The meeting room still smells like his cologne—something expensive and cloying, the kind that lingers on fabric long after the handshake ends. Aiah stands at the head of the table, her laptop closed, her notes stacked neat. Mr. Tan's voice loops in her head, smooth as oil: Of course, we're all partners here. But let's be honest, Miss Arceta—some partners carry more weight than others.

She'd smiled. Nodded. Thanked him for his continued support of the foundation's mission. All the things a woman in her position is supposed to say when a man with money hints that he could buy the whole event and rename it after himself if he wanted to.

The gala is five months away. Five months of this. Five months of smiling at men who see her charity as a bargaining chip, who want to control the guest list so they can network with the right people, who want their logos bigger and their speeches longer and their influence felt.

She knows how this goes. She's been facing men like him since she started attending board meetings at seventeen, since she inherited her father's scholarship program and made it her own. They never change. They just get richer and bolder and more convinced that their money should buy her silence.

Aiah exhales slowly in the empty room. Her phone shows 2:47 PM. She told Mikha she'd be out by six.

She doesn't care.

She books a ride home before she can talk herself out of it. The driver is polite, the traffic is merciful, and she spends the whole ride staring out the window, replaying Mr. Tan's words, feeling the familiar heat of frustration coil in her chest. She needs to rest. She needs to think. She needs Mikha.

The car pulls into the driveway of their home. Aiah thanks the driver and steps out, her heels clicking against the concrete as she walks toward the main door. The house is quiet when she steps inside—no music, no TV, just the low hum of the air conditioner. She kicks off her heels by the door, dropping her bag on the couch with a soft thud.

Then she hears it. The distant sound of a car engine revving, tires screeching, the sharp click of a controller being mashed. Coming from the gaming room.

Aiah walks down the hallway, her socked feet silent on the polished floor. She pauses at the glass door, watching for a moment before she opens it.

Mikha is sprawled on the couch, legs spread wide, controller in hand, her hair tied in a loose mid-bun with strands falling loose around her face. She's wearing a loose white shirt and a black, and she looks so comfortable, so at home, so fucking edible that Aiah's chest aches with it.

Mikha glances up at the sound of the door opening, and her whole body jolts. She fumbles the controller, nearly dropping it, her eyes going wide as she looks at Aiah, then at the clock on the wall, then back at Aiah. Her eyebrows knit together in confusion.

"Baby," Mikha says, setting the controller down slowly. "I thought you'll be out at 6 PM?"

She starts to stand up, but Aiah's voice cuts through the air—flat, soft, and absolutely final.

"Don't you fucking dare move."

Mikha freezes mid-motion, her body hovering half-off the couch before she sinks back down, her eyes locked on Aiah. Aiah walks toward her slowly, her steps unhurried, deliberate. She stops between Mikha's spread legs, looking down at her.

Mikha swallows hard. "Did I do something wrong?"

Aiah's eyes soften at the question, the worry in Mikha's voice. She shakes her head. "No."

She reaches up and ties her hair back into a low ponytail, then glances at the monitor behind Mikha. A car racing game, the car still spinning out on the track. She turns back to Mikha, whose eyes are full of worry now.

"Are you okay?" Mikha asks quietly.

Aiah shakes her head again. "But I will be."

Then she kneels down.

Mikha's breath catches. "Aiah—"

Aiah's hands find the drawstring of Mikha's black cotton shorts. She tugs at the knot, and Mikha's hand shoots down to stop her, fingers wrapping around Aiah's wrist.

"What happened?" Mikha asks, her voice strained.

Aiah glares up at her, and Mikha's hand falls away. She swallows again, but she doesn't move.

Aiah pulls the shorts down, but they catch on Mikha's hips because she's sitting. Aiah stares at her, waiting.

"Lift your hips a bit," she says, her voice even.

Mikha stares at her, confusion and worry and a flicker of something darker warring in her eyes. But she follows, lifting her hips just enough for Aiah to pull the shorts down. Aiah tugs them past Mikha's thighs, past her knees, off her ankles, and drops them on the floor.

