Chapter 10
Benjamin
Ben is in control. That’s the rule. That’s the religion.
Every meeting, every negotiation—he owns the room before a word is spoken. The weight of his presence fills each corner, settles into the spaces between breaths. His fingers tap a steady rhythm against mahogany, marking time like a metronome.
Sharp words. Sharper instincts. The practiced calculation of a predator who's never tasted defeat.
He isn't distracted.
He doesn't get distracted.
Then Winters speaks.
And something shifts. The air changes, turns electric.
His fingers still against wood.
At first, her words don’t register. Sound warps, distorts—white noise swallowed by the rush of blood in his ears.
He just—sees.
Her mouth moves, and his mind fucking betrays him.
The curve of her lips draws his focus like a razor's edge.
They part just slightly when she breathes in—pink, soft, dangerous. And then—Blondie. That smirk. That mouth. The way her lips curl around words meant just for him, each syllable a challenge he wants to taste. The way they would feel if—
His teeth press together. The thought dies unfinished, but the echo of it burns.
Ben locks up. Disgust slams into him—fast, nauseating, violent. Not Winters. Not her. "What the hell is wrong with me?"
His fingers pressed into his palm beneath the table, nails biting into skin. He couldn't—he wouldn't—react to this. To her. But his cock betrays him, stirring, hardening—mocking him.
Winters shifted in her seat, the movement small and insignificant. Yet the slow drag of fabric against her thigh sent Ben's brain short-circuiting. Suddenly he was imagining Blondie straddling him again, the silk, the weight, the goddamn heat of her rolling her hips against his aching cock.
Fuck.
His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. He hated this. Hated that it was Winters sitting there, setting off a chain reaction that had nothing to do with her. Not her. Not her. Not—
"Respectfully, Mr. Sinclair," Winters said, calm, oblivious, fucking effortless, "I think there's a more efficient argument here—assuming, of course, you're actually listening."
And when he speaks, it’s smooth. Effortless. A weapon disguised as composure. "By all means, Winters," he says, the words clipped, dangerous, "Enlighten us."
And she does. Of course she does.
Katherine Winters lays out her argument with surgical precision, each point landing like a scalpel's cut. The clients nod, expressions shifting from skepticism to reluctant agreement.
Ben doesn't fucking care.
He's too busy drowning in shame.
It coils low in his gut—acidic, relentless, burning through muscle and bone.
He needs to fix this. Regain control before it slips completely through his grasp. But hours pass.
Ben sat alone in his darkened office, the city's glow casting long shadows across his desk. His fingers traced the rim of his glass, ice long melted into amber liquid. The usual evening silence felt different tonight—heavier, charged with something dangerous.
His mind refused to quiet. Images flashed unbidden: silk sliding over skin, the weight of her in his lap, that damned smirk that haunted him. The memory of Blondie burned through his veins, mixing with whiskey until his blood ran hot.
Control. He needed it like oxygen. But tonight, he was drowning.
His hand moved to his belt, hesitating at the buckle.
The office door stood unlocked—a risk he shouldn't take.
Lock the door. Now. The thought screamed through him. Getting up to secure it would be the smart choice. The safe choice.
But movement meant retreat. And retreat meant another night of this maddening hunger.
No. Not tonight.
His fingers ghosted over the buckle, hesitation flickering like a dying match. Then—deliberate. He unfastened it. The metallic click seemed to echo in the empty space, too loud against the distant hum of traffic.
When he freed himself, the first touch made his stomach clench, a low jolt tightening through his core. A sharp breath hissed through his teeth, his head tipping back against the leather, fingers already curling.
Christ.
His body responded instantly, desperately, like it had been waiting for this moment. Like it knew exactly what it needed.
Days of denial crashed through him. Days of wanting.
Of remembering. Of fighting this exact moment.
But now? Now he gave in.
Ben's grip tightened around himself, each stroke measured and controlled. Even now—even like this—he refused to rush. His strokes were measured, the control almost masochistic. Every breath stoked the burn beneath his skin.
Blondie. Her body, a brand against his lap. The way she moved—slow, deliberate, a torture tailored just for him.
The deliberate way she'd settled into his lap, testing his limits. His cock throbbed at the thought, precum beading at the tip, slick against his palm. The leather creaked beneath him, too loud in the silence.
She was almost naked. He felt everything. The silk of her skin, the curve of her ass, the weight of her against him.
His free hand gripped the chair's armrest, knuckles white, nails biting into expensive leather. The ghost of her breath still burned against his neck, that teasing whisper—
"You sure you don't want to touch, Mr. S?"
