9. Natalie
NATALIE
It’s Friday, and I’m walking into the next gala meeting. Work’s been chaotic but this week, I’ve been distracted. Anxious, if I’m honest. I’ve been waiting for a response from Henry. So far? Nothing. Not a word.
I’m starting to wonder if he even got the portrait. Or maybe he did and he’s just bored already. Done with the game.
I push open the meeting room door and he’s leaning against the table, talking to Isabelle. He glances at me but he doesn’t say a word. Just keeps talking while I sit, and the rest of the chairs slowly fill around us.
Once everyone’s settled, Isabelle clears her throat to begin. Henry still doesn’t sit. He stays where he is, right at the edge of the table, like he’s above it all.
“Thanks for coming, everyone,” Isabelle says brightly, glancing around the table.
“I was just speaking with Henry about the color palette. We’ve been going in circles, and he suggested we break into smaller teams to streamline the process.
Each group will take on one component. Color, lighting, set design, and so on.
Of course, we’ll make sure everything aligns, but this way we avoid too many voices crowding a single decision. ”
She gestures toward Henry. “He’s volunteered to lead the color palette. Is anyone else interested—?”
My hand shoots up before I can think twice.
Of course he suggested this. Color sets the tone for the entire event. It’s the foundation everything else builds on. I could call Henry a lot of things, but dumb isn’t one of them.
“Great, Natalie,” Isabelle says with a pleased nod. “You two can get to work in meeting room nine.” She gestures toward the door.
Now? Right. I’m on my feet before I’ve fully thought it through, already moving. Henry falls in step behind me.
“This way,” he says as I automatically turn right. I stop, sigh, and pivot left to follow him instead.
As we walk, I study the back of him. He walks like the floor belongs to him. Shoulders relaxed, pace steady, no hesitation. He’s not in a jacket today, just a crisp white shirt that’s rolled at the sleeves.
He stops at a door near the end of the hall and gestures for me to go in first. I hesitate. It's tucked away from the rest of the rooms, quiet and too private, like it was chosen on purpose.
The meeting room is small. Not cramped, but not the kind of space you want to be stuck in with someone like him. There’s a narrow desk, four chairs and a laptop.
I take the chair in front of the laptop. “Did you really think I’d let you decide the color palette?”
“Not for a second,” he says, sitting beside me.
“Let me guess, you’ve already prepared a board?” I watch as he unlocks the laptop. His hands pause, just slightly.
“Can I surprise you, just once maybe?” He clicks it open and turns the screen toward me.
A full-color mockup fills the display. Somehow, he’s managed to blend Vue and Carter in a way that actually works.
Seamlessly. I’m not even sure I could’ve pulled that off.
At least, not without letting my ego get in the way.
He hasn’t pushed Carter to the front, made it the star, he’s given Vue equal weight.
That takes a level of humility I didn’t expect from him.
“Tell me what’s wrong with it,” he says, eyes on the screen. “There’s something I can’t place.”
I want to tell him it’s great. But instead, I lean in, scanning the panels. I zoom in on a small section. It’s nothing really, but if I had to find a fault.
“This shade,” I say, pointing to the corner of the screen. “It’s a little too cold. Not by much, but enough to flatten against the base layer. If you warm it up a touch, it’ll pop.”
He opens the software and starts making the changes.
My eyes catch on the veins along his forearms as they shift with each movement.
There’s something stupidly distracting about the way his hands move across the keyboard.
Efficient, confident, sure of what they’re doing.
His brows are drawn in concentration, lips slightly parted.
My brain short-circuits for a second, flashing somewhere it definitely shouldn’t. I look away, too quickly.
Focus.
When he finishes he turns the laptop toward me.
“You were right. That pulled it all together,” he says. “Good eye.”
He meets my gaze, and my brain stutters for a second. There’s something about him that makes me feel off balance and a little too aware of myself. I frown. Something’s off. He’s being too nice. Too collaborative.
And then it hits me—
“What if someone else had volunteered?” I ask. “You already had Vue’s colors in there.”
“I knew it would be you,” he says. “You’d have turned it into a bare-knuckle boxing match before letting anyone else take the lead.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
“I’m glad you like it. It took hours,” he says. “I kept second-guessing everything.” Then, almost offhand, eyes still on the screen, he adds, “I wanted it to feel like you’d already touched it.”
That throws me. I lean back slightly, crossing my arms.
“Well,” I say, my voice lower now, “…you’re not completely hopeless.”
“Dishing out the compliments today,” his voice drips with sarcasm.
“You know it’s good.”
“I still want to hear you say it.”
“I’m impressed,” I admit. “And since you’ve done all the work, we can go.”
“Ah, I don’t think so,” he says, grinning. “I didn’t put all this together just for fun. I wanted your undivided attention.”
“For what?”
“My pitch.”
