The party was already in full swing by the time Jessie found the conference room with the catered bar. White tablecloths, a DJ in the corner playing something with a bassline you could feel in your chest, and everywhere the bright chatter of people who had survived another quarter. She smoothed the front of her black dress — the black dress, Steve's dress — and let the noise wash over her.

No pressure tonight. No deals to close. Steve had said it himself when she'd checked in that morning: just be seen, be charming, and enjoy yourself.

She intended to.

Stacey was somewhere in the crowd—she'd spotted her near the buffet, talking to Mark with a smile that didn't reach her eyes—and Jessie had already decided to give her space. What had happened in the car this afternoon was still raw, still unprocessed, and she wasn't sure what to say yet. I rode my best friend after touching a man on his yacht for a contract wasn't exactly small talk, even between them.

So she drifted. A glass of wine appeared in her hand—someone handed it to her, someone from accounting whose name she'd forgotten—and she smiled and nodded and let the warmth of the room carry her.

And then she saw him.

He was standing near the far wall, half-leaning against the bar, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. Young—maybe her age, maybe a year or two older. Broad shoulders under a fitted navy blazer. Dark hair cropped short, a jaw that could cut glass, and the kind of easy, confident posture that said he knew exactly how he looked and didn't need to try.

He was watching her.

Not staring. Just watching, with a slow, appreciative gaze that traveled from her face to her collarbone to the curve of her hip and back up again. When their eyes met, he smiled—a small, crooked thing—and raised his bottle in a silent toast.

Jessie felt something warm unfurl in her chest. Not the nervous flutter she used to feel when a boy looked at her in college. Something else. Something that said I could have him if I wanted.

She smiled back.

The party continued around her—laughter, clinking glasses, the thrum of conversation—but she had found her purpose for the evening. She took a sip of her wine, letting the tart sweetness coat her tongue, and began to move through the crowd. Not directly toward him. That would be too obvious. She angled left, pausing to exchange pleasantries with a regional manager whose name she actually remembered, then drifted toward the bar as if refilling her glass was her only goal.

He was still there when she arrived.

"That dress," he said, his voice low and warm, "should come with a warning label."

She turned, feigning surprise. "Should it?"

"Traffic hazard. Distracted driving. Something." He was grinning now, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'm Derek. I work in logistics—shipping and receiving."

"Jessie. Outside sales."

"I know who you are." He said it simply, without explanation, and the way he looked at her made her believe him.

She leaned against the bar, her shoulder brushing his. "Then you know I don't usually do this."

"Do what?"

"Stand at bars talking to handsome men in blazers."

His grin widened. "What do you usually do?"

"Close deals." She held his gaze. "I'm very good at it."

The air between them thickened. He took a long pull from his beer, his eyes never leaving hers, and when he lowered the bottle, his thumb traced a slow line through the condensation on the glass.

"Is that an invitation?" he asked.

"That depends." She tilted her head, letting her hair fall forward, the way Steve had shown her. "Are you interested in what I'm selling?"

He laughed—a genuine sound, surprised out of him. "I don't even know what you're selling."

"Then you should find out."

She turned and walked away, not looking back, feeling his gaze on her the whole time. She wove through the crowd, past a cluster of sales reps arguing about football, past the DJ booth where the bassline had shifted to something slower, and headed for the hallway that led to the quieter part of the office. The conference rooms were back here, dark and empty, their glass walls reflecting the dimmed ceiling lights.

She didn't know if he would follow. She wanted him to. The wanting surprised her—not the desire itself, but the ease of it. The way it felt natural to reach for what she wanted without guilt, without the old voice that used to whisper that good girls didn't act this way.

She paused at the door to Conference Room C, her hand on the handle, and listened.

Footsteps. Steady. Coming down the hallway.

She opened the door and stepped inside.

The room was dark, lit only by the Strip's glow through the blinds—a stripe of neon pink and gold cutting across the long conference table and the empty chairs. She didn't turn on the light. She just walked to the far end of the table and turned, leaning back against it, her palms flat on the polished wood.

Derek appeared in the doorway. His silhouette filled the frame, broad-shouldered and still, and for a long moment neither of them spoke.

Then he closed the door behind him.

The click of the latch was loud in the silence.

"You move fast," he said, his voice lower now, rougher at the edges.

"I told you. I'm good at closing deals."

He crossed the room in three long strides, stopping just in front of her, close enough that she could smell his cologne—something clean and expensive, a hint of cedar. His hands found her waist, his thumbs pressing into the curve of her hips through the thin silk of her dress.

"You know what they say about you?" he asked, his mouth close to her ear.

"What do they say?"

"That you're a slut." He said it flatly, without malice, the way someone might state the weather. "That you fucked your way into the Castellano account. That Steve Calder keeps you around because you spread your legs for anyone who signs a check."

