Tristan
I sit at the head of the polished mahogany table opposite Chloe, who shuffles through a pile of hefty film scripts. Flanking us on either side are our team, from Thorne Enterprises and MediaSphere respectively.
The meetings to discuss the future of Eclipse Studios have been productive, and the creative energy in the room is obvious. Today, we’re finally taking on the parts of our decision-making process that I know Chloe has been most looking forward to—the content.
“We have a list of interested directors,” Chloe tells us, fishing out a sheet of paper from amidst the scripts and passing it to the woman on her right. “And, as you can see, a stack of scripts have come through.”
I sift through the stack of scripts, each one a different story. My fingers move over the pages until one catches my eye—a procedural thriller.
I read the synopsis printed on the front of the screenplay. In a sprawling, neon-lit city rife with corruption, one detective stands out for his abilities to solve even the toughest cases. A high-profile disappearance thrusts him into a world of secrets and lies…
The rest of the synopsis blurs before my eyes. Yeah, it’s not likely to win awards for its depth, but it has the kind of punch that screams summer blockbuster.
“I like the look of this one,” I announce, tapping the script’s title page. “It’s our ticket to a box office hit.”
To my surprise, Chloe wrinkles her nose, her arms folded.
“It’s our ticket to the most forgettable film of the summer,” she says. “If we really want to kick this off right, we want to get people talking. Our first film should be bold. Different. We want to challenge expectations, not toe the line.”
I think about her words, weighing them against my preference for a safe, crowd-pleasing blockbuster. “But a thriller? That’s ticket sales. If—”
“We need to push boundaries,” Chloe insists. She tosses one of the scripts across the table, a challenge in her gaze. “Here. That’s my pick.”
Chloe’s choice of script is a drama, entitled Better Days Ahead. The short blurb on the first page bills it as a thought-provoking tale about an actress on Broadway who struggles to reconnect with her disapproving family. It seems moody and contemplative—Oscar-bait, if it’s done well.
I let out a breath. “Are you sure? This seems like a bit of a risk.”
“Risk is good,” she replies. “We need risk, at this point in the game.”
I lean back in my chair, thinking through Chloe’s argument. Her words hit home—she wants something bold, something that will spark conversations and leave a mark. But it goes against my instincts as a businessman to take that gamble.
Chloe seems to pick up on my hesitation. She sits up straighter. “People want substance. Word of mouth works better when there’s something to talk about. Your pick is safe, sure—but it’s boring. It might net us a profit, but it won’t cement our reputation in the industry.”
The room falls silent. Nine pairs of eyes land on me as I fold my hands together, thinking it over. I can tell they’re waiting for my response—expecting me to disagree.
After a long moment, I clear my throat. “Well, you have a stronger eye than I do when it comes to these kinds of things. I’ll trust your judgment on this one.”
Chloe’s eyes widen. I can tell she’s surprised by my decision to back down. Chloe and I have clashed in these meetings before, traces of our old rivalry resurfacing, although softer now in our new circumstances.
I smirk slightly, knowing I’ve thrown her off guard. “Lead the way, Chloe.”
She frowns, then inclines her head. “Okay. Better Days Ahead, it is. Unless anyone else has any objections?”
Everyone is quiet. A few people shake their heads. Chloe reaches a hand out for the script, and I pass it back to her across the table.
“I’ll see you all tomorrow at ten,” I say.
As the meeting wraps up and others begin to filter out, Chloe remains seated. “What was that all about?” she asks, a hint of surprise in her tone.
I meet her gaze, a small smile playing on my lips. “You made better points,” I admit. “You were right.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly. “Well, well, well,” she teases. “Did you finally come to your senses?”
“Don’t think this is going to be a regular occurrence. I’m trusting your vision here because in this instance, you actually know more than I do.”
She smirks, clearly amused. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. I mean, I didn’t even have to trade any sexual favors to get my way.”
I stop in the middle of closing my laptop, my gaze slowly traveling back to my wife. “Wait. I didn’t know sexual favors were on the table.”
“Like I said…” She shrugs, rising to her feet. “I didn’t need them.”
She gathers the folders and scripts in her arms, then starts toward the door, but I take two long strides to catch up with her.
“Hold on a second, dimples.”