Mikha is left in her boxer briefs, her breathing already uneven. Aiah hooks her fingers into the waistband and pulls those down too, slow, deliberate, until Mikha is completely bare beneath her.

Aiah's eyes drop to Mikha's soft dick, resting heavy against her thigh. Still huge even at rest, even soft. The sight of it makes something hot and possessive curl in Aiah's stomach.

Mikha's breathing is hard now, her chest rising and falling beneath her loose shirt. "Aiah—"

Aiah doesn't answer. She wraps her hand around Mikha's dick, feels it twitch against her palm, warm and already starting to stir. She strokes once, slow, and Mikha's head falls back against the couch, a low whimper escaping her throat.

Aiah continues the stroke, her hand moving in a steady rhythm, watching Mikha's face contort with the effort of staying still. She leans forward, close enough that her lips brush Mikha's ear.

"If you lose the game," Aiah murmurs, "I won't let you cum."

Mikha curses under her breath, her hips bucking involuntarily into Aiah's hand. She leans down, reaching for Aiah's jaw, pulling her into a desperate, open-mouthed kiss. Aiah kisses back for a moment, lets Mikha taste her, then pulls away, her focus dropping back to Mikha's dick, now fully hard and straining in her grip.

"Play," Aiah orders.

Mikha curses again, quieter this time, but she grabs her controller and clicks the button to restart the race, her ears burning red. Aiah smirks, watching her try to focus on the screen while Aiah's hand moves over her, stroking firmly, palming her balls from time to time, feeling them tighten in her hand.

Mikha's head falls back against the couch, her jaw clenched, her knuckles white around the controller.

"Focus," Aiah says softly.

Mikha looks down at her, eyes pleading and dark all at once. "You're going to kill me," she whispers.

"Then die happy."

Aiah leans down and takes Mikha into her mouth.

Slow. Exploratory. Her tongue flat against the underside, tasting salt and heat. She keeps her eyes up, watching Mikha's reaction. Mikha's mouth falls open, a sharp inhale escaping her, her eyes fixed on the monitor for a moment before they drop down to Aiah, and then she curses, biting her lower lip, her whole face flushing red.

Aiah takes her deeper, pushing herself past her limits, feeling the stretch in her jaw as she works to take all of Mikha. And she does—her nose brushing the base of Mikha's cock, her throat opening around her.

Mikha moans differently then. Louder, rawer, more desperate than Aiah has ever heard her. Aiah's eyes water, tears pricking at the corners from the sheer size of her, but she doesn't stop. She grips Mikha's balls, pumps her dick each time her mouth pulls back, building a rhythm that has Mikha's hips twitching off the couch.

Mikha looks wrecked. Beautiful. Her head thrown back, her chest heaving, her mouth open on silent gasps that turn into broken moans.

Aiah feels the tension building in Mikha's body, the way her thighs tremble, the way her cock throbs against Aiah's tongue. She pulls off with a wet sound, her hand still stroking, and looks up at Mikha.

"I'll tell you when to cum," she says.

Mikha whimpers, her whole face red, her eyes glassy. "Aiah—"

Aiah takes her back into her mouth, and Mikha cries out, her hips thrusting up involuntarily.

"Fuck—Aiah, I'm close," Mikha gasps.

Aiah shakes her head, her mouth still working.

"Please," Mikha begs. "Please, baby, I can't—"

Aiah shakes her head again, her hand moving faster, her mouth taking Mikha deeper, deeper, until she feels Mikha's whole body shudder.

And then the sound of a crash fills the room. The game. The car. Mikha lost.

Aiah stops. Pulls off. And the moment her mouth leaves Mikha, Mikha cums—hips jerking on nothing, her release spilling over her white shirt in thick, hot streaks. She whispers a string of curses and apologies, her body convulsing, her dick still pulsing even though Aiah isn't touching her, even though she isn't touching herself.

"I couldn't—I'm sorry, I couldn't help it," Mikha gasps, her chest heaving.

Aiah looks at her, dangerously calm. "You really don't know how to follow orders, do you?"

Mikha's eyes are hazy, still catching their breath. "You're so fucking hot."

