Page 9 of Mister St. James

With a slow sly smile she says. “For you, sir? Always.”

She hands me the first set of pages, our fingers touching for a millisecond. I feel it in every nerve ending. I want to take her hand, drag her into the server room, and fuck her so hard the security cameras glitch.

Instead, I say, “Thank you,” and watch as she loads the next batch.

She leans in, close enough that I can smell her perfume. Citrus, always citrus and something else, something private. “Is there anything else you need?”

I want to crawl inside her invitation and never come out. But duty binds me. “No.”

She nods, but her eyes linger, like she’s waiting for me to crack. Then she turns and walks away, hips swinging in time with the beat of my heart.

I stand there, holding the warm paper, hard as steel and twice as useless. I don’t move until she’s back seated at her desk.

Right now, my control is a fucking joke.

My office is a controlled environment. Negative ions in the air, furniture arranged in golden-ratio intervals, even the blinds slatted at a mathematically optimal angle to maximize light without glare. I pay an interior designer obscene amounts of money to ensure that nothing in this room jars the senses or interrupts the flow. But right now, I am the human error in the system, sweating, hard, and vibrating with the need to either punch through a wall or bend Cat over my desk and fuck her until she sobs.

As if right on cue, she knocks. Two short raps before she opens the door with a practiced sweep. On the surface, I am the model of composure. Inside, every cell is on fire.

“Delivery,” she says, entering. She sets the folder on the desk, opens it to the signature page, and slides a pen across the leather blotter.

My hand trembles, just a little, when I reach for the pen. She sees it but says nothing, only stands straight, hands clasped in front of her, every inch the perfect assistant. But I know what’s under that blouse. I know how her tits look when they’re laced up, how her waist narrows under the pressure of a corset.

I know the contract’s every clause, but I can’t trust my own judgment. I sign blind. My hand trembles; she notices, says nothing, just lifts the folder, fingers brushing mine. It’s a light contact, accidental by any HR standard, but it might as well be a livewire. My brain flashes a split-second fantasy. Her mouth on my cock, her eyes defiant, my hand in her hair, forcing her down and holding her there until she gags or cries or both. I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste blood.

“Anything else, Mr. St. James?”

Her tone is courteous, but her eyes are waiting for me to break. “No. That’s all.”

She turns to go but hesitates in the doorway. “By the way,” she says, turning back, “there’s a package—”

I cut her off needing her to leave before I snap. “Just open it like usual, Ms. Vaquer.”

She lingers for a second, then walks out, hips swaying just enough to let me know she’s aware of every eye on her, mine especially.

As soon as she’s gone, I let out a breath I was holding. My cock is still raging, and the fabric of my boxers is damp with pre-come. I adjust, zipper tight, and walk to the window, counting to twenty. When I turn back, I can see her through the glass walls, standing at her desk, holding the package in both hands.

It’s not an Amazon box. It’s from a very particular seller. Black tissue, silk ribbon, and, fuck me, a wax-sealed envelope on top.

Her face shifts when she reads the label. Not shock, not confusion, but a kind of slow-dawning recognition that hits me in the gut. My heart lurches and suddenly I feel like I might be sick. The club has very specific, very particular rules. All of which I have broken by sending this little black box. If she reports this to the Velvet Stag, I’ll lose the only place where I can be myself.

She tilts the box and reads the label before fingering the ribbon. My heart is hammering against my ribcage as she lifts the lid and looks inside and just for an instant, her composure falters. Enough that I can see the flicker of feral recognition in her eyes.

The club’s inviolate rule is broken. And so am I.

Chapter six

The Weaver

Catalina

If you stare at an object long enough, it starts to stare back. The box is black on black, matte tissue wrapped in a band of grosgrain so perfectly tied it looks machine-made. It squats at the edge of my desk, self-contained, reeking of intent. I’ve spent the last four or five minutes pretending to work, the whole-time glancing at the thing. Theres no shipping label or return address. It must have been hand delivered. I slide the box toward me, careful to make no sound.

I check over my shoulder toward where Aiden’s desk is behind the mirrored glass wall. Of course I see nothing but my own reflection, a ghost of bad lighting and worse decisions.

I start with the ribbon. It resists, then gives. The tissue is thick, loud under my nails, and I slow down, aware of every sound in the office. My pulse is already off as I trace a finger along the lid, searching for flaws, for clues. When I finally work up to courage to open it there’s more of the matte black tissue and a card on top that simply says: An Invitation. It’s a tri-fold envelope held together with a wax seal the same color, same logo as the token I keep hidden in my purse’s inside pocket. The same token that gave me my first taste of power at the Velvet Stag, the first night I learned that shame was just a different kind of currency.

My hands shake as I break the seal with my thumbnail. Inside, a postcard, double-thick, labeled with my name, my real name, Catalina Vaquer, typed in a calligraphy font that is both elegant and severe. My mouth goes dry.