Reaching out, I tug her closer by the wrist, angling my body so that I’m between her and the glass walls of the office.
The blinds are still open. Anyone walking past in the hall could look in and see us standing close together, but I don’t reach for the cord.
Part of me likes that. And based on the way her eyes flick briefly to the glass before coming back to mine, her pupils dilating, I think she does too.
“Fuck, Chloe.” I keep my voice low. “You drive me crazy. You know that? Every time I’m in a room with you, I can’t think straight. You open your mouth to argue with me, and I spend half the time actually listening and the other half just watching your face.”
A flush moves up her throat and into her cheeks, and it’s so fucking gorgeous that I’m already half hard.
“I want to fuck you,” I breathe, watching her face as the words land. “Right now. If those blinds were closed and there was no one out there, I’d have you on that table in about thirty seconds flat.”
Her lips part slightly, and I keep going, keeping my voice just above a murmur.
“I’d take my time with it. I’d get on my knees first and eat that pretty pussy until you couldn’t remember your own name. Until you were begging me to stop and begging me not to at the same time.”
“Tristan.” It’s almost a whimper, but there’s an edge of warning in it. Her gaze cuts to the glass behind me. “Someone could—”
“No one’s looking. And even if they were, all they’d see is two people having a conversation.”
I shift my body slightly, adjusting the angle so that what I’m about to do next is blocked from anyone passing in the hall, and then I reach out and brush my knuckles lightly over her nipples through her shirt. Just once, barely any pressure at all.
Her breath catches. I feel them harden under my touch immediately, even through the fabric, and I hold her gaze and do it again, just as lightly.
“Look at that,” I groan softly. “I barely touched you, and your nipples are so fucking hard already. Are you wet for me, dimples?”
The column of her throat constricts as she swallows, then nods once.
“Good girl,” I praise. “So fucking good. My perfect, filthy wife.”
I brush over them again, a slow pass of my knuckles, and watch her jaw tighten as she works to keep her face neutral. The folders she’s still holding are pressed against her chest like a shield, her hands clenching them so hard the paper is bending.
“I think you could come just from this. Standing right here, with people walking past outside. Am I wrong?”
She holds out for a second, her eyes locked on mine, and then gives another small nod.
Something moves through me at that, hot and satisfied, and I keep my touch exactly where it is, feather light, just enough for her to feel but not enough to be obvious to any random passersby. I lean in slightly closer, hungry for every little hitch in her breath.
“Squeeze your thighs together for me,” I murmur. “Help me get you off. I bet that pretty little clit is just desperate for attention. So squeeze tight, dimples. Imagine you’re clenching around my cock.”
Her eyes dart to the glass for just a second, then come back to mine, and I see the moment she does it. The small shift in her expression, the way her lips part and her lashes lower slightly, and the barely audible sound that escapes her that she immediately covers up.
An appreciative sound rumbles in my chest. “Fucking perfect. God, you’re killing me.
You know what I’m thinking about right now?
I’m imagining how fucking good it would feel to bend you over that table and slide inside you.
” I brush over her nipples again, watching her face respond to it.
“The way your ass would shake as I fucked you. The little sounds you’d make.
The way your back would arch as I made you come.
I think about you more than I think about anything else in the entire fucking world. ”
She makes a sound that she tries to pass off as clearing her throat, but I’ve been watching her face too long to miss what it actually is. She’s working very hard to look like nothing out of the ordinary is happening, and she’s actually doing a pretty good job of it.
Which just means I get to push her a little further.
I pinch one of her nipples, and she gasps at that, then clenches her jaw to keep in whatever other sounds she was going to make. Her gray eyes look darker than usual with her pupils so blown out, and her eyelashes flutter with the effort of keeping her eyes open as pleasure courses through her.
“I bet you wish you could grind against my thigh right now,” I say, taking just a half step closer.
I’m almost as desperate as she is, my cock fully hard now.
“I bet you’re so wet I could slide inside you with just one stroke.
You’d take me so well, dimples. You always do.
” I pinch her other nipple, twisting just a little, and feel her shudder.
“That’s what I’m thinking about. That’s what’s been running through my head this entire meeting, every time you opened that gorgeous fucking mouth to argue with me. ”