Marcus stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, the city sprawling beneath him like a circuit board of light and movement. Thirty-eight floors down, the traffic crawled through the evening haze, headlights bleeding into tail-lights, all those lives playing out in their neat little boxes. His reflection stared back at him—sharp cheekbones, cold hazel eyes, a jaw that never fully unclenched. The scotch in his hand had gone warm. He couldn't remember the last time he'd tasted it.
The elevator chimed. A single, soft note, polite and precise.
He didn't turn. He heard the doors slide open, heard the click of heels on marble, and then the silence of someone stopping at the edge of his desk.
"Mr. Blackthorne."
Her voice was soft. But certain. The kind of voice that didn't need to repeat itself.
He set the glass down on the windowsill and turned.
She stood there in a cream silk dress that caught the low light, dark hair falling past her shoulders in a curtain that made him think of ink in water. She was young—but her eyes met his without flinching. Brown, warm, but holding something between shyness and nerve.
He let his gaze travel the length of her once. Then again, slower.
He gestured to the leather chairs across from his desk. She moved past him without hesitation, the silk sliding over her thighs, and sat. Marcus didn't take his own seat. He walked around the desk, picked up the remote for the blinds, and pressed. The glass wall went opaque, the city vanishing behind frosted privacy.
Natasha sat with her hands clasped in her lap, ankles crossed. A good posture. A practiced one.
"Madame Isadora said you'd be coming." Marcus lowered himself onto the edge of his desk, close enough that his leg almost brushed her knee. "Tell me about yourself."
She took a breath. Held it. Let it out slow.
"My name is Natasha. This is my second contract, so I have an idea on how this goes." Her fingers tightened, then relaxed. "I'm in school for accounting. I was hoping to meet someone... long-term. A sugar daddy situation, I guess. Something real."
"What happened on the first one?"
Natasha's cheeks flushed, a warm pink spreading across tan skin. "It lasted only a month. His wife didn't know about it." She looked down at her hands. "I preferred to be honest. I saw how my preferences matched really well with yours, and I didn't want to mess it up by starting with lies."
Marcus studied her. The blush was genuine. The nerve beneath it was real.
"How did you see the preferences?"
"Madame Isadora showed me a summary. Just the high-level matches. Not the specifics." Natasha's eyes flicked up to his, then away. "She said you were... extensive."
Marcus felt the corner of his mouth lift. He pushed off the desk and moved around to sit beside her, not in the chair across—on the arm of her chair, close enough that his thigh brushed her shoulder. She went still.
"My wife was the one who recommended the club," he said, his voice low. "I decided not check your profile when it was sent to me. And I'm extremely pleased seeing you.”
Natasha's smile broke through, bright and sudden, showing dimples at the corners of her mouth. She shifted in her seat, her hand finding his knee, then sliding up his thigh with a confidence that surprised him. Her fingers found the shape of him through his trousers, and she didn't look away.
"I’m glad you're happy." she said.
"Where do you want to stay during the contract? I have a hotel. A penthouse suite. You could move in there for the week. Or you can stay at your own place—"
"The hotel," she said quickly. "I have a roommate and—."
Marcus leaned in. He caught the scent of her—something floral, something clean, and underneath it the faint salt of skin. He kissed her.
She opened to him immediately. No hesitation. Her mouth was warm and wet, her tongue sliding against his with a hunger that matched his own. His hand found the back of her neck, pulled her closer, and she moaned into his mouth.
His other hand slid down her back, over the silk, finding the curve of her ass. He squeezed. Hard. She gasped against his lips and climbed onto his lap, straddling him on the leather chair, her dress riding up her thighs as she settled against him. She ground into him, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, and he felt himself harden beneath her.
"Fuck," she breathed, her forehead against his.
Marcus's hands found the zipper of her dress. He pulled it down in one motion, and the silk fell away from her shoulders. She shrugged it off, letting it pool at her waist, and he saw her bare chest—full perky breasts, nipples already hard, her skin flushed in the low light.
He didn't look away. He leaned in and took her right nipple into his mouth.
