The card was still there.
Pressed against his chest, tucked beneath the fabric of his shirt, its edge a constant presence against his skin. He'd barely made it home the night before. Had stood in his apartment, the lights off, the city humming below, and touched the corner of it through his shirt. A physical fact. Proof that it happened.
Now he stood in the same hallway. Same polished concrete floor. Same floor-to-ceiling windows at the end, showing the same evening sky, violet bleeding into indigo. His watch said 6:02. He was two minutes late. He was exactly on time. His heart disagreed with both readings.
The door to her office was closed. A single seam of light beneath it.
He raised his hand to knock. Stopped. Lowered it.
Her voice came through the wood, low and unhurried. "I can hear you breathing, Caleb."
The handle was cool against his palm. He turned it. Pushed.
The office was the same. The wide desk, the leather chair, the city spread out behind her like a kingdom. She sat with her back to the window, the light catching the edges of her silhouette, defining the breadth of her shoulders, the silver scar along her collarbone. Her trousers were on. A blouse, buttoned to the third rib. A glass of something amber sat on the leather blotter in front of her, sweating against the polished surface.
She didn't look up.
The door clicked shut behind him. He stood there, the card a burning point against his chest, and waited.
She took a sip of her drink. Set it down. Finally lifted her eyes.
"Lock the door. Strip."
The words landed in his stomach like stones. He opened his mouth. Closed it. His hand found the lock without him telling it to, twisted, felt the bolt slide home.
She watched. Just watched. Her face gave nothing.
His fingers found the hem of his shirt. The fabric was damp with sweat. He pulled it over his head, and the card fluttered free, spinning in the air for a breathless second before landing face-down on the carpet. His hands went to his shorts. Paused.
"Miss Reyes, I—"
She tilted her head. A single eyebrow rose.
"Do I need to ask you twice?"
No. No, she didn't. The shorts dropped to his ankles. His boxers followed. He stepped out of them and stood, naked, in the middle of her office, the city glowing behind him, the air cool on his skin. He didn't know where to put his hands. He crossed them in front of himself. Then uncrossed them. Let them hang at his sides. Lifted them to his chest. Dropped them again.
She let him flounder. Let him stand there, exposed and trembling, while she took a slow sip of her drink. Her eyes moved over him with the same deliberate attention she'd give a quarterly report. His shoulders. His chest, smooth and hairless. The soft curve of his stomach. His thighs. The space between them.
He felt the blush start at his collarbones and spread upward, hot and helpless, flooding his cheeks, his ears, the back of his neck.
She set down the glass. Pointed at the floor.
"Pick that up."
He bent at the waist, his whole body aware of itself, of the way the light fell across his bare back, the way his muscles moved under his skin. The card was cool against his fingertips. He straightened, holding it out like an offering.
"Put it in your mouth. Kneel. Hold it there while I decide what you deserve."
The card tasted of ink and leather and the ghost of his own skin. He placed it between his teeth, felt the edge press against his tongue, and lowered himself to his knees. The carpet was rough. His shins found the same spot they'd found last night. The same pressure. The same angle.
The same position.
She turned back to her work.
The clock on the wall ticked. The city sighed beyond the glass. She read something on her screen, typed a brief response, took another sip of her drink. The silence stretched, bloated, filled the room until it was all he could hear.
Five minutes. Ten. He had no way of knowing. Time had become slippery, unreliable. His jaw ached. The card grew soft at the edges, damp with his own saliva. A trickle of it escaped the corner of his mouth, ran down his chin, dripped onto his chest. He tried to swallow and choked, the card shifting, and he coughed, and the shame of it was a bright, hot thing in his throat.
She didn't look up.
His knees were beginning to hurt. His thighs trembled from the stillness. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers curled inward, and he could feel everything—the air on his skin, the weight of her attention even when she wasn't looking, the steady throb of his own pulse gathering in his groin.
He couldn't stop it.
The arousal had been building, a slow tide he couldn't name until it was already there. His cock hardened against his thigh, betrayed him in the most intimate way possible, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing it away, begging his own body to listen.
It didn't.
The tip pressed against his own hip. A bead of moisture. A faint, glistening thread.
His hand moved without permission. A single finger, light against the underside of his shaft. A brush. A graze. The pleasure was a shock, sharp and electric, and a sound escaped his throat—a moan, muffled around the card, unmistakably wanton.
Her fingers stopped typing.
The silence snapped back into focus.
"Bad boy."
The words hit him like a slap. He froze, his hand still against his own skin, his cock hard and wet and utterly undeniable.
She leaned back in her chair. The leather creaked. She crossed one leg over the other, and the motion drew his eyes to her thighs, the fabric of her trousers pulling tight across the muscle.
"Crawl to me."
He moved on his hands and knees, the card in his mouth, his erection swinging beneath him with each clumsy step. The carpet scraped his palms. His knees ached. He reached the edge of her desk and stopped, his head bowed, his breath coming fast through his nose.
She stood. Walked past him. He heard her footsteps cross the room, heard the soft sigh of leather as she sat down somewhere else.
He lifted his head. She was on the low couch by the window, her back straight, her hands resting on her knees.
"Come here."
He crawled. The tears had already started, hot and silent, blurring her silhouette until she was a shape of bronze and shadow. He reached her feet. Looked up.
She grabbed him by the arm, her grip firm and unyielding, and pulled him across her lap. He landed with a soft gasp, his chest against the leather, his bare ass in the air, his face hovering inches from the floor. The card pressed against the roof of his mouth. He bit down and held on.
Her hand rested on his lower back. Warm. Heavy. The callouses rough against his skin.
Then it lifted. And fell.
