Chapter 3 — Just a Name.

-POV Derby

By Monday I’d almost convinced myself it was over.

Not in some dramatic way. Just… closed. Like shutting a tab you left open too long. Done. Forgotten. Moving on.

I made coffee that tasted like nothing. Went to work. Answered emails like the weekend had never happened, like I hadn’t spent Friday night letting a stranger finish my sentences and Saturday morning sneaking out of his bed with his scent still on my skin. I kept repeating I’m fine until the words almost felt real.

But the name kept snagging somewhere deep.

Vasquez.

It tugged at my ribs every time it crossed my mind. I’d googled it once on Saturday, told myself it was harmless curiosity, then slammed the tab shut when the results looked too important. Smart move. I’d made it. I was done.

The office was the usual Monday chaos — Maya waving from accounts, the printer jammed again, my manager’s 8:54 “quick sync” that was never quick. I sat at my desk, opened the backlog, and tried to disappear into the routine.

Until a new email landed.

Project lead briefing — Vasquez Group acquisition. Thursday, 10 AM. All senior analysts and assistant staff required to attend.

My stomach dropped so hard I actually felt it.

Vasquez Group.

This time I didn’t close the tab. I let it load. The company was massive — family-controlled, currently being handed to the next generation. Run, in large part, by the eldest son.

I scrolled slowly.

The photo was small. A standard corporate headshot that was supposed to be forgettable.

It wasn’t.

Jordan Vasquez. 31. Heading the expansion division.

The same calm eyes. The same quiet, unreadable expression from the bar — the one that had looked down at me while he was buried deep inside me, moving slow and deliberate like he wanted to memorize every gasp I made.

Heat flared low in my belly, sudden and vicious.

I remembered the exact moment he’d paused right before pushing inside me, eyes locked on mine, like he was daring me to feel exactly who was about to ruin me. The way he’d controlled every deep, measured thrust until my back arched off the bed and his name tore out of me like a confession. The way he’d watched my face the entire time, drinking in every broken moan like my pleasure belonged to him.

I pressed my thighs together under the desk, hard. My nipples tightened against my blouse. My hands started shaking so badly I had to grip the edge of the table.

Just Jordan, he’d said that night. Easy. Flat. Like it meant nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing.

I pushed my chair back too fast and walked to the kitchen. Filled a glass with water and drank it standing at the counter, staring at the wall. I hated how my body still remembered him so clearly. Hated how just seeing his photo could make me wet again in the middle of the goddamn office.

Okay. So he wasn’t some random guy from a bar. So what. It was still one night. One reckless, stupid, incredible night. I didn’t know him. Not really.

I went back to my desk and forced myself to sit. The brief in front of me blurred. Thursday. 10 AM. I was assistant staff. I had to be there.

I clicked the email again. Standard corporate language… until the last line.

Representatives from Vasquez Group will be present.

My thumb hovered.

He won’t come, I told myself. Companies that size send other people. He doesn’t even know where I work. He probably doesn’t remember my name.

But then I remembered how he’d said “Derby” right before I walked out — soft, rough, certain — while his fingers were still tracing lazy circles on my bare hip, teasing me even after we’d both finished.

He finished my sentence.

I scrolled lower and saw the line I’d missed earlier, buried in the logistics.

Meeting to be chaired by J. Vasquez.

Everything inside my chest went deathly quiet.

I sat there, phone heavy in my hand, heart hammering so loud I was sure the whole office could hear it. Part of me wanted to laugh at how cruelly perfect this was. Another part wanted to delete the email and pretend Monday had never started.

But the worst part — the part that scared me the most — was the dark, warm thrill curling low in my stomach. The same heat I’d felt when he pinned my wrists above my head and whispered my name like a filthy prayer.

He was going to be in the same room as me in three days.

And I had no idea whether I was terrified…

…or already counting down the hours until I had to face the man whose touch still haunted every inch of my body.

I closed the email. Opened it again.

The photo stared back at me — calm, controlled, dangerous.

This wasn’t over. Not even close.

End of Chapter 3