She gasped, her fingers threading through his hair, holding him there. He sucked hard, then bit—not gentle, not teasing. A firm, deliberate pressure that made her cry out. He pulled back and saw the mark, red against her tan skin. He did the same to the other side, biting until she whimpered, then soothing with his tongue.
"Yes," she whispered. "God, yes."
He pushed her back against the chair, the dress bunched at her waist, and his mouth found her neck. He bit there too, hard enough to bruise, then kissed the spot, then bit again. She was moaning loudly now, her hips grinding against his cock through his trousers, her hands gripping his shoulders.
He shoved his tongue into her mouth, deep and demanding, and she met him with acceptance. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and he thrust against her, the fabric of his trousers rough against the bare skin of her thighs.
She pulled at his belt. Her fingers fumbled, then found the buckle, and she had it open in seconds. Her hand slid into his trousers, found his cock, and wrapped around it—warm and sure. She stroked him once, twice, and he grunted, his hand moving to her throat.
He gripped. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to feel it. The pressure. The pulse beneath his fingers.
Her eyes went wide. Then heavy-lidded.
"God," she breathed.
He tightened his grip, then loosened it, a rhythm of pressure and release that made her moan with every squeeze. Her hand kept stroking him, matching his pace, until he couldn't take it anymore.
He lifted her off the chair and turned her around, bending her over the arm of it. Her ass was bare, the dress bunched around her waist, her cunt wet and glistening. He positioned himself at her entrance and held there, just the tip pressing against her, teasing.
"Please," she said, her voice breaking. "Please."
He didn't give her what she asked for. He dragged the head of his cock through her slickness, up and down, letting her feel him but not enter.
"Please, Sir. Please fuck me."
He pushed in. One inch. Her body clenched around him. He pushed deeper, another inch, and she groaned, her fingers gripping the leather of the chair. Her walls gripping tightly.
Then he drove into her, full and hard, and she screamed.
He pinned her down with his body, his chest against her back, one hand on her throat and the other reaching around to fondle her breasts. He thrust deep—each stroke a grinding, deliberate motion that made her gasp with every withdrawal. He bit her shoulder, her neck, his hips slapping against her ass.
"You like that?" he said, his voice rough against her ear. "You like being fucked like a whore?"
"Yes," she moaned. "Yes, Daddy."
The word hit him somewhere low. He thrust harder.
"Good girls get rewarded. You want to be a good girl?"
"Yes, Daddy. I'll be so good. Please."
He lifted himself slightly, changing the angle, and drove into her deeper. Her body lifted into him, meeting each thrust, her moans turning into wordless cries. He kept one hand on her throat, squeezing in time with his thrusts, and used the other to pinch her nipple—hard enough to leave a mark.
She came with a shuddering cry, her cunt clenching around him, her body going rigid beneath him. He didn't stop. He kept thrusting through her orgasm, feeling her pulse around him, until he felt his own building, unstoppable, and he buried himself deep and came inside her, his teeth gritted, a low groan torn from his chest.
For a moment, there was nothing but breathing. His forehead rested against her spine. Her body was limp beneath him, trembling.
He pulled out slowly and stood. His trousers were still open, his shirt half-untucked. He walked to his desk, sat down, and opened his laptop. Typed.
Natasha stayed bent over the chair, her dress still bunched, her body flushed and marked. Hickies were already forming on her neck and chest. Her thighs were slick.
Marcus typed for a few seconds, then pressed a button on his phone.
"Penelope. Send up a change of clothes for Ms. Sinclair. Size four, medium in dresses. And a suit for me. The navy Zegna." He paused. "And send a car. I'll be leaving in an hour."
He ended the call and stood, pulling off his shirt. His body was lean and cut, muscle earned through years of boxing, a map of old bruises fading across his ribs. He stepped out of his trousers and shoes, standing naked, and walked to the bar. He poured two glasses of scotch. Held one out to her.
Natasha pushed herself upright, still breathless, her hair a mess. She looked at the glass, then up at him.
"I can't," she said weakly. "I'll be twenty-one next month."
Marcus stared at her. She was on her knees now, the dress still bunched at her waist, her upper body resting on the cushion of the chair. Her skin was flushed all over, hickies blooming on her chest and neck and shoulders. Her lipstick was smeared. She looked wrecked. And she was smiling happily.
