“Sir,” he says, his tone as neutral as ever.
“Franklin.”
A moment of silence stretches between us. In another life, with another person, this would be awkward. But Franklin has been with me since I built this place.
He gives a small nod, almost imperceptible, and continues on his way.
I continue to my suite, the vast space feeling emptier than usual after the warm cocoon of Nola’s bed. Everything here is exactly as I left it yesterday. Pristine. Controlled. Lifeless.
The realization presses against me, uncomfortable.
I strip methodically, dropping yesterday’s clothes in the hamper where they’ll disappear and reappear laundered and pressed, as if last night never existed. My body bears its own evidence, though. The shallow crescents of Nola’s nails on my shoulders. A faint mark on my neck where she got bold during our second round, her mouth exploring with newfound confidence.
The shower is scalding, exactly how I like it. Hot enough to scour away thoughts, doubts, complications. But not today. Today, the water sluices over me and all I can think about is her. The way she looked up at me with absolute trust as I pushed inside her for the first time. The small gasp when the discomfort gave way to pleasure. The way she said not Caleb but Daddy, with such natural ease, like she’d been waiting to call me that her entire life.
My cock hardens at the memory. I wrap my hand around myself, giving in to the inevitable. It’s ridiculous. I had her twice last night, left her thoroughly satisfied if her boneless collapse into sleep was any indication. And yet here I am, because thememory of her tight heat around me is still so vivid I can almost feel it.
I close my eyes, letting the images flood back.
Nola beneath me, eyes wide with discovery. Nola moving with me the second time, those small, perfect breasts bouncing with each thrust. Nola whispering “Daddy” as she came apart around me.
My hand moves faster, grip tightening. She’s crawled under my skin in less than forty-eight hours, making me crave things I’ve denied myself for years. Connection. Warmth. Someone to see past the scar to the man beneath.
“Mine,” I growl into the empty shower, coming hard, my release washing away down the drain. Not as satisfying as being inside her, never that, but enough to take the edge off.
After, I dress with my usual precision. Dark suit. Crisp white shirt. Silk tie knotted with mathematical exactness. The familiar ritual should center me, return me to myself.
Instead, I find myself thinking about what Nola might like for breakfast.
I head to the kitchen, a part of the compound I rarely enter. Franklin usually handles meals, delivering them to my office at precisely scheduled times. But this morning feels different. This morning, I want to bring Nola breakfast myself.
I gather fruit from the refrigerator. Berries. Sliced melon. A perfect green apple that I cut into precise wedges. The pastries are in a warming drawer, kept fresh by whatever magical system Franklin has implemented. I select two, one chocolate, one filled with what appears to be apricot preserves. Coffee is simpler; I know how to operate the elaborate machine that produces perfect espresso at the touch of a button.
The act of preparing this tray feels foreign to my hands but somehow necessary.
I carry the tray to my office, expecting to find it empty at this hour. It’s barely 6:00 AM, and while I typically start my day this early, I don’t expect Nola to follow the same schedule. Especially not after last night.
But she’s there.
Sitting at my desk, her bare feet tucked beneath her in the chair, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail that exposes the slope of her neck. She’s wearing the clothes she arrived in two days ago, the skirt and blouse now freshly washed, and she’s bent over a stack of papers, making notes in the margins with focused attention.
She looks up when I enter, and the blush that immediately colors her cheeks sends a surge of satisfaction through me.
“Good morning,” she says, her voice carrying that slight huskiness that tells me her throat is still raw from crying out beneath me. “I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to get an early start on these contracts.”
I set the tray down on the edge of the desk, my eyes never leaving hers.
“Stand up.”
She blinks, surprise flickering across her features, but complies immediately. She’s learning already.
I take the seat she’s just vacated, still warm from her body, then reach for her wrist, tugging her down onto my lap. She comes willingly, settling against me with only a moment’s hesitation.
“Mr. Asher,” she starts, but I cut her off with a finger pressed to her lips.
“You know what to call me now.” My voice drops to that register that made her tremble last night. “When we’re alone.”
Her flush deepens, spreading down her neck toward her chest.
