I shifted in my chair for the third time in as many minutes, trying to find a position that didn't make me acutely aware of exactly what Wendell had done to me an hour ago.

  Across the desk, Mr. Stiltskin—Rumpelstiltskin, though no one called him that to his face—watched me with those sharp, calcuting eyes. He was smaller than I'd expected. Dapper. Expensive suit, gold cufflinks, the kind of man who'd learned to make up for his stature with presence.

  "As I was saying," he continued, gesturing with manicured hands, "Spinning Straw Into Gold has seen a three-hundred-percent increase in membership over the past eighteen months. Wealthy women, professional women, women who don't have time for the usual dating nonsense. They come to my clubs, they network with other women of their caliber, and they have access to a curated selection of eligible men."

  I nodded, trying to focus on his pitch instead of the dull, pleasant ache in my ass. Wendell had known exactly what he was doing this morning. Making me te. Making me think about him. Making me feel him with every shift in my seat.

  *Bastard.* Affectionate. Exasperated. Because I'd loved every second of it and he knew it.

  The problem was I could still feel him. Not just the soreness—though that was there, a constant reminder with every movement—but *him*. His cum, still inside me. I'd showered, gotten dressed in my suit, driven to the office, and sat down across from a potential client with my boyfriend's seed still in me.

  It should have felt wrong. Unprofessional. A distraction.

  Instead, it felt... right. Secret. Like I was sitting here in my tailored suit and tie, discussing business and loan terms, while carrying this intimate piece of Wendell with me. No one knew. Stiltskin had no idea that the man across from him had been face-down in bed an hour ago, begging. That I'd submitted completely. That I'd come so hard I'd seen stars.

  And somehow that made it easier to sit here, professional upstanding and in control, knowing what was underneath it all.

  "You're essentially running an elite matchmaking service," I said, pulling my attention back to business.

  "I prefer to think of it as facilitating connections." Stiltskin smiled. It didn't quite reach his eyes. "These women have everything—education, careers, money. What they don't have is time. Or access. My clubs provide both."

  "And the men?"

  "Carefully vetted. Professional. Attractive. Men who are looking for the same thing these women are—partnership with someone on their level." He leaned forward. "I'm not running some tawdry escort service. These are legitimate connections. Marriages have come out of my clubs. Families."

  I shifted again—felt it, felt *him*—and had to bite back something that was half-grimace, half-smile. Wendell would be smug as hell if he knew. Probably was smug, sitting at home right now, imagining exactly this.

  "You're looking to expand," I said, gncing at the proposal he'd sent over. "Three new locations. Significant capital investment."

  "The demand is there. I have waiting lists in five cities."

  I tried to focus. Revenue models. Risk assessment. Market saturation. But my mind kept drifting—to Wendell's hands grasping my hips, his voice in my ear, the way he'd pinned me down and taken what was his because he knew I needed him to.

  "Mr. House?" Stiltskin's voice cut through my distraction. "Are you alright?"

  "Fine," I said, too quickly. Then, more measured: "Long morning."

  His smile sharpened just slightly, like he suspected something but was too polite—or too smart—to ask.

  "I'm sure," he said smoothly.

  "Walk me through the revenue model again..."