Then her eyes dropped to his cock. Still hard. Still ready.
Her cheeks flushed as she gasped.
She bit her lip.
"My first contract," she said quietly, "he needed medication to get hard. And even then..." She shook her head.
“That will be the last time you mention a man in front of me, Natasha.” He flatly said.
Marcus downed his scotch in one swallow. Set the glass on the desk, crossed to her, and laced his fingers with hers. He pulled her to her feet and led her toward the door at the back of the room.
It opened into a bathroom that belonged in a five-star hotel. Marble floors, a walk-in shower with three showerheads, a jacuzzi-sized bathtub against a window that overlooked the city. Steam started rising the moment he turned on the water.
Marcus grabbed a bottle of soap, worked it between his hands until it lathered, and began spreading it over her body. Her shoulders. Her arms. The curve of her waist. She stood still, shivering under his touch, watching him with those warm brown eyes.
Then she rose on her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her body against his. The soap transferred to his skin, slick and warm, as she moved against him, lathering his chest and stomach with her own body.
He gripped her waist, lifted her on top of his cock—but not entering her. He pushed her against the tile wall, the cool stone contrasting with the steam, and positioned himself at her entrance. He didn't push in. He held there, just the tip, feeling her body open and ache for him.
She moaned into his ear, her voice breaking. "Please. Please go inside me. Stop teasing."
Marcus chuckled, a low sound in his chest. He ground against her entrance slowly, dragging through her slickness, watching her face contort with frustration and need. His hand slid down her back, between her cheeks, and one finger pressed against her ass.
He pushed in.
She gasped, her body jerking, and then she groaned, her thighs squeezing against his cock, trying to get more stimulation. Her breasts pressed into his chest, her nipples hard against his skin.
He kissed her, deep and thoroughly, his tongue finding hers, and used both hands to cup her ass, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises. Then he began thrusting into her, fast and aggressive, the water from the shower streaming over them both.
She was close. He could feel it. Her body tightening, her breath coming in ragged gasps against his mouth.
He stopped abruptly.
Pulling out of her, he set her down, and stepped out of the shower. Marcus grabbed a towel, dried himself, and wrapped it around his waist.
Natasha slipped down on her knees in the steam, naked and dripping, her mouth open.
"You're not allowed to climax again," Marcus said, smirking. "Not until you've met my wife."
Her eyes widened. Then she smiled—slow, pleased, a little stunned.
"Yes, Daddy," she said.
She washed off quickly, the pink of her skin slowly returning to normal, and stepped out. Marcus handed her a towel. As she dried herself, he came up behind her, his hands finding her waist, his mouth on her shoulder. He kissed the fresh hickies, the bruises forming on her neck. His hands slid up to her breasts, cupping them, his thumbs circling her nipples.
"You'll meet her tonight," he said against her skin. "We're having dinner."
She shivered—not from cold. "Okay."
They dressed slowly. He pulled on the fresh suit, adjusting the cuffs. She stepped into the new dress, a deep navy that matched his, and he watched her zip it up. Her hair was still damp, curling at the ends. She caught him watching and smiled, that dimpled smile that made her look like s girl next door.
He crossed to her, cupped her face, and kissed her again. Firmly. She melted into it, her hand finding his wrist.
Then he pulled back and guided her to wrap her arm around his.
"Let's go."
The car was waiting downstairs—black, sleek, a driver holding the door. Natasha slid in first, and Marcus followed. She immediately curled into his side, her head on his shoulder, her hand resting on his thigh.
She looked up at the city lights sliding past the window.
She'd hit the jackpot. The looks, the wealth, the stamina, the intensity—it was almost too much to believe. And he wanted her to meet his wife. That was the part she kept coming back to. He wasn't hiding her. He was presenting her.
Her smile widened against his shoulder.
Marcus stared out the window, his hand resting on her knee, his thumb tracing idle circles on her thigh. The restaurant was fifteen minutes away. Fifteen minutes until Melinda saw what was in store for her from now on.
He wondered how long his wife's composure would last.
