I apologized to Amber like someone fleeing a crime scene—quick, guilty, and definitely suspicious as fuck.
"Gotta go. You're the best. We'll talk soon." I squeezed her in a hug that probably communicated 'thanks for not judging my descent into sexual chaos' better than words ever could.
"Dakota Freeman, you better text me later or I'm showing up at your apartment with wine and a PowerPoint presentation about sexual empowerment!" She called after me.
God, I loved that woman.
The Sullivan Stone Company building loomed like a glass and steel reminder of all my terrible life choices.
I spotted Stephen in the parking lot, engaged in what looked like the world's most boring conversation with some suit who probably had opinions about quarterly projections.
The moment Boring Suit wandered off, I power-walked across the asphalt like a woman on a mission. Which I was. A mission to save my entire fucking career from whatever legal catastrophe was apparently threatening to destroy it.
"Hey," I said, slightly winded and probably looking like I'd been hit by the anxiety bus. "Got your message. How bad is it? Do I need to call my father? Should I be drafting resignation letters? Because I've got a template saved—"
Stephen turned with that smile that should be classified as a lethal weapon. All calm confidence while I was over here vibrating at frequencies that could shatter glass.
"Perfect timing. You're coming with me. Get in the car, Dakota." His voice had that edge to it. Сlose enough to make my brain stutter.
I slid into his Mercedes because apparently I'd lost all sense of self-preservation. The leather seats probably cost more than my student loans, and they smelled like expensive cologne and bad decisions.
"So what's the damage?" I asked as he pulled out of the lot. "Contract dispute? Zoning violation? Did someone discover asbestos? Please tell me it's not asbestos."
"You'll see," he said, which was cryptic as fuck and not helping my blood pressure.
That's when I noticed we weren't heading toward the Meridian Tower site. The route was all wrong—we were going north when we should've been going east, and the buildings were getting sparse instead of dense.
"Stephen." My voice had that dangerous quality women perfect when they know some bullshit is about to go down. "Where exactly are we going?"
"Almost there."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting right now."
My professional anxiety was rapidly morphing into something else.
Confusion mixed with the kind of anticipation that made my thighs clench involuntarily. Which was fucked up, because I should be focused on saving my career, not on how Stephen's hands looked on the steering wheel.
We pulled into what could generously be called a scenic overlook and more accurately called 'murder site from every true crime podcast.' Secluded. No witnesses. Perfect view of the city if you were into that sort of thing.
Stephen put the car in park and turned to face me, and I knew—I fucking knew—before he even opened his mouth.
"I lied in the message," he said, casual as fuck, like he hadn't just given me a minor cardiac event. "There's no urgent legal issue. I just wanted to get you alone."
The relief hit first—my career wasn't imploding, the project was safe, I wasn't about to become the Freeman who fucked up the family legacy. But the relief lasted about two seconds before it was replaced by... something else.
"You absolute bastard," I breathed, but there was no heat in it. Not when his hand was already sliding up my thigh and my body was already responding like Pavlov's sluttiest dog. "I thought my entire future was—"
"I know what you thought." His fingers traced patterns on my skin that definitely weren't in any business manual. "But tell me you're not relieved. Tell me you didn't spend the entire drive thinking about last night."
"I was thinking about litigation strategies—"
"Liar." He leaned closer, and fuck, how did he smell that good at ten in the morning? "Your breathing changed the moment you got in the car. Your pupils are dilated. And you keep pressing your thighs together like you're trying to contain something."
"That's because I thought I was about to lose everything I've worked for, you manipulative—"
He tilted my chin up, eyes blazing with heat and intention, and kissed me like he owned my next breath. My thoughts scattered instantly—short-circuited faster than a laptop in a bathtub. All my resolve, my carefully constructed boundaries? Gone the second his hand tangled in my hair, tugging just hard enough to make my knees weak.
“Stephen,” I breathed, but it came out more like a moan than a protest. “This is a terrible ide—”
“It’s the only idea that makes sense right now.” His voice was dark velvet, sliding straight past logic and into something low and aching. “No one's here. No one’s watching. And you’re already wet, aren’t you?”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
“This is absolutely sexual coercion,” I said weakly.
His fingers inched upward, dragging over the soft fabric of my dress, heading way too close to where I was undeniably soaked.
He leaned closer, his mouth brushing my ear as his other hand moved to his belt. “And you, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice like sin wrapped in silk, “sucking me off because you’re dying to feel me in your mouth.”
The sharp clink of his belt buckle snapped me straight into arousal.
I should’ve opened the door and walked away. I should’ve told him to take me back to the office and pretended like this never happened. I should’ve said something—anything—other than what I did next.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I turned toward him, heart pounding, and reached across the center console. My hand brushed over his thigh—solid muscle under tailored slacks—and found the bulge that had been pressing at the fabric.
My fingers moved on their own. I unzipped him slowly, deliberately, savoring the way his breath caught as I did it. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, leaking at the tip. My mouth went dry and wet at the same time.
I just leaned in.
Bent over the console and let my lips brush the tip, tasting salt and want. He sucked in a sharp breath as my tongue flicked out, circling the head, teasing him slowly. My hand wrapped around the base, stroking with slow pressure while my mouth opened to take more of him in.
His hand threaded into my hair almost immediately—firm, not forceful, guiding me with a grip that sent shivers down my spine.
“Jesus,” he groaned. “Look at you…”
I didn’t look at anything.
I devoured him. Long, slow sucks that made his hips twitch. I loved the way he lost composure, the quiet curse when I swallowed him deeper, the low rumble of his moan vibrating through the close air of the car.
Every time I pulled back, he chased me with his hips. Every time I went deeper, he praised me in a voice thick with restraint and arousal.
“Fuck, Dakota. That mouth—”
My body was on fire. Wet. Pulsing. My thighs pressed together as I moaned around him, drunk on power, on taste, on the sound of him unraveling under my tongue.
When he pulled me off, I was gasping, smeared with him, panting.
“Get in my lap,” he ordered, voice wrecked.
I straddled him clumsily in the driver’s seat, dress riding high, and he rolled on a condom with one hand like he’d done it a hundred times. I didn’t care. I just needed him.
He pushed inside fast, deep, stretching me around him, and we both groaned in relief.
“Dakota,” he gasped, slamming up into me. “Fuck, you feel even better than I remembered.”
I clenched around him, chasing my own high, riding him hard while gripping the headrest for balance.
The orgasm hit like a freight train, leaving me shaking and temporarily blind while Stephen followed right after, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks.
We sat there for a moment, breathing hard, the reality of what we'd just done settling over us like fog. I was still straddling him, dress bunched around my waist, looking like every HR violation ever written.
The car's Bluetooth chose that moment to light up with an incoming call. Before either of us could react, Stephen's phone auto-answered, and Raphael's voice filled the car like a bucket of ice water.
"Have you seen Dakota today?" His tone was controlled but tight. "I've been trying to reach her, but she's not answering."
Raphael's voice through the car speaker hit like a bucket of ice water to the face. I was still straddling Stephen, dress bunched around my waist, looking like the poster child for poor life choices. But Stephen? That smooth bastard didn't even flinch.