Chapter 4 #2
But then, I catch a glimpse of her once again, and finally notice her uniform.
Oh shit, she’s a caterer, dressed in the black and white outfit they ask all caterers to wear.
At the moment, she’s circulating with a tray of champagne flutes and cheese puffs.
She moves with poise and grace, naturally hypnotic.
Once, she comes so close I can smell her—vanilla and sweat and a faint undertone of wildness, the same scent as last week.
She doesn’t look up, but when I reach for a glass, I let my fingers graze hers.
The shock is instant: a jolt up both our arms, the way static jumps from skin to skin in the dry winter air. Her hand trembles. I imagine what I could do to her if we were alone.
“Thank you,” I say, as low and soft as I can, so only she can hear.
She freezes, then nods, eyes lifting up to meet mine.
Goddamn, she’s beautiful close up, under the light.
It’s like a punch to the solar plexus because she’s even more gorgeous than what was revealed that shadowy night.
My mystery woman is barely five foot five in a black-and-white server uniform, and she’s got the same impossible hair—pale gold, not quite corralled by the idiotic little white paper hat perched on her head.
Her black skirt is scandalously short, and the apron is crisp and starched, more theatrical than functional.
Her legs are bare, smooth, pale as a secret.
She’s carrying a tray of champagne flutes, and her hands tremble just enough to send the bubbles shivering.
I feel my cock start to stiffen, absurd and unignorable beneath a thousand-dollar layer of worsted wool.
For an instant, the party drops out of focus, the entire ballroom reduced to just us, predator and prey. Her lips part. She stops breathing. The tray almost tilts, but she corrects at the last moment, eyes wide and wet.
“I hope you enjoy the party,” she murmurs.
Then, she moves on. I catch a waft of her as she passes—fresh sweat and perfume, yes, but underneath: the sweet, faint tang of sex.
Like she’s still wearing the memory of last week between her thighs.
My hand twitches, wanting to grab her, but I don’t. Not here.
There’s a woman at my elbow, a vice president of something, prattling on about “strategic partnerships.” I nod, smile, say the right words.
But all my blood is pooling below the waist, my entire attention mapped to every inch of the girl’s skin.
Her walk is clipped now, mechanical, like she’s on autopilot or about to bolt for the door.
Of course she has to be a student at Century.
It’s so obvious I feel like an idiot. But the first time, I’d let myself believe maybe she was in grad school, or a lost TA, or at least not young enough to be a statistical liability.
But now, seeing her here in the livery of Century Catering, I know: she’s likely an undergrad because a lot of undergrads do their work-study through the catering service.
She’s young. Too young. That should be a stop sign. But it isn’t. Not for a man like me.
I watch her make a slow orbit of the room, tray refilled, posture tense as a bow. Sometimes she glances back—just a flick, but enough to register. Once, she passes within arm’s reach. I brush her wrist as I take a glass; her pulse is rabbit-fast.
“Thank you,” I murmur, soft enough that only she can hear.
She flushes, looks down, and scurries off.
I adjust my cufflinks to hide my own trembling.
My cock is already half-hard, insistent, an ache that won’t recede no matter how I grit my teeth.
The women who approach me, who want to play the cat-and-mouse game, now seem painted and shrill, their beauty cartoonish compared to the natural golden glow of the girl in the server uniform.
The men are worse, all slaps on the back and “Good man, Tom!” The Head of Development, sweating through his shirt, congratulates me on “rescuing the college.” The board chair, a balloon of a man, wants me to run for Governor of Minnesota.
They talk about legacy and leadership, but I know what they really want: more money.
More opportunities. More everything. But it bores me because I have other fish to fry.
Across the floor, the blonde is at the bar, bent over a ledge, pouring refills with hands that still shake. Once, she wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, and I realize she’s probably exhausted. She’s here to work, and yet I’m ogling her like a lech. Hell, I am a lech.
I want to go to her. I want to kiss her neck, whisper into her ear, and then bend her over the table and take her right here, in front of everyone.
I want her to moan my name as she pulls her ass cheeks apart, allowing my dick into her secret space.
The fantasy makes my vision go sharp at the edges.
Instead, I move through the crowd with the discipline of a sniper, tracking her by peripheral vision.
