A Feeling Of Desire.

Chapter 10.

Jerald sat under the dim glow of the chandelier light, fingers drumming lazily against the long mahogany table.

The room carried the low hum of conversation, men gathered in dark suits, murmuring over business charts and numbers. But Jerald wasn’t truly in the room. Not mentally. His body was there, statuesque in his chair, but his focus had long slipped away.

His eyes held onto the man who stood at the far end of the table discussing business deals, but Jerald’s ear could only hold onto the soft hum of a diffusing machine that was currently brewing in some incense in the room.

The scent was thick in the air, curling with lavender and sandalwood. It should’ve been calming, but to Jerald, it was irritating—too soft, too peaceful for the chaos in his mind.

His mind was occupied, filled with thoughts, but those thoughts were far away from whatever was going on in this room.

They weren’t in the walls of this boardroom. They weren’t buried in figures or graphs. They were miles away—wrapped around one woman.

For hours now, the thoughts of Jasmine and her disobedient self never failed to prey into his head at the slightest plight.

She was a wildfire—untamable, defiant, and far too delicious for his sanity. She knew exactly how to tiptoe over his patience and push the edge of his control until he snapped.

Oh goodness! Damn that lady! She was more than what words could prescribe.

Curvy in the right place. Soft and fiesty—just how he liked it.

His jaw locked, a muscle twitching at the edge as the memory flared behind his eyes. The way she walked into his space was like she owned it. The way that red silk clung to her hips, to her thighs.

His jaws tightened as the image of herself in that red lingerie flashed across his eyes.

That lingerie—fuck—it hadn’t covered much. Just enough to tease. Just enough to make his palms itch. To think he had picked it blindly, just for her to walk in looking all dangerous.

A gentle feeling of desire seethed against his nerves, hands itching to cup those boobs into his mouth and suck her raw until she was begging for him to fuck her.

His breath caught. He could already feel the weight of her breasts in his hands, the heat of her skin against his tongue. Her soft moans—breathy, desperate—echoed faintly in the back of his head.

It would be good.

It would be fucking good, rolling his tongue against her nipples and watching her twitch to the pleasure of his mouth.

She’d melt for him. Her feisty needy self would melt for him. Her hands would twist in his hair, thighs trembling, breath hitching when he took his time with her.

His groin tightened. Fuck!

It wasn’t just memory anymore—it was needed. Sharp, pressing need coiled in his belly. His cock pulsed in response, thickening against the seam of his pants.

The image of what she would look like while he sucked on her imprudent nipples prickled his gaze.

He imagined her head thrown back, lips parted in a silent gasp, those nipples hard against his tongue. Her body arching for more, fingers clawing at his skin, begging for friction.

Rolled eyes—parted lips.

The perfect image of surrender. The kind he could get drunk on.

A gentle twitch occurred from his cock—a reminder of how those lips had stretched against his cock, taking every inch of him until he was pressing against her throat.

His fingers curled into the wood of the table, barely moving, but his knuckles whitened slightly. The image hit him like a wave. Her on her knees. Eyes watering. Lips tight around him. Taking it all. Gagging slightly—and loving it.

“…My lord…” The faint voice of an urgent voice filled his head.

It barely registered at first, floating on the edge of his daze like static in the distance.

“My lord.” The voice came again and Jerald blinked, jolting back into reality in a way no one could notice.

His lashes lifted slowly, gaze sweeping back into the room as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just imagined fucking her six ways to madness.

His eyes scanned through the table of men who had their eyes in his direction.

They were waiting—paused in mid-thought, unsure if they should speak again.

Silence descended and Jerald watched them, mentally calculating how long he had been lost.

His expression remained unreadable. No one would dare question him.

“Go on.” He finally replied, voice dropping in low but lethal it sealed the command.

The air shifted. One command and the tension bled out of the room.

The man who was in charge of the business plan explanation gave a curt bow, turning to continue his conversation.

The sound of his voice blended with the hum of the diffuser again. Jerald didn’t care to listen.

Jerald reached for the drawer beside his table and pulled out a cigarette. He adjusted into the chair, taking slow gentle drag while listening to older man.

The smoke filled his lungs, but it didn’t calm the hunger churning in his gut. No. That was Jasmine’s doing. The desire to have, feel, and do whatever he so much will with her was all that clouded his thoughts, and tonight—tonight he’d make sure she answered for every damn thought she invaded.

The voice of the man standing at the far end of the table rose with measured precision.

“We’ve secured the first half of the shipment through the Black Sea route. The Albanians attempted to tax it at the port in Varna, but our men handled the resistance. No trail left behind.”

His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked once—briefly—toward the figure at the head of the table. Just a glance. Just long enough to see if Jerald stirred. But he didn’t.

Another chimed in. “The Russians are getting bold. They reached out again—offering to match our price and push through their own channels. They’re trying to muscle in on the arms corridor.”

Soft scoffs and a few tensed shoulders followed the mention of Russian interference. But no one laughed. Not loudly. Not in this room.

Jerald hadn’t spoken yet. And the weight of his silence was louder than any voice.

The man continued. “Our Sicilian ports remain secure. We’ve re-routed the final shipment through Palermo. Two million in high-grade weapons, and the buyer in the Emirates has already wired a non-refundable deposit. All that’s left is clearance on your word.”

That word.

It hung over the room like a loaded gun on a hair trigger.

A murmur of acknowledgment passed around the room. Subdued. Careful. Respectful.

Then silence came in again. The kind that thickened the air, made throats tighten, and palms sweat.

All eyes on Jerald.

He sat back in his chair, fingers still curled against the table, cigarette burning lazily between his fingers. The smoke slithered upward, slow and indifferent, like time itself bent to his will.

But he didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

He didn’t need to do any of that for them.

The room moved for him. Even the chandelier’s light seemed to dim in his shadow.

Then—without shifting an inch—he spoke in a voice, low, Icy, and measured.

“Tell the Russians to back off. Burn anyone who doesn’t.”

A pause came in. Then a quiet shiver passed through the table.

“And triple the shipment through Palermo. I want every dime funneled through Sicily.”

That was his reply. Simple. Commanding. Final.

And it wasn’t in any way a suggestion. It was a law. One they should abide by and everyone knew it.

The men didn’t just nod—they obeyed. With reverence. With fear. With absolute clarity that one wrong step could turn this polished mahogany table into a casket.

The air shifted immediately. The order sank in like teeth in flesh. So heads fell into nods, pure frantic nods.

“Understood, my lord,” came the unified response.

The moment the meeting came to an end, Jerald rose, standing tall amidst other creatures—their head bowed in respect to him, but he gave no reply. He simply just walked away, with nothing but the thoughts of Jasmine on his bed tonight.