FAZER LOGINIRISMy thighs tremble as I step out of the pants, my body completely bare now except for that final scrap of lace, the smooth plane of my stomach leading down to the trimmed patch of curls above my slit. I slide my panties down inch by inch, the air hitting my exposed pussy with a cool rush that makes my inner walls clench. My clit throbs under the weight of his attention, arousal slicking my folds as the lace finally hits the floor.He walks over to me now, his hands sliding around my waist with a possessive strength that sends a shiver racing up my spine. He lifts me effortlessly, my bare skin pressing against the hard planes of his chest as my legs wrap instinctively around his hips, the heat of his straining cock nudging against the slick folds of my pussy through his trousers.My nipples graze the fabric of his shirt, hardening further at the friction, while my arousal coats his belt buckle in a faint, glistening smear. He carries me three steps to the wooden dining table, lower
IRISI don't hear Daddy come home. The studio disappeared around me hours ago.When I'm working properly, the rest of the world simply... falls away. Time becomes measured in pencil strokes instead of minutes, in lengths of fabric draped over a mannequin, in cups of tea or coffee forgotten until they've gone cold.I stand back from the dress form, narrowing one eye."No," I murmur to myself.The lapel still isn't right. It's elegant. It's beautifully balanced. It’s also completely wrong. Helen deserves better.I pull the pins free, the wool falling from the mannequin in a graceful sweep before I smooth it flat across the table once more.There. Much better. Or – maybe not.I laugh under my breath. If someone had told me a year ago that I'd be standing in my own studio, redesigning a coat for Helen Ashcroft because I wasn't entirely satisfied with perfection, I'd have assumed they'd mistaken me for somebody else."Princess?"He steps through the door, stops, and I recognize the look on
IRISThree days laterBy half past ten, I’ve rearranged the studio three times in honour of Helen’s fitting.Not because anything is untidy, it’s quite the opposite, in fact.The worktable is spotless, my pencils sharpened, fresh paper stacked neatly beside my sketchbook. Fabric books stand in orderly rows, color cards are laid out across the cutting table, and the mannequin closest to the window wears the half-finished toile I've been draping all week. Even the kettle has been polished, though I can't imagine Helen Ashcroft arriving and immediately judging the state of my teapot.I smooth an imaginary crease from the measuring tape around my neck, then laugh quietly at myself.I’m so nervous.Not because she's Thomas’ former wife, or Edward’s mother, not even because she’s elegant, stunning, intelligent Helen. I'm nervous because she’s my first true client, and that feels rather wonderful.Outside, the gravel crunches beneath approaching tires, and I glance automatically at the clock
IRISThe morning begins with a telephone. Not the ringing of it, I mean its arrival.By half past ten, an engineer has installed a neat cream-colored landline on the corner of my cutting table, its cord coiled so perfectly that it almost looks decorative. Daddy insisted that the studio needed its own dedicated number if I was serious about building a business."You can't expect clients to call your personal cell," he'd said over breakfast. “And although we need to get you a work cell, a landline shows an established, dedicated office space.”"I haven't got any clients.""You will."There had been that quiet certainty in his voice again, the sort that always made me wonder if he saw something in me that I hadn’t yet discovered myself.Now, as I smooth my hand across the polished wood of the worktable, the telephone sits silently beside my sketchbook like a promise that hasn't yet decided whether to keep itself.The studio feels wonderfully alive.Afternoon sunlight spills through the t
THOMASThe office feels strangely unfamiliar this morning.Not because anything has changed. The same reception desk stands beneath the Ashcroft crest carved into limestone. The same polished floors reflect the muted light. The same quiet efficiency hums beneath every conversation, as assistants move through corridors with files tucked beneath their arms and appointments already running precisely to schedule.Nothing has altered.Only me.For years I believed this building represented certainty. Problems arrived here untidy and emotional, only to leave ordered into contracts, agreements and decisions that could withstand scrutiny. It was a comforting illusion. Law and negotiations could settle ownership, responsibility, liability.It could never settle grief. Nor love.As I step from the lift, Sarah looks up from her desk with a smile."Good morning, Mr Ashcroft.""Good morning, Sarah.""You've a nine o'clock with Mr Pembroke.""I know.""He arrived early."I smile faintly. "Richard a
IRIS"Kneel for me," he says, his voice low and even, carrying that unmistakable edge of command that makes my breath catch. There's no question in it, just the quiet expectation that sends a flush of warmth through me.My body responds immediately, moving before my mind fully catches up, sliding off the sofa to the floor between his spread legs. The carpet is soft beneath my knees, and I settle there, looking up at him through my lashes. His dark eyes hold mine, intense and unyielding, while the subtle bulge in his trousers hints at the arousal building between us."You're beautiful like this," Daddy murmurs, reaching down to trace his thumb along my lower lip, his touch firm yet gentle, sending a shiver racing down my spine. The dominance in his gaze wraps around me like a velvet restraint, making my skin tingle with submission, my nipples tightening against the fabric of my bra as I lean into his hand.I feel the heat pooling between my thighs, my pussy growing slick with anticipat







