CHAPTER SEVEN

Fuck, I can't seem to focus," I mutter under my breath, angrily tossing the notepad onto the sofa ahead.

Six damn days. Six days of distractions, and they all led to one thing, Ere's thighs.

I couldn't get them out of my head.

I grab the telephone receiver.

"Jude."

"Yes, sir," Jude replies, his tone weary, like he's been answering me one too many times lately.

It always went the same way:

"Jude."

"Yes, sir."

"Would you say perfumes project more in… intimate areas? Like the thighs, cleavage?"

A long pause.

"Umm…"

"Never mind. Get back to work."

And then I'd drown myself in thoughts all over again.

The agonizing wait was driving me insane. Suspense chewing at my brain. I'd overthought myself into migraines. Enough. It was time to act.

"Meet me outside in 5 minutes", I text Ahmed, spraying on my most intoxicating concoction, one that could topple kings, before strapping on my Richard Mille. Today, I was making a grand entrance at Ere's boutique.

I'm outside, Ahmed pings back.

I head out, shades in hand.

"Where to, sir?" Ahmed asks as he opens the car door.

"The boutique," I say, flat and nonchalant, not sparing him a look. By now, I knew he was sick of the routine. I'd been dragging him there almost every damn day since that night.

And each time, I was met with the same practiced line:

"She's not around, sir, but you can leave a note. I'll pass it to her when she arrives," Dara, the new attendant, would chirp.

It felt rehearsed. Rehearsed and deliberate.

Like Ere anticipated me coming and had trained Dara with the perfect excuse.

Not today.

Today, I was seeing Ere.

Ahmed pulls into the all-too-familiar boutique and eases to a halt. He steps out, opens my door, and I emerge in a blue two-piece tee and long joggers, slipping my shades into place before striding in.

The bell above the door chimes.

"Welcome, sir," Dara greets, walking forward. "Unfortunately, Mrs. Ere isn't around at the moment. But we do have some lovely new—"

"Save it, Dara," I cut in, smiling thinly. "I'm not here for anyone but Ere. And I know she's in her office. You can lead me there or I'll go myself. Again."

Her nervous laugh betrays her. Fingers fidgeting.

"Oh, no sir. She's really not—"

"Let's see, shall we?" I brush past her.

"Sir—please! You can't go back there!" she stammers, clutching at my arm. "Customers aren't allowed—sir, sir, please!"

But I'm already past the dressing rooms. My hand twists the handle, and I push in not gently, not politely.

"Hello, Ere."

My grin spreads slowly and sheepishly as I plant both hands on her desk, leaning forward until I'm directly in her space.

Behind me, Dara fumbles, "Umm—oh—it seems she just got back…"

Ere shoots her a lethal glare. Dara shrugs, mouthing desperate gestures that scream I tried to stop him.

And then—

There she is.

Sitting like a damn goddess. Braids threaded with gold and pink accessories, a soft pink top hugging her frame, a flowing black maxi skirt, black heels, wrists jingling with layers of gold jewelry.

Majestic. Ethereal.

Unreachable, yet right here.

"Umm… hi, Mr. Aa—" she stumbles, trying to recall my name.

"Mr. Aanoni," I cut in sharply.

"You've been avoiding me, Ere. Ever since that night."

Her lips part, then close. She clears her throat and signals Dara to leave us. Door shuts. Silence.

"What you saw…" she starts slowly, voice careful, "was a misunderstanding. A… clearly unexpected encounter."

She lifts her chin, but her eyes don't meet mine.

"I don't owe you an explanation."

Her words say one thing, her face another.

I laugh loud, sharp, startling even myself.

"Oh, please. Like you're any saint, you looked like you enjoyed watching and —-"

Her brows shoot up, but I don't let her speak.

"Oh, I did," I cut in, voice low, deliberate.

"I enjoyed watching you finger yourself so hard your asshole was bulging."

Her stare slices into me, locked, unblinking. Minutes pass, thick, heavy, charged. The tension is so dense I can hear my Richard Mille ticking on my wrist.

"What were you even doing here so late?" she snaps, folding her arms tight across her chest.

Truth is, I had no reason. No excuse. But I think quickly.

"I came to view a piece. One that caught my attention," I reply, stepping closer, voice slow, measured.

"At almost 11:00 p.m.?" she fires back, sass dripping, lips curling into a taunting smile.

And I smile too, because unraveling her like this is half the thrill.

"At almost 11:00 p.m.,"I repeat smoothly.

"Your works are so beautiful, I had to come explore them myself again. But thank God, I was met with something far rarer."

My smile sharpens.

"A sweeter honey pot."

I inch closer to the table, each step heavier, more deliberate.

"You were laid out here that night, legs spread wide, moaning the heavens down. Almost like you were waiting for me to witness your little grand performance."

That gets her to bite back.

"Oh, please. Don't flatter yourself, Aanoni. Nothing I do is for your entertainment. Not my fault you saw too much and got obsessed."

She claps back, fierce. Then, as if reclaiming control, she walks to the door and leaves it slightly ajar, a wordless cue for me to leave.

But I don't.

"Oh, I am obsessed?" I reply, voice dangerously low, silk wrapped around steel.

I smirk, stepping closer. "Obsessed? No, Ere. 

Obsessed is staying up six nights straight thinking about how deep you shoved those fingers inside yourself. 

"Obsessed is jerking my cock to the memory of your thighs trembling. What I am—" I lean over her desk, my voice dropping to a growl, "—is starving to taste you while you're still dripping like that".

I close the distance between us until we're barely a foot apart.

Her lips part but she quickly presses them shut, trying to mask the heat rising in her face. I notice. She knows I notice.

"You sound delusional," she says, eyes darting away.

"No, baby. I sound like a man who's done pretending."

You sat there, 

back arched, 

moaning so hard you nearly shook the walls. 

You knew exactly what you were doing. And now—" my gaze drops shamelessly to the hem of her skirt, "—I want to see if your pussy is as greedy for me as it was for those fingers."

She moves back, step by step, until her back hits the wall.

"Oh, you have no idea," I murmur, my gaze raking down her frame, "how much I yearn to pin you down in one of your dressing rooms. To spread you open and make you watch yourself come undone under my hands."

Her throat bobs. She clears it quickly and sidesteps away, shattering the intensity like glass breaking. 

Her hand trembles against her skirt. She yanks it away fast, masking it with a scoff.

"You'll never have me in any of your sick fantasies, Mr. A."

Mr. A.

The way she spits it—meant to mock.

Instead, it feeds me.

She's awakening the part of me I swore I'd never embrace. The part that made people compare me to my father. The part that craves victory. Her defiance only fuels it.

"Oh, I will," I grin darkly. "I know I will. And when I do, I'll make you beg for every second of it."

I slip on my shades, patting down my pocket for my card.

"Starting now, I'll take every man's outfit in my size in this store."

Her eyes widen, then narrow.

"Of course. Money. You see a woman you like, you throw money at her, and expect her to fall at your feet. Well, sorry to tell you… Even if you bought my store out, I'd never give in to your selfish desires. Except I wanted it."

Her defiance burns. And I grin, savoring it.

"Money is only the beginning, love."

My gaze flicks to her gold jewelry, gleaming in the soft light.

"And from the looks of it… I already know how to get to you faster."

With that, I leave the office, signaling Ahmed. He eyes me like I've lost my mind as he hauls piles of clothing into the car, stuffed in the boot, spilling into the back seat.

The ride back is silent. Heavy. Steep with tension.

But I can still taste the thrill on my tongue