Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
T hree days after our dinner at Lumière, a massive arrangement arrives at my office, white roses with a single red in the middle. My assistant brings them in with raised eyebrows and a knowing smile that I choose to ignore.
"Special client?" she asks, setting the vase on my desk.
"Something like that," I mutter, already reaching for the card nestled among the blooms.
Looking forward to our next negotiation. ~ J
Simple. Professional-adjacent. Completely innocent to anyone else reading it. So why does my pulse kick up like I've just sprinted up ten flights of stairs?
I tuck the card into my desk drawer before my assistant can get nosy, but it's too late to hide my reaction. My face feels warm, and I'm smiling despite my best efforts not to.
"Must be some client," she says with a smirk before ducking back out to her desk.
I pick up my phone to send a polite but distant thank-you text, something that maintains appropriate boundaries while acknowledging the gesture. What I absolutely should not do is engage in any way that could be construed as personal or flirtatious.
Me: The flowers are beautiful. Thank you. But unnecessary.
Professional. Reserved. Perfect. His response comes seconds later.
Jeremy: You're welcome, kitten. And they're entirely necessary. I wanted you thinking of me today.
Kitten.
That word again, slipping under my skin like a caress. No one has called me by a pet name in years, and certainly not one that makes heat pool low in my belly.
Me: We have a business relationship, Mr. Ford, I text back, clinging to formality like a life raft.
Jeremy: Is that what we have, Gina? Because I remember something very different happening on the restaurant terrace the other night.
My cheeks flame. Nothing happened on the terrace. Not really. Just a moment where he'd stood too close, his hand brushing a strand of hair from my face, his voice dropping to that register that made my insides turn liquid as he'd murmured, "You're playing a dangerous game, kitten."
I'd pulled back then, made my excuses, left before I could do something stupid like tilt my face up for a kiss. But the moment has haunted me ever since.
Me: Going out there with you was a momentary lapse in judgment.
Jeremy: Was it? Or was it the first honest moment we've had since we’ve reconnected?
I set my phone down without responding. This is exactly what I was afraid of happening working with him. The lines blurring, the professional relationship complicated by... whatever this attraction is. I need to focus on the Franklin Street development. On my career. On maintaining the independence I've worked so hard to build. My phone chimes again.
Jeremy: Dinner tomorrow? The development plans came back from the architect. We should discuss.
This is safer territory. Business. Development plans. Professional dinner.
Me: Fine. Email the plans over and I'll review them before we meet.
Jeremy: I'd rather present them in person. 7pm at my place. Bring your appetite.
It's not a request. It's barely even an invitation. Just Jeremy Ford, used to giving orders and having them obeyed, expecting me to show up at his home for a “business" dinner we both know won't be entirely about business.
I should refuse. Should insist on meeting at my office, or a restaurant, or anywhere with witnesses and bright lighting and reasons not to give in to the tension that crackles whenever we're alone together.
Me: I'll be there.
As soon as I send the reply, I’m mentally cataloging my closet for something that says "serious business woman" rather than "woman who can't stop thinking about her ex."
Jeremy: Looking forward to it, kitten.
* * *
"Wait, he called you 'kitten' again?"
Melissa's voice comes through my phone speaker, high with excitement. I'm on a group call with the Naughty Girls, sprawled across my bed after a long day of showings.
"Yes," I admit, unable to keep the smile from my voice despite my best intentions. "And before you all start squealing, it doesn't mean anything. It's just his way of... I don't know, trying to stir up the old feelings between us."
"Or… He’s establishing dominance," Karen says slowly. "Honey, that's foreplay."
"It is not," I protest, but my face heats all the same.
"Does he look at you like he wants to eat you alive?" Denise asks. "Because that's textbook Daddy Dom behavior. Chapter one of every book we read."
I think about the way Jeremy's eyes darken when they meet mine across a conference table, the way they linger on my mouth when I'm speaking, the intensity there that has nothing to do with real estate development.
"Sometimes," I admit.
The chorus of delighted squeals that follows makes me hold the phone away from my ear.
