Games Begin

I don’t mention it.

Not to him. Not to myself. Not even in the thin space between dream and waking where I sometimes let myself replay what happened.

Instead, I choose my armor for the day.

The black skirt again — but tighter. It digs in a little when I walk, a reminder that I’m in control of every inch. The crisp blue blouse buttoned high, the tension in the fabric just brushing against my breasts. My heels, sharp enough that every step on marble clicks like a metronome.

In the lobby, he’s already there. Pretending to read his phone, but I see the way his shoulders lift when he senses me. His thumb pauses on the screen. That’s my first victory of the day.

I greet the concierge in Japanese, warm but distant. He hands me the folded itinerary. I thank him, still smiling when I pass my target.

I catch his scent — faint cologne, faint sweat. I let my gaze cut down for just a half breath, to where I know the truth will be. Yes. He’s already hard.

No comment. Just a silent cataloging of what’s mine to use later.

We step into the car together. I can feel him resisting the urge to look at me. He does anyway. That’s my second victory.

⸻

The morning meeting is brutal, but not for me.

Different client — older, more rigid. Their suits are immaculate; their faces could be carved from ice. I mirror their composure. But I’m aware of him across the table, pretending to follow the conversation.

I cross my legs the way I know he remembers from before. He notices instantly — the flicker in his gaze, the slight hitch in his breathing.

When I recross my legs, I do it with unhurried precision. The lace flashes — red this time — and I see it hit him like a punch to the gut.

His eyes widen a fraction. His hand slides under the table — he thinks I don’t see — adjusting himself. I open my legs just enough to confirm what’s under the lace. Or rather, what’s not under it.

I watch him try to swallow without drawing attention. A bead of sweat forms near his hairline. He’s not hearing a word about asset management.

I give him the smallest smirk. The kind no one else in the room would notice.

The kind he’ll think about tonight.

⸻

After the meeting, I make him wait until the corridor is empty before I strike.

Professional stance. Arms folded over my tablet. Voice neutral, like I’m summarizing notes.

But then: “You’re going to come up to my floor later.”

I see the ripple in him — his shoulders lock, his mouth parts. The way he blinks once, twice.

“You won’t ask,” I continue. “You’ll wait until I text. Then you’ll do exactly what I tell you. No begging. No expectations.”

His Adam’s apple bobs. He shifts his weight. He wants to ask why, when, what I’ll do. He doesn’t. That’s my third victory.

“I’ve already decided if you’re going to come tonight,” I say, letting the pause stretch. “And where.”

Then I turn and walk away, feeling his gaze burn between my shoulder blades.

⸻

Mid-afternoon, I break my own unspoken rule.

Small client office. Too bright. Too quiet. The client steps out, leaving the air still.

I close the door slowly, watching his confusion ripple into curiosity. His brows draw together.

“Stand up.”

A flicker of hesitation in his eyes — he’s deciding whether this is a joke. Then his lips press together and he obeys.

I step close enough that our bodies nearly align. His breath catches before I even touch him.

One hand slides behind him, over the belt, down the curve of his ass. The other presses against his cock — already thick. The heat pulses through the fabric, and he makes the faintest sound in his throat.

“You’re already hard,” I murmur into his ear. The skin at his jaw twitches.

I smile — not just with my mouth, but with my whole body — and drop to my knees.

His eyes widen as I unzip him. His hands hover awkwardly at his sides, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch me. That’s my fourth victory.

I breathe over him, slow, deliberate. He shudders.

One flick of my tongue — slick and fast — and his hips shift forward before he catches himself.

“I love how desperate you are now,” I whisper, and watch his pupils swell.

Then I tuck him away, zip him up, stand, and smooth my blouse like nothing happened.

“Meeting’s about to start. Get yourself together.”

I leave without looking back, knowing he’s fighting to steady his breathing.

⸻

That night, I don’t text.

I imagine him pacing. Sitting. Lying down. Getting up again. Checking his phone more often than he realizes.

At 11:12 p.m., there’s a knock. The rhythm of it is tight, urgent.

I let him wait three beats before I answer.

I open the door just enough. Robe loose, tied without care. No makeup — I want him to see me stripped of every distraction but the one he can’t touch right now.

He’s leaning in, trying to see past me into the room. His jaw is tight. His hands curl slightly at his sides.

“No.”

I close the door.

The silence after is almost better than the sound of him leaving.

I know exactly what he’s doing now — and I know he’ll still come back for more.