Chapter 3 #2
Juliette moved in slow, deliberate steps, taking in the space, unbothered by the fact that I was standing ten feet away, pulsing with need and watching her like a man who’d lost his last ounce of discipline.
“You paid too much for that painting,” I muttered.
“You made me.”
She glanced at me, amused. “You make your own choices, Sinclair. You… offered compelling incentives.”
Juliette pulled a bottle of champagne from the ice bucket near the bar, popped the cork like it was second nature, and poured herself a glass. No offer for me. She sipped once, then perched on the edge of the couch, legs crossed, dress sliding high up her thigh.
“You going to keep staring, or do you want to know what happens next?”
My voice came out rougher than I meant it to. “Tell me.”
Juliette smiled—and that’s when I knew I’d already lost this round.
“Good,” she said, standing. “Because tonight, you work for me.”
She crossed the room slowly, confidently, like every step was part of a performance I hadn’t been invited to rehearse. She stopped before me and loosened my tie with a single tug.
“Let’s try something different,” she said, voice low. “I’m your new advisor. Your newest hire. It’s late. We’re in your suite. And I’m here to renegotiate my contract.”
I could’ve stopped her. Didn’t want to. So, I stood perfectly still as she wrapped my own tie around her hand and used it to lead me backwards, slow, firm, toward the edge of the bed.
“Sit,” she said.
I did.
She unbuttoned my shirt, slid it down my arms, and draped it over the nearby chair like she was cataloging a museum piece.
Then she leaned in close, her mouth brushing my ear. “Now listen like a man who’s never held power before.” And then she blindfolded me with my own tie.
The loss of sight was instant disorientation. All I had left was sensation—her hands, her voice, the sudden drag of her nails down my chest.
I heard her move. A zipper. A soft sigh as she stepped out of her dress—the sound of silk pooling onto the floor.
My breath caught as she pulled off my slacks and boxer briefs and pushed me down onto the mattress.
Then she straddled me.
Her hands pressed to my shoulders, pinning me there, not hard, but firm. Just enough to say, don’t move unless I say so.
“You like to be in control,” she said.
I nodded.
“Not tonight.”
She slid my cock inside her and rocked her hips once—slow, enough to make me groan—and leaned in again.
“You think because you own things, you understand power. But real power?” she whispered. “That’s knowing exactly what a man wants... and making him wait for it.”
She kissed down the side of my neck. My pulse throbbed beneath her lips. I reached for her hips, but she caught my wrists mid-air and pinned them back against the mattress.
“No touching unless I say so.”
I didn’t argue. Couldn’t.
Her mouth traveled lower. Her tongue traced the edge of my ribs. Her nails followed after—sharp, slow.
“You’ve been difficult,” she murmured. “So tonight, you’re going to learn what happens when you let go.”
Then she moved.
A slow grind. A deliberate drag of hips that made my spine bow off the mattress. Skin against skin, wet and sinful and wickedly precise. She didn’t ride me—she took me like she’d planned and timed it. Knew exactly how much I could take before I broke.
I didn’t beg.
Not out loud. But inside? I was unraveling.
She changed the rhythm the second I started to chase it. Teasing. Withholding. A dangerous tilt of her hips that stole my control every time I got close to catching it.
She leaned down and whispered something so naughty I forgot how to breathe.
“Give it to me, Damian. I want to own your orgasm.”
Then she bit my shoulder—not hard, just enough to remind me she could.
She kept me right on the edge of release—right there—until my hands twitched in their invisible restraints and I growled her name like a warning.
“You close?” she asked, voice thick with power.
“Yes.”
“Too bad.”
She pulled back completely.
“Damn it.”
The ache hit hard. The denial was sharper than I’d ever admit. My entire body locked down like it couldn’t figure out what had just happened.
Juliette laughed—low, satisfied, utterly in charge.
“Lesson one,” she said, brushing her lips over mine without kissing me, “never underestimate me.”
Then she slid back down. This time, she didn’t hold back.
She surged forward, a whirlwind of intent. Each thrust was more forceful, more unyielding, as if she had been restraining herself just to teach me a lesson.
I gave up trying to stay silent. My hands gripped the sheets. My hips moved in time with hers because I couldn’t not meet her pace. I was so far gone—I just needed to be inside her, needed to finish .
And then she clenched around me—tight, pulsing, impossible to resist—and everything else disappeared.
Afterward, I lay there for a while, wrecked. Chest rising and falling, arms loose at my sides, the blindfold still clinging to my temple like a warning label. Somewhere across the room, I heard the sound of the shower. Then the bathroom door creaked open.
I tugged the tie off, blinking into the dim, gold-washed light of the suite.
Juliette came out of the bathroom wearing my shirt with nothing underneath and curled up on the couch, her bare legs tucked beneath her, as if she hadn’t just rewritten my operating system and walked away with the manual.
Her hair was tousled, her lips still kiss-bitten, and she looked like she’d slept better than I had in a year.
She didn’t even look up. “You’re quiet,” she said, scrolling.
“I’m thinking about how I can repay you.”
She smirked, shifting on the couch and lifting one leg up over the backrest—bare skin, long and smooth legs, disappearing under the hem of my shirt. She was still scrolling, still not looking at me.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she murmured.
I already had.
And the weekend was just getting started.