"Denying you?" I scoff, tightening my grip on her wrists, keeping her pinned to the floor. "Pretty girl, do you think I have any self-control left after what you just did to me?"
She narrows her eyes, shifting her hips beneath me.
I groan, my muscles tensing, my cock already stirring again, because of course, she's a fucking menace.
"Then what's the problem?" she demands.
I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, my voice a gravelly whisper.
"Because when I finally take you, Izzy? You won't be able to walk the next day."
She freezes.
I tighten my hold on her wrists, dragging my nose down the side of her neck, inhaling her scent, her warmth, the lingering wine and sweat and sex on her skin.
"And once I do?" I continue, my voice a dark promise.
I let go of her hands, sliding my palms up her thighs, her waist, gripping her ribs, feeling the rise and fall of her breath beneath my fingers.
"There won't be a moment where I don't need you," I murmur. "Every time you walk into a room, I'll clear it just to bend you over the nearest surface."
Her body trembles. I drag my thumb over her bottom lip, pressing just enough to make her mouth part.
"You'll be begging for a break, pretty girl," I whisper. "So enjoy it while you can."
She shudders beneath me, eyes dark and wide, her need practically vibrating off her skin. She's writhing, already soaked, already mine—and every instinct in me screams to take her. Right here. On the floor. Hard and messy and ruthless.
I could flip her over, press her down, make her take every inch until she forgets how to speak. I could fill her so deep she'd still feel me tomorrow.
But I won't.
Not yet.
Instead, I sit back, grinning, then lean in to kiss her deeply, tasting the frustration, the heat, the delicious fucking anticipation.
She huffs, glaring at me when I pull away, her pout lethal. "You're evil."
I chuckle, scooping her up easily, throwing her onto the bed. "Get in bed, pretty girl."
She crosses her arms. "For what? So I can just suffer while you keep denying me?"
I reach for the remote, flipping on the TV. "We've got Bridgerton to watch."
She groans. "I hate you."
"Good," I say as I climb into bed beside her. "Because I have a lot of thoughts about Anthony Bridgerton and I'm about to share every single one of them."
Her mouth falls open. "Are you— are you seriously about to analyze the show after what just happened?"
I shrug, stretching an arm behind my head, looking smug as hell. "I'm a man of depth, Izzy. Get used to it."
I sit on the edge of the bed, the soft glow of my phone illuminating the dark room.
Izzy is asleep, her body curled up in the blankets, her breath slow and steady. She fell asleep somewhere in the middle of our show, her head resting against my shoulder, the tension from dinner finally melting off her.
I should sleep too. But my mind is too wired, too restless. So I do what I should have done earlier.
I open Ryan's email.
I should have read this the moment it came through. But between family dinners, teasing Izzy, and not fucking her like I'm desperate to, I let it sit.
And now?
Now I don't like what I see. I scan the data Ryan sent over. Financial records. Employment history. A fucking offshore LLC.
Evan's income—or lack thereof—hasn't lined up for years. He got fired from his job a year into dating Izzy. But somehow, despite having no verifiable employment, he's still been receiving consistent deposits into an account linked to an LLC based out of the Cayman Islands.
Suspicious as hell.
And that's not even the worst of it. Evan's got a proclivity for hanging around women who work retail. That's what Ryan's flagged. It's not all the same, but most of the women he's been seen with have some connection to high-end stores.
I close my eyes, rubbing my temple, my grip tightening around my phone. This isn't coincidence. I know it's not. I don't have all the pieces yet, but what I do have? It's not fucking good. And I have a feeling Izzy was being used.
For what? I don't know yet, but I'm going to find out. As I continue reading, my phone vibrates, the screen flashing with an incoming call.
Dad.
I stare at it for a second, then slide out of bed, careful not to wake Izzy. I step into the other room, closing the door lightly behind me as I swipe to answer.
"Hey, Dad."
"Cal." His voice is gruff, a little rough from age, but steady as always. "Did I wake you?"
"Nah, you know I don't sleep much."
He chuckles. "Same."
Silence stretches until he clears his throat. "Got your text."
"Yeah." I rub the back of my neck. "Figured I should probably check in."
Another pause. Not uncomfortable, just... unfamiliar.
"How's the job?" he asks.
"It's good," I say. "Busy. Security's been a mess lately."
He grunts. "Yeah, retail'll do that."
Silence again.
"You... got anyone in your life now?"
I hesitate. Then, I say what I've never said before.
"Yeah."
Silence.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." I exhale. "She's... special."
Dad doesn’t speak right away, but I hear the shift in his breathing, the way he takes that in.
"That’s good, son," he says at last, his voice rougher than before. "That’s real good."
I swallow, my throat suddenly tight. "She's actually the one who told me to call you," I admit.
That gets another pause. Then, a soft chuckle. "She sounds smart."
"She is."
Another pause, but this time, it's comfortable. We talk a little more. Just small talk. Work. The weather. Simple topics. But it's the longest conversation we've had in years. And before we hang up, we promise to do this again. Sooner than next Christmas. I stare at my phone, my chest tight, a warmth settling there.
I turn back toward the bedroom and find Izzy standing in the doorway. She looks like she just woke up, her hair a mess, her tank top hanging loose on one shoulder, uncertainty in her eyes.
"Sorry," she murmurs, shifting slightly. "I wasn't trying to eavesdrop. I just needed some water."
I shake my head, smiling faintly. "I told you. No secrets."
The irony of that statement doesn't escape me.
She nods, rubbing her arms, and I step past her, grabbing a glass from the counter, filling it with water before handing it to her. She takes it, smiling softly. As we walk back to the bed, she murmurs, "I'm proud of you, you know?"
I glance at her.
"For calling your dad." She takes a sip, then looks at me over the rim of the glass. "I know that wasn't easy."
I don't know what to say to that. So I don't respond with words.
Instead, I kiss her.
Soft, slow.
Just a simple press of lips, a quiet acknowledgment.
When we crawl back into bed, she curls into my side, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest. As she drifts off, she mumbles, "I can't wait to meet him."
And for the first time in a long, long time...
I fall asleep.
THIS IS NOT IN THE EMPLOYEE HANDBOOK
IZZY
Back in manager mode. It clicks into place easily, familiar and steadying. The rhythm of schedules, meetings, and check-ins gives me something to hold onto, a structure that keeps everything else at bay. The week off was necessary—forced, really—but being back at the store feels right. Messy, busy, full of problems to solve. But it's mine. And I’ve missed the chaos more than I want to admit.
The familiarity of it all soothes something raw inside me. The gleam of polished marble floors under carefully positioned lighting. The subtle scent of the store's signature fragrance wafting through the air conditioning. The quiet hum of exclusive clientele browsing through racks worth more than my monthly salary. This is my domain, my carefully curated world where I know exactly who I am and what I'm worth.