"Our Gina is getting her very own Daddy Dom!" Autumn crows.
"Slow down," I interject. "Nothing is happening. We're working together. That's all. Remember, he’s the one who broke my heart. I’m keeping it strictly professional this time around."
"Uh-huh," Christine says skeptically. "And these flowers he sent? The private dinner invitation? The pet names? That's all standard client behavior?"
Put like that, it does sound...
"He's just being friendly." The words sound ridiculous, even to me.
"Friendly is a Christmas card," Melissa points out. "This man wants you, Gina. And based on that 'kitten' business, he's doing it in a very specific way."
My mind flashes to the books we've been devouring in our club. The strong, dominant men who take charge, who see past the heroine's defenses, who call her "baby" and "kitten" and "good girl" in ways that make her melt. If I’m honest to myself, Jeremy absolutely could fit in with any of them.
"It's not like that," I insist, though my voice lacks conviction.
I think about how Jeremy acts; confident, decisive, brooking no argument. About how his hand always finds the small of my back when we're walking, guiding me, a touch that's both possessive and protective.
"I guess," I finally admit. "He's very... authoritative."
"I knew it!" Christine sounds triumphant. "Oh, honey, you've landed yourself a real-life Christian Grey, minus the helicopters and questionable consent issues."
"I haven't 'landed' anything," I protest. "And even if I were interested, which I'm not, I’m not sure I could trust him again and I never get involved with a client. It’s one of my rules I never break. It would be completely unprofessional."
"The project is almost finished," Karen points out. "Soon he won't be your client anymore. Then what's your excuse?"
“He broke my heart before.”
“Sometimes, people change. Are you the same person you were in your early twenties?” Elizabeth asks softly.
“What if he apologizes? What if he has a good reason? What excuse will you have then?” Melissa asks.
I don't have one, which is terrifying in its own way.
"Just promise us one thing," Jackie says, her voice turning serious. "If anything does happen, when something happens, you'll give us all the details."
"Nothing is going to happen," I insist, even as a small voice in my head whispers, Liar .
* * *
The next day, my phone buzzes with a text while I'm showing a waterfront property to a young couple who can't afford it but insist on looking anyway.
Jeremy: Wear the green dress tonight. The one from the charity gala last month.
I nearly drop my phone. How does he know about that dress? It was a splurge. I don’t normally spend this much on a dress. But, the emerald silk hugs my curves and makes me feel like a million bucks. I'd worn it to a real estate charity event where I'd delivered a speech about urban development. Jeremy hadn't been there. I'm certain of it. I would have noticed.
Me: How do you know about that dress? I text back when my clients are distracted by the view.
Jeremy: I’ve made it my business to know everything about you, kitten. Especially how good you look in silk.
A shiver runs down my spine. This is crossing lines. Professional lines. Personal lines. Lines I've carefully drawn to keep myself safe and independent.
Me: That's intrusive and inappropriate.
My racing pulse suggests my body disagrees with my assessment. Why is my body a traitorous bitch? Thinking of Jeremy makes my nipples harden and my pussy clench while, simultaneously, my heart is broken and my mind enraged.
Jeremy: Is it? Or is it what you've been waiting for? Someone to see past the polished professional exterior to the woman underneath? Someone who knows you, at your core. Someone to come along and treat you like the woman you are while addressing the naughty girl you’ve been?
His words hit too close to home, echoing thoughts I've never shared with anyone. Not even the Naughty Girls know how lonely it sometimes feels, being Gina Long, successful real estate agent, always in control, always self-sufficient. My marriage hadn’t lasted long, my ex-husband long since moved on with his second wife and their children. He’d been a decent father to my daughter, and a good co-parent. But, we didn’t work out. After the divorce, I dove into my work and never dated again. I don't respond. Can't respond without revealing too much.
My phone buzzes again:
Wear the dress, Gina. For me.
For the rest of the day, those two words circle in my mind. For me. Not a request but not quite a demand either. An invitation to step over a line I've been teetering on since Jeremy walked back into my life. I still don’t know why he left. I thought he’d been the one. I thought he’d propose. Instead, one day, he just ghosted me. Walked out of my life, without looking back. At least, that’s how it felt. How am I to ever trust this man again?