Natasha's fingers found the panel on the door—a small button recessed into the leather, almost invisible. She pressed it. A soft whir, and the glass between them and the driver went opaque, the front cabin disappearing behind a dark divider.
Marcus's hand stilled on her thigh.
She turned to him, her brown eyes catching the amber light of the passing streetlamps. There was something in her face now—not just the shy nerve from before, but a glint of real mischief. A dare wearing dimples.
"Fifteen minutes," she said. Her voice had dropped, gone honey-thick. Her hand slid up his thigh, fingers tracing the seam of his trousers. "How long do you think I can stay quiet?"
Marcus watched her. The question hung in the space between them, the car humming beneath their feet, the city bleeding past in streaks of gold and red.
"You want a test," he said. Not a question.
She bit her lip. Nodded.
He reached for her chin, gripped it gently, and turned her face toward his. His thumb traced her lower lip, pulling it down just slightly. She let him. Her breath quickened.
"If you fail," he said quietly, "you don't come tonight. Not after dinner. Not when we get back to the hotel. The denial extends through tomorrow morning."
Her eyes widened. Then narrowed, calculating. She was weighing the risk against the thrill. Against the pleasure of being tested at all.
"And if I win?"
Marcus leaned in, his mouth brushing her ear. "Then I let you come on my tongue when we get back to the penthouse."
She shivered. Her hand tightened on his thigh, her nails pressing into the fabric.
"Deal," she whispered.
He pulled back and settled into the leather seat, his arm resting along the back of the bench, his body angled toward her. Relaxed. Waiting.
Natasha shifted, hooking one leg over his lap, straddling him right there in the back of the town car. The navy dress rode up her thighs, exposing the tops of her stockings—she'd put them on at the penthouse office, black lace with a seam up the back. She hadn't been wearing underwear when she'd dressed. He'd made sure of that.
She settled her weight onto him, her cunt pressing against his cock through the fabric of his trousers. She was already warm. Already slick. He could feel the heat of her through the wool.
"No hands," he said.
She paused.
"You don't touch yourself. You don't touch me. You use your body against mine, and you keep your mouth shut." His hand found her hip, gripping hard enough to bruise. "If I hear a single sound, you lose."
She nodded. Her jaw set. She looked determined. Focused.
She began to move.
A slow roll of her hips, grinding against the ridge of his cock, the fabric of her stockings sliding against the wool of his trousers. Her hands stayed at her sides, pressed flat against the leather seat, her fingers curled into the material. Her mouth stayed closed.
But her eyes told him everything.
Wide. Dark. Hungry.
She rolled again, harder this time, her clit dragging against the seam of his trousers. A shudder ran through her, and she bit her lip so hard he saw the blood.
Marcus watched. His hand on her hip guided her rhythm, not pushing, just holding, letting her find the angle that worked. She leaned forward, her chest pressing against his, the navy silk of her dress whispering against the wool of his suit. Her breath came through her nose, short and sharp, her nostrils flaring with every grind.
She was wet. He could feel the dampness soaking through his trousers, a warm patch spreading beneath her. Her movements grew more urgent, less controlled—rolling, circling, pressing down on him like she could fuse herself to him through sheer friction.
Her mouth opened. A sound escaped. Not a moan—a breath. A sharp, shuddering exhale that was more air than voice.
Marcus's hand tightened on her hip.
She caught herself. Closed her mouth. Pressed her lips into a thin line and kept moving, faster now, her hips working against him with a desperation that made the leather seat creak beneath them.
The car hit a bump. She bounced in his lap, and the shock of it drove his cock against her cunt through the fabric, and she jerked, her whole body seizing, and a small whimper escaped her throat.
Marcus's other hand came up to her face. He cupped her jaw, forced her to look at him.
"That was one," he said softly. "You have one more freebie. Then you lose."
She stared at him, her chest heaving, her thighs trembling on either side of his. She nodded, a tiny motion, her eyes never leaving his.
She kept moving.
Slower now. More controlled. She was learning the shape of her own need, mapping the edges of it, dancing along the line without crossing. Her grinding became deliberate—a pressure here, a circle there, each movement calculated to build without breaking.
Marcus felt his own control fraying. She was good at this. Better than good. She was a natural, reading his body the way he read balance sheets, finding the weak points and pressing.