Aiah glances down. Mikha is still insanely hard, her dick slick and straining, untouched but aching. Of course.

Mikha leans down and reaches for Aiah's jaw, pulling her into a deep, hungry kiss. Aiah kisses back, but she won't let Mikha dominate her today. Not today.

She stands up, breaking the kiss, and starts unbuttoning her polo.

Mikha's eyes darken, watching her. But then she glances behind Aiah, at the glass walls of the gaming room, and her hand shoots out to stop her.

"Wait—baby, the glass. Someone might see you."

Aiah deadpans. "The concrete walls around our house are higher than most trees, Mikha."

"What if someone uses a drone?" Mikha counters. "What if someone's flying one and they suddenly see you? I'll kill them."

Aiah chuckles, shaking her head at Mikha's ridiculousness. "I don't fucking care about that."

"I care," Mikha says, her voice dropping. "Because you're mine. Only mine."

Aiah's heart stumbles at the words, at the raw possessiveness in Mikha's voice. She doesn't answer. She just removes the rest of her clothes, letting them fall to the floor, and shuts Mikha up by kissing her hard as she settles down on her lap.

Mikha moans into her mouth, her hands immediately finding Aiah's ass, palming the cheeks, squeezing. Aiah pulls Mikha's shirt off and tosses it aside, then they're kissing again, deep and messy and desperate. Aiah grinds down, her soaking wet pussy sliding against Mikha's hard dick, and Mikha curses, gripping her ass tighter, guiding her movements.

Aiah sits up a bit, reaching down to position Mikha's dick at her entrance. She holds Mikha's gaze, dark and heavy, and then she drops down in one smooth, deep motion.

They both moan, loud and raw. Mikha's head falls back, her hands digging into Aiah's hips. "Fuck—are you okay?"

"I'm mad," Aiah says, her voice strained as she starts to move. "But not at you."

Then she rides her. Hard.

Mikha lets her take whatever she wants, whatever she needs. She stares up at Aiah, at her face full of annoyance and adoration all at once, at her flushed chest, at her breasts bouncing with every movement. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," Mikha breathes. "I'm so lucky I married you."

She leans up and takes one of Aiah's nipples into her mouth, biting down firmly, and Aiah moans, riding her harder, chasing the release that's building low in her belly.

When Aiah's legs start to give out from moving too much, Mikha takes the lead. She holds Aiah's waist, meeting her thrusts with her own, harder and deeper until Aiah's head falls forward onto her shoulder, her breath coming in broken gasps. Mikha slides them down the couch, finds her footing, and pounds into Aiah with a force that makes her forget everything—Mr. Tan, the gala, the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders. All of it dissolves into sensation, into Mikha's hands on her body, into the sound of their bodies slapping together, into the moans spilling from her mouth.

They cum together, bodies shuddering, cries filling the room. Aiah collapses against Mikha, spent, her eyes closed, her breathing ragged.

Mikha is breathing just as hard, her chest heaving beneath Aiah. She kisses Aiah's sweating temple and wraps her arms around her, rubbing her back in slow, gentle circles.

Then she pulls out gently, letting Aiah stay on top of her. Aiah hisses at the loss, and Mikha's hand reaches down, past her ass, to her pussy, feeling how swollen it is from Mikha's hard pounding. She pats it gently, soothing it, apologizing under her breath.

Aiah shakes her head, eyes still closed, her voice muffled against Mikha's shoulder. "I liked the manhandling. We should do it again."

Mikha chuckles, the sound rumbling through her chest, and kisses Aiah's temple again. Her arm tightens around Aiah, pulling her closer, while her other hand continues its gentle, soothing pats.

Aiah lets herself drift, the tension of the day finally bleeding out of her. Mr. Tan's voice fades to a distant hum, replaced by Mikha's heartbeat beneath her ear, steady and warm.

"You want to tell me what happened?" Mikha asks quietly.

Aiah is quiet for a long moment. Then she shakes her head against Mikha's shoulder. "Not yet. Just—hold me."

Mikha's arms tighten around her. "Always."