At 6:30, I stare at myself in the mirror, wearing the green silk dress. It makes me feel both powerful and feminine. My hair is down, curves highlighted, lips painted a deeper shade than I'd wear to the office.
"This is still a business dinner," I tell my reflection sternly. "Professional boundaries. Clear lines."
My reflection looks unconvinced.
Jeremy's penthouse is exactly as intimidating as I imagined. It’s glass and steel and breathtaking views, a perfect reflection of the man himself. When he opens the door, his eyes sweep over me in a slow, deliberate appraisal that makes heat bloom beneath my skin.
"You wore it," he says, and I can’t miss the satisfaction evident in his voice.
"I had it on, anyway," I lie, stepping past him into the apartment. "Had another event that I left early to come here." Why? Why did I just lie like that?
"Of course you did, kitten." His laugh tells me he doesn't believe me for a second.
That word again, soft and dangerous, breaking down my defenses bit by bit.
“Don’t lie to me, kitten.” The, or else lingers unspoken in the air. “Come with me.”
Dinner is already laid out on the terrace. He’s plated steak, asparagus, with a bottle of red wine breathing beside elegant place settings. Nothing overtly romantic, but intimate all the same. The development plans are nowhere in sight.
"Where are the plans?" I ask, maintaining the pretense that this is a business dinner.
"After dinner." He pulls out my chair. "Let's enjoy the meal first. Business later."
I should insist. Should establish clear boundaries right now. Instead, I sit, letting him pour the wine.
Throughout dinner, he's the perfect host. He’s attentive, charming, keeping the conversation flowing effortlessly between current events, mutual acquaintances, and my recent listings. Nothing overly flirtatious, nothing I could definitely point to as crossing a line. There’s an elephant in the room. Questions I have. Why? Why did he leave? I don’t feel comfortable asking while the deal is on the table. After the deal closes, then, I’ll demand the answers. Keep this professional, for now.
Except for the way his fingers brush mine when passing the salt. The way his knee occasionally presses against mine beneath the table. The way his eyes never leave my face when I'm speaking, like he's cataloging every expression, every reaction. He’s attentive, not in a creepy way, but in a way that makes me feel heard. He asks specific questions and shows interest in the answers. It’s like catching up with an old friend. I don’t like it… and yet…
By the time we finish the main course, I've had two glasses of wine and feel warm, relaxed, my professional armor slipping despite my best intentions.
"I should look at those plans," I say as he clears our plates. "It's getting late."
"It's barely nine," he counters, returning with two small plates of chocolate mousse. "The night is young. I remember back in college when we wouldn’t leave to go out until later than this."
He sets the dessert in front of me, his hand brushing the nape of my neck as he leans over. The touch is brief, feather-light, but it sends a current racing down my spine that makes me inhale sharply.
"Jeremy," I say, my voice steadier than I feel, "what are we doing here?"
He takes his seat across from me, eyes dark and intent in the candlelight. "Having dinner. Discussing business. Eventually."
"This doesn't feel like business."
"Doesn't it? I'm certainly interested in a long-term arrangement with you, Gina." The double meaning is unmistakable. "One that would be... mutually satisfying."
My mouth goes dry. "That's..."
"Honest," he finishes for me. "Something we've been dancing around since the moment I walked back into your life."
He's right, damn him. We have been dancing around this… This attraction, this pull between us that has nothing to do with real estate and everything to do with the way he looks at me, the way he says my name, the way he calls me "kitten" in that voice that makes my knees weak.
"It would be unprofessional," I say, clinging to my last defense.
"The development is nearly complete. Two more weeks and the contracts are signed. Then what's your excuse?"
The same question Karen had asked. The one I still don't have a good answer for.
"I don't get involved with clients. It's a rule."
"Rules can be broken." His voice drops lower. "Sometimes they need to be broken… If it's a bad rule that doesn’t take your best interest to heart."
