Her purse buzzes against her chair. Her head tilts, and her eyes flick down. I see the moment the world narrows for her—the flicker of hesitation, the pulse leaping in her throat, the way her spine stiffens.
Richard’s still talking—something about court schedules and evidence. None of it matters.
Laurette’s fingers slide into her bag—an actress pretending calm. The phone emerges and the screen flares.
I see it the moment it happens. Her control falters, not with a scream but a whisper. She goes rigid in the shoulders. Her mouth opens, soft and silent. Her pulse flutters at her throat, fast and frantic, giving her away.
That breath belongs to me.
That fear.
That hunger.
Laurette slips a polite smile onto her face, smoothing a hand through her hair as she rises. “Excuse me for a moment, Richard. I need to run to the ladies’ room.”
That’s my good girl.
He waves her off without looking up, already absorbed in his sandwich.
I see the way her breath hitches before she moves and then the careful precision in every step as she turns away—shoulders pulled back, chin high, the perfect portrait of composure.
But I know what’s underneath it. I see the storm beating in her chest. I see the flush creeping up her neck, betraying everything she’s trying so hard to hide.
She walks toward the back of the cafe, and sunlight slides over her like a slow caress. Her hips sway with quiet confidence, and her head tilts just enough to draw the eye. Every movement is deliberate, controlled, and obedient.
The throbbing under my zipper sharpens, and my cock strains hard against my jeans.
I reach for my wallet, toss more than enough cash on the table, and stand.
Time for dessert. I’m thinking cream pie.
The cafe hums on, unaware. My stride is unhurried as I move toward the back hall, every step a quiet act of possession.
The supply closet waits, door half-ajar. Light spills from the crack.
The switch sits outside. With one flick, the light dies.
I ease the door shut when I’m inside. The latch catches with a soft, final click, and darkness fills the space.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.
She’s standing there, motionless, back to me like prey that senses the predator but hasn’t yet run. Her fingers twitch at her sides with her shoulders drawn tight.
She knows I’m here now.
That it’s me.
That the door is closed and no one’s coming to save her.
I move in close enough for her body heat to bleed into mine. Close enough to inhale her—soft, warm, and addictive. The space between us warps, stretches thin, hums with tension so sharp it aches.
I lean in, my breath skimming the shell of her ear.
“You did exactly as I told you. Good girl.”
She shivers. A tiny gasp escapes before she clamps it down, lips pressed tight.
Her voice is soft and shaky, a whisper trying to find courage. “You followed me here?”