The crack was loud in the quiet room. A bright, sharp sting bloomed across his ass, radiating outward, stealing his breath. He clenched his jaw around the card and took it.
She didn't speak. Didn't lecture. She spanked him with a steady, unhurried rhythm, each slap landing in a new spot, covering every inch of his skin until he was a landscape of heat and pain. His thighs. The curve of his cheeks. The tender skin where his ass met his legs. She covered it all, and he took it all, his tears dripping onto the leather below, his moans muffled by cardboard.
He lost count. Lost track of time, of place, of anything except the sting and the warmth and the sound of her hand against his skin. He was trembling. Sobbing openly now, his body wracked with it, his cock still hard and aching and pressed against her thigh.
His mind went quiet.
There was no office. No city. No card. There was only the rhythm of her hand, the weight of her body beneath him, the smell of her perfume and ozone and leather. He was nowhere. He was hers.
The slaps stopped.
He didn't notice at first. His body kept flinching, waiting for the next one. But her hand settled on his back. Rested there. Stroked, slowly, down the curve of his spine.
"Shh." Her voice was low, almost soft. "Shh. You did so well."
He sobbed, a ragged, broken sound around the card. Tears and drool and shame all mixed together on the leather beneath his face.
Her hand moved up, into his hair. Fingers carding through the short waves. Gentle. Patient. The tenderness was a knife in his chest.
"Are you going to be a good boy?"
He nodded. Frantic. Desperate. His whole body shook with it.
Her fingers found the edge of the card. Pulled it free from his clenched jaw. He opened his mouth and let her take it, gasping, the air cool against his wet lips.
"Thank you, Miss Reyes." His voice was raw. Wrecked. A stranger's voice.
"Good boy."
She guided him off her lap, onto the floor in front of her. He knelt, his ass burning against the carpet, his face wet, his eyes red. He looked at her through the blur of tears and saw her watching him. Something in her gaze had shifted. Softer, maybe. Or harder. He couldn't tell. He didn't need to.
She leaned back on the couch. Her thighs parted. She looked down at him, and her hand moved to the button of her trousers.
"Now make me feel good."
His hands were there before she finished the sentence. Clumsy, shaking, desperate. He fumbled with the button, the zipper, pulled the fabric down her thighs. She lifted her hips to help him, and then she was bare before him, her dark curls damp, the smell of her filling his senses.
Salt. Heat. Woman.
He pressed his mouth to her without waiting for permission. She was already slick, her arousal coating his lips, and he groaned against her, the taste of her a revelation. He remembered what she'd taught him. The pressure. The rhythm. The way she'd gasped when he found the right spot.
He found it again.
Her hand settled on the back of his head, guiding him, not pushing. Her hips rocked against his mouth, a slow, rolling motion that told him she was pleased. He worked her with his tongue, with his lips, with a devotion that bordered on worship. He wanted to make her feel good. He needed to make her feel good. It was the only thing that mattered.
Her breathing changed. A hitch. A held pause. Then a low, shuddering exhale as her thighs tightened around his ears and she came against his mouth, her body shaking, a soft moan escaping her throat.
He didn't stop. He licked her through it, gentler now, drawing out the aftershocks, tasting the change in her.
She tugged his hair, pulling him up. He looked at her, his chin slick, his eyes wide.
"Again," she said. "Don't stop this time."
He lowered his head and obeyed.
The second one was harder. She pressed his mouth against her clit, her hips lifting off the couch, her hand gripping his hair so tight it burned. He moaned against her and the vibration made her gasp. He did it again, deliberately, felt her thighs shudder around his head.
"Yes. There. Don't you fucking stop."
He didn't. He worked her with his tongue, with his fingers, finding the rhythm that made her breath catch, the pressure that made her moan. She came with a curse, her body arching off the couch, her hand slamming against the leather beside her.
He licked her through it, tasting the pulse of her, drinking her down.
"More." Her voice was ragged now, desperate. "One more. Give me one more."
He pressed his mouth to her clit, hard and steady, and didn't let up. She was so close. He could feel it in the tension of her thighs, in the way her breath came in short, sharp gasps. He pushed a finger inside her, curled it, found a spot that made her cry out.
"Yes. Yes. Fuck—"
She shattered.
Her body seized, arched, and a gush of fluid flooded his mouth, hot and slick and tasting of her. He swallowed without thinking, a raw, instinctive need to take all of her, to consume every part of what she gave him. He kept his mouth pressed to her, licking gently, until she pushed his head away.
"Enough." The word was breathless. She lay back on the couch, her chest heaving, a sheen of sweat glistening on her bronze skin. "Enough, boy."
He pulled back. Knelt. Ass burning. Jaw aching. Face wet with tears and her.
She looked at him for a long moment. Her dark eyes scanned his face, his trembling lips, the raw, open need written across his features.
She reached out and touched his cheek. A single finger. Warm.
"Good boy."
The words settled into his chest like a key turning a lock. He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing, his breath a shuddering exhale.
She let him stay there for a moment. Then she sat up, reached for the card on the floor beside the couch—slightly crumpled, slightly damp—and pressed it into his palm. She closed his fingers around it.
"Tomorrow. Same time." She paused. "We'll work on you."
He opened his eyes. Looked at her. The promise hung in the air between them, heavy and electric. His own pleasure. His own vulnerability. His own surrender.
He nodded.
He dressed slowly, his body humming with a strange cocktail of shame and devotion and aching, unfilled want. The card went back against his chest, tucked into his shirt, the edge sharp against his skin.
The door clicked shut behind him. He leaned against the wall in the hallway and pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the card beneath his palm, her taste still heavy on his tongue.
He would be back tomorrow.
They both knew it.