Jessie's stomach tightened. Not from shame—the word should have stung, should have sent her retreating into the old version of herself that would have apologized for existing in a man's line of sight. But instead she felt something cold and sharp settle in her chest. Information. Useful.

And then something else. A thread of unease she couldn't name.

"And you believe that?" she asked, her voice steady.

"I don't care if it's true." His hands slid lower, cupping her ass, pulling her against him. She felt the hard line of his erection through his dress pants, a thick pressure against her thigh. "I just want a piece."

She should have felt used. Diminished. Instead she felt powerful—the kind of power that came from knowing exactly what a man wanted and deciding whether to give it to him.

Her hand moved between them, finding the button of his pants, working it open one-handed. His breath caught as she slid the zipper down and reached inside, her fingers brushing the hot length of him through his boxer briefs.

"Is that all you want?" she asked, her voice a murmur. "A piece?"

His answer was a low groan as she wrapped her hand around his cock, pulling it free. He was thick and hard, the skin hot against her palm, and she began to stroke him slowly, the way Steve had taught her—firm pressure, a twist at the top, her thumb spreading the bead of moisture that had already formed at the tip.

"Fuck," he breathed, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. "You're good at this."

"I know."

She worked him faster, her grip slick and practiced, enjoying the way his breath came in ragged gasps against her neck, the way his hands tightened on her hips. She could make him come like this. She could feel him getting close, his hips starting to thrust into her fist, his control fraying at the edges.

And then his hand was in her hair.

Not gentle. Not the way Victor had touched her, or the way Stacey's fingers had tangled in her hair in the back seat of the car. His fingers twisted in the strands near her scalp and pulled, yanking her head back until she had no choice but to look up at him.

"That's not how this is going to work," he said, and his voice had changed. The teasing warmth was gone. In its place was something harder, something that made Jessie's breath catch in a way that felt like a warning.

He pushed her backward, her spine hitting the edge of the conference table, and before she could react he had her bent over it, her chest pressed to the cool wood, his hand still in her hair holding her in place. His other hand grabbed her wrist and pinned it to the small of her back.

"I don't want your hand," he said, his mouth against her ear. "I want your mouth."

He pulled her upright and spun her around, and then he was pressing her downward, forcing her to her knees. The carpet bit through the thin silk of her dress, rough and unforgiving. The Strip's light striped across his face, catching the hard set of his jaw, the hunger in his eyes.

He didn't ask.

He stepped forward, his cock level with her mouth, and his hand found the back of her head. Not guiding. Pushing.

"No—" she started, the word barely leaving her lips before he used the opening. He thrust forward, his cock sliding past her lips, filling her mouth before she could close it, before she could decide if she wanted to. The taste hit her tongue. Salt and skin and the bitter tang of pre-cum, and the pressure of him pushing deeper, not stopping until he hit the back of her throat.

She gagged. Her eyes watered, her hands flying up to push against his thighs, but he didn't stop. He held her there, his cock buried in her throat, and she choked, her airway blocked, her body convulsing around him.

"That's it," he said, his voice rough. "Take it."

She tried to pull back. Her hands pushed at his thighs, her nails digging into the fabric of his pants, but he was stronger. His grip on her hair tightened, holding her in place, and when she struggled he only thrust deeper, harder, using her throat like she was made for it.

She should stop this. The thought surfaced through the panic. She should push him away, should bite down, should do something—but her mouth was full of him, her jaw locked open, and every time she tried to close it he shoved deeper and she gagged again, her body refusing to cooperate, her lungs screaming for air.

He began to fuck her mouth in earnest. Not the slow, measured rhythm she'd used with Steve or Victor, where she was in control, where she set the pace. This was different. He held her head in both hands now, his fingers tangled in her hair, and he drove into her throat with a steady, relentless rhythm that left her no room to breathe, no room to think, no room to do anything but take it.

Tears spilled down her cheeks. She couldn't stop them. Her throat worked around him, gagging and swallowing in equal measure, and the sounds she made were not words—just wet, choked noises that he seemed to enjoy, judging by the way his pace quickened.

She tried to twist her head, to break his grip, but he anticipated it, his fingers tightening until the pain made her go still. His cock slid across her tongue, hit the back of her throat, and she felt herself start to panic—the lack of air, the invasion, the way he didn't care that she was crying, that she was trying to say no, that she hadn't agreed to this.

"Look at you," he said, his voice a low, satisfied growl. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be used."

No. The word wouldn't come. Her mouth was full of him, her throat filled with him, and she couldn't say anything at all.

His pace quickened, his breathing turning ragged, and she felt him swell against her tongue. He was close. She could taste it—the change in his taste, the way his rhythm lost its precision, became desperate and sloppy and hungry. She wanted to pull away. She wanted to close her mouth and let him spill onto the carpet instead of down her throat, but his hands held her in place, his grip like iron, and she had nowhere to go.

