her. The word prickles. That’s why he didn’t answer my calls.
“Continue.”
“He hasn’t canceled tomorrow’s nine a.m.—Townes contract review. He told me to keep the deck ready.”
I stand and step into Julian’s space. He smells like clean sweat and office air and the kind of cologne you buy because the ad suggests a life you don’t yet have.
“Hands behind your back,” I order.
His spine straightens. “Yes, Ms. Kingsley.”
I slide a palm over his chest, feel the frantic drumming there, and smile.