We play our game. She pretends not to see me, I pretend not to see her. She darts away if I get too close. It’s a ballet of avoidance and approach, a ritual as old as the building itself. But every time our eyes meet, the current between us doubles in voltage.
The other women—Candace, the redhead, the president’s assistant—try to intercept.
I give them polite smiles, nod, never quite say no.
I’m sure they’ll find other men. I’m sure their husbands don’t care, and frankly, neither do I.
Because the real quarry is the blonde, and every second I’m not with her is wasted.
I see her almost drop her tray again, right by the entrance to the East Hallway. The guests are thinning out, the music louder now that the speeches are done. She’s breathing shallow, her chest rising in tight, rapid bursts.
I finish my drink, hand the glass to a passing server, and make my move.
She’s just ducked into the corridor, away from the main crush, maybe to catch her breath.
I follow, slow and silent like a predator stalking his prey.
My shoes barely make a sound on the antique floorboards.
I keep my hands in my pockets to hide the erection, but I’m so hard now that it’s visible anyway, a blunt ridge at my thigh.
She stops at the end of the hallway, by a supply closet, and turns—like she knows I’m coming.
We face each other, ten feet apart, the entire world shrinking to just this. Her cheeks are scarlet, her eyes huge. There’s a minute twitch of her jaw, as if she’s trying to say something but doesn’t dare.
I say it for her: “You remember me.”
She nods, barely.
“Do you want me to stop?” I ask, and my voice is lower than I mean it to be, almost a growl.
She shakes her head, just once.
I step closer. “Do you know who I am?”
A pause. Then, “You’re on the Board of Visitors at Century College,” she whispers, voice trembling. “So you must be someone important.”
I shrug. “Everything’s relative. I help the school, and they help me in return. Are you ready to help me too?”
This is dangerous, and she knows it. I know it, too, because the danger is the point.
I stand in front of her, so close I can see the pulse in her throat, the tiny sheen of sweat at her hairline. “You shouldn’t be here,” I growl, half-warning, half-promise.
She looks up, right at me, and whispers, “Neither should you.”
I want to drag her into the closet and fuck her senseless. But there’s something better than that: waiting. Drawing it out. Watching her squirm and ache and want.
I lean in, just enough that she can smell my cologne, the scotch, the raw animal want. “Go back to the party,” I tell her. “We’ll finish this when it’s over.”
She bites her lip. “Yes, sir.”
The words hit me like a shot of adrenaline. I resist the urge to grab her by the chin and force her to repeat it.
Instead, I step back, nod, and watch her walk away. Her hips sway, just enough to let me know she’s doing it for me.
As I return to the ballroom, the women still clamor for my attention.
Just to be polite, I make small talk, laugh at the right moments, sign a check for the silent auction.
But all the while, I watch the girl. I track every step she takes, every time she ducks into the kitchen or wipes sweat from her brow.
When the crowd finally thins out, I signal her with a glance. She sees it, freezes, then follows. The game is over; the hunt is on.
And I know, as I lead her down the deserted corridor, that she’ll let me do anything I want.
The library down the hall from the ballroom is empty, as it should be at this hour.
The lock clicks with a cheap, satisfying finality behind us; the fluorescent lights are dimmed to a dull glow, leaving the whole space sepia and shadowy, the tables like islands floating in a sea of half-light.
Along the back wall, bookcases rise floor to ceiling, the old wood so polished it gleams even through the dust.
She stops five steps in, clutching her serving tray to her chest like a shield. I take it from her, set it on the nearest table, and tilt her chin up with a single finger. Her face is flushed, lips bitten red, eyes huge and uncertain.
“Last chance to walk away,” I murmur, voice just above a whisper.
She shakes her head, just once. “Please,” she says, barely a sound.
I push her back gently until her spine hits the bookshelf.
The old oak shudders. She sways on her feet, head tipped back, mouth parted.
The uniform is ridiculous, a costume, but on her it’s lethal.
I run both hands down her sides, over the frilled apron, and up beneath the little black skirt.
No resistance; her thighs part for me without a word.
I hook a finger in her panties and tug. They’re white and lace-edged, cheap but pretty. I can feel the heat radiating off her, and when I pull the fabric away, she’s already slick. Not shy, not embarrassed—just hungry.
“Goddamn, you’re fucking drenched,” I growl. “Fuck, you’re my horny little girl.”