"Fuck," he gasped, and then he shoved deep one last time, his hips pressed flush to her face, and she felt him come in hot, thick pulses against the back of her throat.

She gagged again, her throat convulsing around him, and the cum hit her tongue—bitter and warm and shocking—and she couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow, couldn't do anything but choke as he emptied himself into her mouth. Some of it slid down her throat involuntarily, her body's reflex overriding her will. The rest pooled on her tongue, thick and foreign, mixing with her saliva and the tears that dripped from her chin.

He held her there for a long moment, his cock softening against her tongue, before he finally pulled back, letting it slip from between her lips with a wet sound.

She stayed on her knees. Her body was shaking. Her jaw ached. Her throat burned. Cum and spit dripped from her chin, and she didn't wipe it away. She couldn't move. She stared at the carpet, at the dark pattern of it, at the way her tears had left small dark spots on the fabric.

She had cum in her mouth. She had not wanted it. She had said no, and he hadn't listened, and now she was on her knees on the floor of a conference room at a Christmas party, and she didn't know what to do with that.

"Jesus," he said, his voice reverent now. Shaken. "That was—"

She didn't let him finish. She spat. A thick glob of white and saliva hit the carpet between his shoes, and she didn't look up to see his face. She just sat there, her palms flat on the floor, trying to remember how to breathe evenly.

He took a step back. "Hey. You okay?"

She didn't answer. She didn't trust her voice. She wasn't sure if she would scream or sob or throw up, and she didn't want to give him any of those things.

He zipped his pants. The sound was obscenely loud in the silence. "Listen. I didn't mean to—"

"Get out." Her voice came out hoarse. Raw. It didn't sound like her.

"Come on, don't be like—"

"Get out." She said it louder this time, and this time her voice held. It didn't shake. It was cold, and flat, and final.

He stared at her for a long moment. She could feel his gaze on the top of her head, on her shoulders, on the curve of her spine as she stayed hunched on the floor. Then he laughed. A short, disbelieving sound.

"Whatever," he said, and then his footsteps crossed the room, and the door opened, and the latch clicked shut behind him.

She was alone.

She stayed on her knees for a long time. The neon light from the Strip painted the room in shades of pink and gold, and somewhere in the distance she could hear the bass from the party, muffled and far away, like it was happening in another world.

She wanted to go home. She wanted to find Stacey. She wanted to curl up in her bed and never leave it.

Instead, she pushed herself to her feet. Her legs were shaking. Her dress was twisted, the hem hiked up around her thighs. She smoothed it down with trembling hands, and then she walked to the small sink in the corner of the room and turned on the water.

She rinsed her mouth. Swished and spat. Rinsed again. The water was cold, and it tasted like nothing, and she let it run over her lips and chin until she couldn't taste him anymore.

She looked up at the mirror above the sink. Her lipstick was smeared. Her mascara had run, leaving dark tracks down her cheeks. Her hair was a wreck of tangles. There was a red mark on her throat that would be a bruise by morning.

Her eyes—those wide blue eyes that had once belonged to a girl from Georgia who'd never been kissed—were red-rimmed and raw.

She looked like someone who had been taken apart.

She fixed her hair as best she could. Wiped the mascara from her cheeks. Reapplied her lipstick with a hand that wouldn't stop shaking.

And then she walked back into the party.

The hallway was empty. The bass thumped in the distance, and someone laughed, bright and carefree. She followed the sound. Her legs moved. Her heart beat. She was breathing.

She found a corner near the bar, away from the crowd, and picked up a glass of water she didn't drink. She held it in both hands, letting the cold seep into her palms, and she stared at nothing until her breathing evened out.

"There you are."

Stacey's voice. Warm and familiar. Jessie turned, and there she was—tan skin, brown bob, sharp brown eyes that softened the moment they landed on Jessie's face.

"You look—" Stacey stopped. Her eyes flickered over Jessie's face, her dress, the hand she had pressed to her chest. "What happened?"

Jessie opened her mouth to say nothing. To say I'm fine. To say let's just go home.

Instead, her face crumpled.

Stacey's arm was around her in an instant, pulling her into the corner, away from the eyes and the noise. "Okay," she said, her voice low and fierce. "Okay. We're leaving. Right now."

Jessie nodded against her shoulder. She didn't cry. She was too tired for that, too empty. She just let Stacey lead her through the crowd, past the laughing people and the clinking glasses, out into the cool desert night where the air was clean and the stars were hidden behind the city's glare.

They stood in the parking lot, Stacey's hand on her back, and Jessie looked up at the Strip in the distance, all that neon and promise.

She had wanted to be someone who could choose.

She had chosen to walk into that room. She had chosen to reach for him. But she had not chosen what came next, and that knowledge sat in her chest like a stone—heavy, cold, and not going anywhere.