He wanted to fuck her. Right here. Bend her over the leather seat and drive into her until she screamed. But the test was hers, and he was the judge, and a judge didn't break his own rules.
She leaned in and pressed her forehead to his. Her lips were parted, her breath hot on his mouth. She didn't kiss him—she hovered there, millimeters away, her breath mixing with his, her hips still rolling in that slow, torturous rhythm.
He could see her pulse beating in her throat. Fast. Desperate.
Her mouth opened wider. A moan built in her chest—he could feel it vibrating through the silk, through the air between them. She was fighting it, her jaw clenched, her throat working as she swallowed the sound back down.
She won. The moan died in her throat.
But her hips didn't stop.
Minutes passed. The car hummed. The city blurred. The only sounds were the whisper of silk on wool, the soft creak of leather, the ragged rhythm of her breathing through her nose.
She was close. He could feel it in the way her body had gone tight, the way her grinding had shortened, grown sharper, more focused. She was chasing the edge, riding it, trying to stay on this side of it.
Her eyes were closed now. Her face was flushed, sweat beading at her hairline, her lip swollen where she'd bitten through. She looked like she was in pain. She looked like she was in heaven.
One hand lifted. Her fingers found his shoulder, gripping the wool of his jacket, anchoring herself. He let her. She needed the contact, and he was feeling generous.
Her hips stuttered. A sound caught in her throat—a gasp, half-swallowed, barely audible. She was right on the edge, right there, her body trembling like a wire about to snap.
She pulled back.
She lifted herself off him, just slightly, breaking the contact. Her thighs were shaking. Her dress was soaked through at the crotch, a dark patch spreading across the navy silk.
She looked at him. Triumphant.
Marcus felt his mouth curve. He pulled her down, kissed her, hard and deep, his tongue sliding against hers, tasting the salt of her skin, the copper of her blood from her bitten lip.
She moaned into his mouth. Audible. Loud.
And then she pulled back, eyes wide, a hand clapped over her mouth.
He laughed.
A low, genuine sound that surprised even him. He pulled her hand away from her mouth and kissed her again, softer this time.
"That doesn't count," he said against her lips.
"It doesn't?"
"It was after the test ended."
She stared at him, then broke into a grin, her dimples showing, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his shoulder, her body still trembling, her breath still ragged.
"I won," she whispered.
He ran a hand down her back, feeling the faint sheen of sweat through the silk. "You won."
The car slowed. Turned. Pulled to a stop.
Marcus looked out the window. They were at the restaurant—a low building of glass and dark wood, warm light spilling through angled windows, valets in black vests waiting by the entrance.
He reached up and pressed the intercom button. "Give us five minutes."
The engine idled. The driver said nothing.
Marcus turned back to Natasha. Her dress was wrinkled, damp, clinging to her in ways that would draw every eye in the dining room. Her hair was mussed, her lip was swollen and bleeding slightly, and there was a mark on her neck—a dark bruise blooming just above the collar of her dress.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a handkerchief—white linen, monogrammed. He pressed it gently to her lip. She winced, then smiled.
"You're going to walk in there with me," he said quietly. "My wife will be at the table. You'll sit beside me. You'll be polite. You'll be warm. And every time you look at her, I want you to remember that you're still wet from riding my cock in the back of a car while I told you not to make a sound."
Natasha's breath caught. Her thighs pressed together beneath her dress.
"Yes, Daddy," she said.
He smoothed her hair, tucked a strand behind her ear, and pressed the intercom again.
"We're ready."
The car door opened. The night air rushed in, cool and clean, carrying the scent of rain on asphalt and the distant hum of the city. Marcus stepped out first, then turned and offered his arm.
Natasha took it. Her fingers were trembling. Her smile was steady.
They walked toward the entrance, his hand at the small of her back, her head held high. The glass doors slid open, and warm golden light spilled over them, and the maître d' appeared, his face professionally blank.
"Mr. Blackthorne. Your room is ready."
