The Cost Of It

The car was quiet.

I sat in the back seat with my bag on my lap and my hands folded over it, staring at the dark road without really seeing it. The driver didn’t speak. Neither did I. The only sound was the low hum of the engine and the occasional soft click of the indicator.

My body still felt him.

Not in a romantic way. Not in a soft, lingering way. It was physical and crude—the exact pressure of Owen’s cock against my palm, the way it had jumped when I stroked him, the rough sound he made when I told him we should take it slow. My fingers still remembered the thickness of him. My wrist still remembered the heat.

I shifted in the seat.

A part of my brain registered the slickness between my thighs, but I refused to look at it directly. I told myself it was nothing. A physical reaction. A leftover. Something that would fade by the time I reached the estate.

It didn’t.

By the time the car pulled through the gates and stopped in front of the house, the awareness had sharpened into something uglier. I thanked the driver, took my bag, and walked inside without looking at anyone. The foyer was quiet. Most of the lights were low. I went straight upstairs, locked the door of my suite behind me, and only then let myself stop.

I put the bag down.

Then I reached under my dress. My fingers came away wet. Not a little. Not the polite kind of dampness. I was soaked. The kind of wet that made the fabric of my underwear cling and the insides of my thighs feel slick when I moved. The kind that only happened when my body had already decided it wanted more, whether I agreed or not.

Anger hit first. Sharp. Immediate. Directed entirely at myself.

I stripped on the way to the bathroom, leaving the dress and underwear on the floor. The water in the bathtub ran hot. I stepped in before it was full and sat down hard, arms braced on the sides. The heat should have helped. It didn’t. Every shift of water against my skin only made the pulse between my legs more obvious.

I hated this.

I had touched Owen for strategy. I had cupped him, stroked him, left him hard and desperate on purpose. It was supposed to be clean. Controlled. A tool. Instead my body had taken the moment and turned it into something greedy. Something that still wanted.

I pressed my thighs together under the water. It only made the ache worse.

“Fuck,” I whispered.

I lasted maybe another minute before my hand moved.

I told myself I would stop after one touch. Just enough to take the edge off so I could think clearly again. My fingers slid between my legs and found my clit already swollen. The first stroke made my hips jerk. The second pulled a rough breath out of me. I leaned my head back against the tub, eyes closed, and let the water lap against my breasts while I rubbed myself in tight, angry circles.

It wasn’t gentle.

I didn’t want it to be.

I thought of Owen’s face when I touched him—the way his eyes had gone dark, the way his hips had pushed into my hand like he couldn’t help it. I thought of the thick shape of him against my palm. I thought of how easy it would have been to keep going, to drop to my knees right there in the hallway and take him into my mouth until he forgot how to speak.

The orgasm hit hard and mean. My thighs clamped around my own hand. A broken sound left my throat before I could stop it. I kept rubbing through the pulses, forcing every last bit of it out, until my legs were shaking and the water felt too hot against my skin.

When it was over I sat there breathing hard, staring at the ceiling.

Disgust followed quickly.

I washed myself roughly, drained the tub, and got out. The mirror showed flushed cheeks and eyes that looked too bright. I dried off, pulled on a clean sleep shirt, and sat on the edge of the bed with my elbows on my knees.

This was the problem.

The plan was working. Owen was opening. Jakob was starting to see me as useful. The cracks in the company were beginning to show. Everything was moving the way I needed it to.

And still my body kept reacting like it had a vote.

I lay down and forced my breathing to slow. Tomorrow was Saturday. No office. No meetings. Just the house and the men inside it. I would have to be careful. More careful than I had been in the hallway.

I closed my eyes.

Sleep took a long time to come.

*****

Morning light was already thin and grey when I woke. The house was quiet in the particular way it only got on weekends. I washed up and dressed simply—soft black lounge pants, a fitted tank, hair in a loose knot—and went downstairs.

The kitchen smelled like fried eggs and coffee.

Jakob stood at the counter in a grey t-shirt and matching sweatpants. He looked up when I entered. His green eyes moved over me once, unreadable, then he nodded toward the food.

“There’s more.”

“Thank you.”

I poured a cup, fixed myself a plate and stayed on the opposite side of the island. The silence between us felt heavier than it had at the office. There, the work gave us structure. Here, there was nothing to hide behind.

Owen appeared a few minutes later.

He stopped in the doorway when he saw me. For a second his expression was completely unguarded—tired, hungry, still carrying the night before. Then he schooled it into something softer and walked in.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” I said, keeping my voice even.

He poured coffee and leaned against the counter near me, close enough that I could smell his skin. Jakob watched both of us over the rim of his cup. He didn’t comment. He didn’t need to. The air had already shifted.

Owen spoke first, careful.

“Did you sleep okay?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, then glanced at his father before looking back at me. “I was thinking… if you’re not busy today, maybe we could—”

“She’s working,” Jakob said.

Both of us looked at him.

Jakob set his cup down. “I left additional files in the study. Background on the acquisition we discussed. I want your notes by Sunday evening.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

Owen’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. I kept my expression neutral.

“Of course,” I said.

Jakob held my gaze for a second longer, then pushed off the counter. “I’ll be in the study if you need clarification.”

He left. The sound of his footsteps faded down the hall. Owen waited until the house fell silent again before he spoke. “He does that on purpose.”

“Does what?”

“Claims your time.” His voice was quiet. “Even on weekends.”

I looked at him. The hope was still there, but it was tangled with something sharper now—frustration, maybe jealousy. Useful.

Dangerous.

“He’s my boss,” I said simply.

Owen’s eyes dropped to my mouth, then came back up. “Last night—”

“We should take it slow,” I said. Soft. Firm. Leaving the door open without walking through it.

He exhaled hard and dragged a hand through his hair. “You’re still killing me.”

I held his gaze a moment longer, then picked up my coffee and stepped past him toward the study. He didn’t follow. I could feel his eyes on my back the entire way down the hall.

Jakob was already seated behind the desk when I entered. He didn’t look up immediately. When he did, his expression was the same controlled one he wore at the office—except the setting made it feel more intimate.

He pushed a slim folder across the desk.

“Read it. Tell me what you see.”

I took the folder and sat.

The house was quiet around us. Owen was somewhere on the other side of it. Jakob watched me with the kind of focus that made the air feel thinner.

I opened the folder and began to read.

My body still remembered last night.

I refused to let it matter.