His hips jerked up involuntarily, seeking friction that wasn't there. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as his pace increased, control slipping through his fingers like sand.
His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything but the memory of her.
The way she'd rolled her hips. Christ. The perfect, torturous pressure against his cock. His hand moved faster now, rougher, chasing the memory of her heat. His head pressed back into the chair, throat exposed, chest heaving with each ragged breath.
A ragged sound escaped him—half-growl, half-confession. He hated her for this. Hated how good it felt to lose to her.
Hated how fucking good it felt to finally give in. How his body betrayed him, craving her with an intensity that bordered on violence.
His body locked, muscles clenched, every nerve a live wire. He was falling, spiraling, breaking—and he let it happen. Didn't try to maintain that iron control he prided himself on. His teeth clenched against the tide of pleasure building at the base of his abs.
The tissue waited in his fist, already clenched.
When release hit, it crashed through him like a wave. His jaw clenched, breath sharp and ragged. Pleasure ripped through him, white-hot and merciless. Her name burned in his throat, unspoken but undeniable. A confession he’d never make.
A weakness he couldn’t afford.
That was the real danger. Not the act itself, but the fact that it was her. The truth of it settled in his bones like lead, inescapable and damning.
Ben found himself gripping the wheel without quite remembering how he got there. The engine thrummed beneath his hands, headlights slicing through the dark like razors.
He didn’t recall grabbing his keys. Didn’t remember the elevator ride, or walking through the lobby like a man with purpose instead of a problem.
But here he was.
The city blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow, nothing but static around the single thought anchoring him.
Her.
His jaw flexed. One hand tightened on the wheel, the other drumming once against his thigh—restless, conflicted.
He shouldn’t be doing this. He knew that.
And yet—he’d never been the kind of man to ignore what he wanted.
A red light bloomed across the intersection. He didn’t stop.
The streets gave way to familiar territory. And as the car slid to a halt, he was already climbing out—heart pounding with something he didn’t want to name.
The doors of Crimson Bloom swung open, swallowing him in sound and scent.
Bass thrums beneath designer soles, mixing with crystal chimes and hushed secrets.
The familiar scent of aged bourbon and expensive perfume fills his lungs.
His gaze cuts through the dim rouge lighting, past writhing silhouettes on stage, beyond the weighted stares that track his movement.
Every step carries purpose, each motion calculated.
Through the corridor where shadows deepen. Past the barrier that keeps common men at bay. Toward the one person who can grant what he needs.
The door yields to his hand. He doesn't knock. Doesn't pause. Because this isn't about protocol anymore. Permission is irrelevant.
His authority fills the room before he does.
Ben's entrance breaks the quiet of Ian's office, measured footfalls marking his approach. Ian straightens from his perch against mahogany, lips curling into that knowing smile that makes Ben go rigid. The man's casual posture screams of deliberate provocation.
"Back so soon?" Ian's voice drips with false surprise. "Thought you got the hint."
The words slide off Ben's armor. His response cuts through the pretense, precise as a blade.
"Name your price. Then triple it."
Ian's whistle pierces the tension, amusement dancing in those calculating eyes. "Persistent, aren't you?"
Ben holds his ground, face carved from stone, pulse steady beneath his collar. "Just persuasive."
Ian's smile tilts. Sharper now. Curious.
"So what is she to you, exactly? Obsession? Regret? Or just unfinished business?"
A beat. Barely a pause. But enough.
“She’s… interference." The word lands too easily. Too true.
Silence stretches between them. Ian's scrutiny lingers, testing boundaries, searching for cracks in perfect composure. Then he leans back slightly, eyes narrowing—not in judgment, but in consideration.
"You know the rules, Ben. You’ve been around long enough to understand why they exist." His voice is calm, but there’s an edge now—low, quiet, resolute. "They keep my girls safe. Physically. Emotionally. Especially from men who don’t know what they want."
Ben says nothing.
Ian watches him a moment longer, then exhales through his nose, the sound more tired than frustrated.
"If I let her take you again, I need to know she won’t be walking into something volatile."
A pause.
“I need your word. That she’ll be safe. That you’ll keep it clean.”
Ben meets his gaze. Steady. Measured. "She will."
Only then does Ian nod, slow and deliberate. His mouth shifts slightly, like he’s making peace with something he doesn’t entirely trust.
"I'll talk to her." He doesn’t smile this time.
The words fall short of commitment—but they carry possibility. For now.