Marcus nodded. The staff murmured good evening to him as they walked by but he did not acknowledge anyone. Some whispering as they saw an attractive woman on his arm. Natasha nervously pressed her body onto Marcus’s arm , be could feel her large breasts— nipples hardening. Marcus’s cock throbbed and he smirked wrapping his arm around her waist pulling her closer. He scanned the room the ceneter a large table—candlelight, white tablecloths, and found his wife touching up her makeup in anticipation of him.
She sat with her back straight, her honey-brown waves falling over one shoulder, a glass of white wine untouched before her. She wore a cream-colored blouse with a high collar, pearl studs in her ears, her face composed into the careful blankness of a woman who had been waiting longer than she wanted to admit.
Her eyes found them and assessed them.
She saw Marcus first—her husband in his navy 3 piece suit, crisp and controlled—and something in her face softened, a flicker of relief that she couldn't quite hide.
Then she saw Natasha.
The girl in the damp navy dress, her hair slightly mussed, a faint bruise on her neck, her lip swollen and red. The girl clinging to Marcus's side with the unconscious intimacy of someone who had already been claimed.
Melinda's hand went to her wine glass. She lifted it. Took a sip. Her fingers were steady.
But Marcus saw the tremor in the glass before it touched her lips.
He smiled.
He wondered how long her composure would last this time.
Melinda set the glass down with deliberate care, the stem finding its exact place on the white linen. She didn't look at Natasha again. She looked at Marcus—a long, measuring gaze that traveled from his collar to his cuffs, cataloging the details the way a woman does when she's searching for evidence of something she already knows.
"You're late," she said. Her voice was soft, almost pleasant. A blade wrapped in silk.
Marcus pulled out the chair beside across from her—directly facing her—and gestured for Natasha to sit. The girl slid into the seat, her thighs pressing together beneath the table, her hands finding her lap. He took the chair on Natasha's side.
"And you're point?" he countered.
Melinda's mouth curved. It wasn't a smile. "You were always a man of precision."
He didn't answer. He picked up the wine list, scanned it, set it down. The waiter materialized, a young man with a neat beard and a practiced air of invisibility. Marcus ordered a bottle of Pétrus without looking at the price. The waiter nodded and vanished.
The silence settled over the table like dust.
Natasha sat very still, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. She was trying to be invisible. Trying to be good. But the damp dress clung to her, and the bruise on her neck was darkening, and every time she shifted in her seat, the faint scent of sex and sweat rose from her skin.
Melinda's nostrils flared. Just once. A small, almost imperceptible inhale.
She knew.
"You must be Natasha," Melinda said, her voice still soft, still pleasant. She extended her hand across the table—palm down, fingers elegant, the gesture of a woman who had been raised to host dinner parties for men like her husband. "I'm Melinda. Marcus's wife."
Natasha looked at the hand. Then at Melinda's face. She hesitated—just a fraction of a second—then reached out and took it. Her grip was tentative, a bird landing on a branch it didn't trust.
"It's nice to meet you," Natasha said. Her voice came out smaller than she'd intended. She cleared her throat. "Marcus has told me so much about you."
Melinda's eyebrows rose. "Has he."
"Y-yes. You're very pretty."
The words hung in the air, earnest, from a girl blurting out awkwardly who didn't know what war she'd walked into.
Melinda's face sneered at the compliment. "That’s very kind of you." She released Natasha's hand and picked up her wine glass again. "How long have you known my husband?”
"Since this afternoon."
"And already so familiar." Melinda's eyes drifted to the bruise on Natasha's neck. She didn't comment. She didn't need to.
The wine arrived. The waiter poured a taste for Marcus, who nodded without bothering to swirl or sniff. The glasses were filled—deep ruby, almost black in the candlelight—and the waiter retreated.
Marcus raised his glass. "To meeting new people."
Melinda didn't lift hers. She stared at him across the rim of her own glass, her brown eyes unreadable. "Is that what she is?"
He took a sip. "You helped me find her, remember?"
The barb landed. Melinda's jaw tightened, just a fraction, the only crack in her composure. She set her glass down and turned to Natasha with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Tell me about yourself, Natasha. What do you study?"
"Accounting."
"Accounting." Melinda repeated the word like she was tasting it. "That must be... intriguing."