"Not my rules." I set my napkin on the table, needing to regain control of the situation. "I've worked too hard to build my reputation, my independence. I don't risk that for anyone. Especially people who have proven to be untrustworthy in the past."
Jeremy studies me for a long moment. Something akin to sadness crosses his features. Then he nods slowly. "I respect your boundaries, Gina. If that's truly how you feel, we'll keep this strictly professional until the development is complete." A pause, heavy with implication. "And then we'll revisit the conversation."
It's both a concession and a promise. One that sends a thrill of anticipation through me even as I try to tamp it down.
"Now," he says, all business suddenly, "shall we look at those plans?"
The abrupt shift catches me off guard. One minute seducing me with dark eyes and loaded words, the next discussing square footage and zoning regulations. The ease with which he moves between modes is unsettling.
We spend the next hour reviewing the plans spread across his dining table. I focus with determined professionalism, making notes and suggestions, ignoring the way he stands too close, the way his hand occasionally brushes the small of my back as he leans over to point out a detail.
By the time we finish, it's past ten, and I'm exhausted from the constant tension of wanting to lean into his touch while forcing myself to maintain distance.
"I should go," I say, gathering my notes. "Early showing tomorrow."
"I'll drive you."
"I can call a car." I know I’ve had too much wine to get behind the wheel.
"I'm driving you home, kitten," he repeats, more firmly this time. Not a request.
I should argue. Should insist on my independence, my ability to get myself home without his assistance.
"Fine," I say instead, because apparently my resolve weakens exponentially with proximity to Jeremy Ford.
The drive to my condo is quiet, charged with all the things we're not saying. When he pulls up outside my building, I expect him to try something– a kiss, an invitation upstairs, some escalation of the tension that's been building all evening.
Instead, he simply squeezes my hand once before letting it go. "Goodnight, kitten. Sweet dreams."
The restraint is more arousing than an aggressive move would have been. He's letting me come to him, letting me make the choice, even as he makes it abundantly clear what he wants.
"Goodnight, Jeremy," I manage, before escaping to the safety of my home.
Inside, I kick off my heels and collapse onto the couch, heart still racing. My phone buzzes with a text from
Elizabeth: Well??? Updates please!!!
I'd forgotten I'd mentioned the dinner to the Naughty Girls. Now they want a full report, details they can dissect and analyze and compare to our favorite fictional scenarios.
Me: Nothing happened, just business.
Christine: Bullshit. That man wants you. Spill.
I hesitate, then find myself typing out a full account of the evening. I tell them about the dress, the dinner, the subtle touches, the loaded conversation. As I read it back before hitting send, I'm struck by how much it resembles the build-up chapters in our favorite books. The dominant hero pursuing the reluctant heroine, testing her limits, making his interest clear while respecting her boundaries.
Melissa replies first.
Oh. My. GOD. He's full-on Daddy Dom courting you! The dress request! The hand on your back! The KITTEN!!!
Karen chimes in.
Slow burn, He's playing the long game. I am HERE for it.
Elizabeth notes.
Two weeks until the project ends, Anyone want to bet she doesn't make it that long?
Their enthusiasm is contagious, breaking through my carefully constructed professionalism. For the first time, I let myself fully acknowledge the truth: I want Jeremy Ford. Have wanted him since he walked back into my life. Maybe never stopped wanting him in the thirty years we were apart. I want him above me, slamming his hard, thick cock into my aching vagina. He was the best sex of my life. But, do I want more? Do I want him ? A relationship? Us ? Will a one night fuck session be enough to fill this ache inside of me? I can’t argue how much I want Jeremy… at least sexually.
And he's making it abundantly clear that he wants me too.
My phone buzzes with another text.
Jeremy: You looked beautiful tonight, kitten. Green is your color. Thank you for having dinner with me. Sweet dreams.
I stare at the message, heart pounding, heat spreading through me at the simple endearment that's becoming his signature.
Before I can overthink it, I type back:
Thank you for dinner. And the compliment.
His response is immediate.
Jeremy: You're welcome. For the record, I'm counting the days until I can tell you exactly what I want to do to you without crossing your professional boundaries. Let’s close this deal quickly.