He opens another file. A presentation with his name in bold across the title slide: Henry James Carter. Right beside it is the exact photo I used for the portrait. So he did get it.
“I didn’t spend as much time on this one,” he says, almost smug. “The product sells itself.”
He clicks to the next slide. A full list of “attributes,” neatly bullet-pointed.
Strengths:
Unreasonably attractive
Good under pressure
Can deliver orgasm in under two minutes
Weaknesses:
Natalie Wright
Then he clicks to the final slide. It’s another shirtless photo. He’s standing on a sunlit terrace, hair a little messy, holding a coffee mug like it’s a prop in a lifestyle ad. His abs are front and center, toned to perfection.
“Questions?” he asks.
“I’m your weakness?” I arch an eyebrow at him.
“The only one.”
I shake my head, but a smile slips through before I can stop it.
“And two-minute orgasms…that’s a verified fact, is it?”
“Give or take ten seconds.”
I lean back, trying for unimpressed. “Sure, Casanova.”
But when I glance at him, I realize he’s not joking.
“It’s easily proven,” he says, his gaze drops to my thighs.
This is the moment I should shut it down. Laugh. Walk away. Say absolutely not. But I just sit there, mouth slightly open, heart thudding in my chest.
“How about this…two minutes. If I fail, the whole color palette’s yours. No arguments.”
Again, I should say are you crazy? We’re in a meeting room at a fancy hotel.
Instead, I glance at the door, then back at him.
He crosses the room, and locks the door.
Something flips in my chest. My breath catches with nerves or excitement, maybe both.
He walks back slowly, and the silence between us stretches.
It’s heavy and electric. Loaded with everything we’re not saying.
Henry steps in front of me and gently pushes my chair back, making room. Then he drops to his knees and my pulse races. His hands slide up my thighs. He parts my legs with the kind of patience that gives me every chance to stop him, but I don’t. Instead, I pull the hem of my skirt up.
It occurs to me that we haven’t started a timer but then his head dips.
His mouth finds the inside of my thigh, and every single thought drops out of my head.
He kisses so lightly it shouldn’t register but it does.
It lands like a spark, heat flares low and deep.
His mouth trails higher. Then higher still.
Each kiss pulls me deeper into the heat of it, my pulse ticking faster with every pass of his mouth, every shift closer to where I ache for him.
He hooks a finger under the lace of my underwear and slowly draws it aside.
The moment his mouth meets my skin, a shocked, ragged sound tears from my throat.
A sound I didn’t know I could make. I press my lips together to hold back another.
My hand flies to his hair, fingers twisting into the strands, holding him close.
His tongue moves with greedy precision, finding every spot that makes me shudder.
Then his fingers join, sliding inside, curling in a way that makes me forget how to breathe.
The two sensations blur, unraveling me fast. It’s too much.
Too good. Pleasure builds hard and quick, and my thighs tremble against his shoulders.
A broken “Oh god,” escapes me.
I come apart, clenching around his fingers.
When I collapse back into the chair, spent and dazed, he doesn’t let up.
He coaxes out every last ripple of sensation, as though determined to claim every shudder.
Finally, he eases my underwear back into place and rises slowly.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still locked on mine, like he knows exactly what he’s just done to me.
I look down at the hard, straining outline in his trousers.
Holy. Shit.
“I don’t have my stopwatch but I’m pretty sure that was under two minutes.”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. It was definitely under two minutes.
“Your phone,” he says.
Still floating in a haze, I fumble through my purse and hand him my phone. I watch as he types, completely focused, then slips it back into my palm like it’s nothing.
“You’ll call me,” he says.
Henry’s hand comes to rest on my thigh, his thumb drags across my skin and a fresh shiver runs through me.
“I’ve got something to take care of,” he says, calm as ever. “I’ll send our work to Isabelle.”
Then he adjusts himself, scoops up his laptop, and heads for the door. No lingering, no smug smile. Just gone.
I don’t move. I just sit there, legs trembling, breath uneven, my heart thudding. I’m completely unraveled.
I drag my hands down my face. That was…wow.
Then the crash hits. What the hell just happened? This is not like me. Except, apparently it is. Because I did it. In my defense, though, I don’t think many women could have turned that down. Not truthfully.
I start to spiral. Thoughts firing off in every direction.
One second I’m remembering the way he looked while he worked—focused, low-key smug, maddeningly attractive—the next I’m cringing at how easy I was for him.
How fast I gave in. He probably thinks I’m already desperate to call him for a repeat.
It’s not just his ego I need to worry about.
If this gets out, it could blow everything up.
The optics alone would shred my credibility.
Messing around with Henry isn’t just reckless.
It’s career suicide. All that work. All those years clawing my way up.
I didn’t get this far just to set it all on fire for a hit of dopamine and a smug smile.
I press down on his contact, and hit delete.