"It's boring," Natasha admitted, and then winced, as if she'd said something wrong. "I mean—it's stable. It will the bills when I graduate."
"And this?" Melinda gestured vaguely, encompassing the restaurant, the wine, the man between them. "Does this pay the bills in the meantime?"
Natasha's cheeks flushed. She looked down at her hands. "It's not just about the money."
"No?"
"No." Natasha lifted her chin, meeting Melinda's gaze. There was a flicker of defiance in her eyes now, a small spine showing through the softness. "I like being wanted. I like being chosen. I like knowing that someone looks at me and sees something they need."
The words landed. Melinda's expression shifted—a crack in the armor, a moment of genuine surprise. She studied the girl across the table with new eyes.
"That's honest," Melinda said quietly.
"That is one of the only rule that matters to me."
Melinda's laugh was soft, almost sad. “interesting."
The waiter returned with menus. The ritual of ordering provided a temporary reprieve—the discussion of appetizers, the negotiation of entrees, the careful dance of dietary restrictions and preferences. Natasha ordered the salmon. Marcus ordered the steak, medium rare. Melinda ordered the scallops and a side of asparagus, and the waiter wrote it all down with the solemnity of a scribe recording scripture.
When he left, the silence returned.
Marcus's hand found Natasha's thigh beneath the table. She jumped, then relaxed, her leg pressing against his palm. His fingers traced the edge of her stocking, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin fabric.
She kept her face neutral. But her breathing changed—a slight quickening, a shallow rise and fall of her chest.
Melinda noticed. Of course she noticed. She was watching Natasha the way a cat watches a bird through a window—with detached interest, calculating the distance.
"You're very young," Melinda said.
"Twenty."
"Twenty." Melinda's fingers traced the stem of her wine glass. "I was twenty when I first met Marcus. At a charity gala. I was wearing a green dress, and I spilled champagne on his shoes." She smiled, a real smile this time, tinged with memory. "He looked at me like I'd committed a crime."
"Didn’t realize you knew me for so long," Marcus said. His hand was still on Natasha's thigh, his thumb drawing slow circles. "First I'm hearing of it."
Melinda's smile faded. She looked down at her wine. "With your memory, I thought you were always pretending."
"I remember the things that I care to."
The words were simple. Flat.
Natasha shifted in her seat, her leg pressing harder against Marcus's hand. She was wet again—he could feel the dampness through her stockings, the heat of her cunt against his fingers. She was getting off on this. On the tension. On the danger. On being watched by the wife while the husband touched her beneath the table.
Marcus's fingers found the edge of her stocking, the bare skin of her inner thigh. He pressed. She bit her lip, her eyes going wide, her hand gripping the edge of the table.
Melinda's gaze dropped to Natasha's hand—the white knuckles, the clenched fingers. Then back to her face.
"Are you all right, Natasha? You look flushed."
"I'm fine." The words came out breathless. "Just... warm."
"The restaurant keeps it cool," Melinda said. Her voice was light, almost teasing. "Perhaps it's the company."
Natasha's blush deepened. She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out.
Marcus's fingers slid higher, finding the wet heat between her legs. He pressed two fingers against her, through the fabric, feeling her slickness soak through the stockings. She jerked, a small, involuntary motion, and her hand flew to her mouth.
Melinda watched. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were sharp, tracking every micro-expression on Natasha's face. She knew. She had to know.
"Marcus," Melinda said, her voice soft, "perhaps you should let the girl breathe."
He didn't remove his hand. He pressed harder, and Natasha's breath hitched, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment before she forced them open.
"She's fine," Marcus said. "Aren't you, Natasha?"
Natasha nodded, a jerky motion. "Yes. I'm fine."
Melinda set down her wine glass. She folded her hands on the table, her posture perfect, her face composed. But there was something new in her eyes—a glint of something harder, something that looked almost like resolve.
"I'm glad," she said. "Because I'd hate for you to be uncomfortable at my table."
The words were polite. The smile was warm.
But beneath the table, Marcus's hand was between Natasha's legs, and his wife was watching. She started feeling like maybe recommending Madame Issadors’s club was a mistake. But it was too late now— Melinda had to think of something soon or she would lose Marcus forever.