"The engagement was never my choice."
Jared's voice carries the weight of years compressed into syllables, and I sink into the leather chair across from his desk while he paces the length of his office like a caged animal finally allowed to speak.
"My grandfather built Spencer Hospitality from nothing. Immigrant money, desperate determination, the kind of ambition that burns everything else away."
He pauses at the window, storm-blue eyes fixed on the Manhattan skyline.
"When he was dying, he made me promise to marry Winnie. Her family's connections would secure contracts we needed. Their money would fund expansion. It was a merger disguised as a marriage proposal."
"And you agreed?"
"I was twenty-two and watching the only father figure I'd ever known waste away in a hospital bed."
He turns to face me, and his composure cracks just enough for me to see the boy underneath the businessman.
"He asked me to save everything he'd built. How was I supposed to say no?"
The words hit somewhere deep in my chest.
How was I supposed to say no?
I think of Elsie's hopeful face. Of standing in that hotel suite in white lace, ready to let a monster touch me because saving her mattered more than saving myself.
I understand him. Completely. The things we do for the people we love, the lines we'll cross to protect what matters most—I know that desperation intimately.
"But you've postponed the wedding," I say carefully. "For years, from what I understand."
"Every delay I could manufacture." A bitter laugh escapes his throat. "Business emergencies. Renovation schedules. A pandemic that bought me eighteen months of breathing room. Winnie's family grows impatient, and my mother reminds me weekly that I'm dishonoring a dying man's wish."
"Why not just end it? Tell them the truth?"
"Because the contracts are already signed, Raegan. Breaking the engagement triggers penalty clauses that could cripple Spencer Hospitality. Winnie's family made certain of that."
He crosses to where I'm sitting, kneeling before me so our eyes are level.
"I've spent years trying to find a way out that doesn't destroy everything my grandfather sacrificed for."
His hands find mine, fingers interlacing with desperate urgency. The composed businessman disappears entirely, replaced by someone raw and unguarded.
"And then you walked into my kitchen." His voice drops, rough with emotion. "You stood there in your chef's whites, completely unaware that you were dismantling every defense I'd built. Every excuse I'd manufactured for why this loveless arrangement was acceptable."
"Jared, I never meant to complicate your life like this."
"You didn't complicate it. You illuminated it."
He brings my knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss against each one.
"I love you, Raegan. Only you. Not because of obligation or contracts or dying wishes. Because when I'm near you, I remember what it feels like to want something for myself."
The words detonate in my chest like a bomb wrapped in velvet.
He loves me. Jared Spencer loves me.
"I'm handling Winnie," he continues, thumbs tracing circles on my wrists. "I'm handling my family. But you need to know where my heart is before this goes any further. It's yours."
I should say it back. The response sits on my tongue like a confession waiting to spill, but fear clamps my throat shut.
Three little words that would change everything, that would make this real in ways I'm not prepared to face.
So I show him instead.
I slide from the chair onto my knees, watching his eyes widen as understanding dawns. My fingers find his belt with trembling determination, and when he starts to protest, I press a finger to his lips.
Let me show you what I can't say yet.
His breath catches as I free him from expensive fabric, and—oh. He's beautiful in a way I didn't know men could be beautiful here, thick and flushed and straining toward me.
Panic flutters in my chest.
What if I do this wrong?
But I've spent years listening to Scarlett narrate her encounters in excruciating detail over our coffee breaks. Every technique she's described, every reaction she's catalogued, every "and then I did this thing with my tongue" demonstration using various food items.
It's all filed away in my brain like recipes I've memorized but never cooked.
Time to see if theoretical knowledge translates.
I start with what Scarlett calls "the tease"—light touches, exploratory strokes, watching his face like it's a recipe I'm learning to read. His jaw tightens when I grip too firmly, so I ease up.
His breath hitches when my thumb finds the sensitive ridge beneath the head, so I repeat the motion. "Raegan, you don't have to—"
I take him into my mouth before he can finish, and the groan that tears from his throat tells me I'm doing something right.
The office door swings open without warning.
Kobe freezes in the doorway, amber eyes going wide as he processes the scene. Jared on the edge of his desk, pants undone. Me on my knees between his thighs, mouth full and cheeks hollowed.
The thought should make me stop. Should make me die of embarrassment and crawl under the desk. Instead, I hold Kobe's gaze as I work Jared deeper, watching those amber eyes darken with something that makes my thighs press together.
But Kobe doesn't leave.
He closes the door behind him. Locks it. Leans against the frame with an expression that shifts from shock to hunger.
"Don't stop on my account," he says, voice rough. "I've been wondering what you look like when you're not in control."
The words are directed at Jared, but his eyes never leave mine.
I return my attention to Jared, hyperaware of Kobe's gaze burning into my back. The knowledge that I'm being observed makes everything sharper. I pay attention to every sound, every twitch of muscle.
When Jared's hand fists in my hair, I know he's close. When his breathing turns ragged and broken, I double my efforts until his hips stutter and he spills across my tongue with a broken moan.
Before I can catch my breath, Kobe is behind me. His hands grip my waist, lifting me onto the desk.
"Want me to stop?" he murmurs against my neck.
I should say yes. I should have some modicum of sanity left. "No."
They take turns—Kobe inside me while Jared whispers encouragement against my ear, then switching until I've lost count of how many times I've shattered between them. The desk groans beneath our combined weight. Papers scatter like snow.
When we finally still, Kobe and Jared exchange a look over my trembling body. Understanding passes between them, silent and significant—an acknowledgment that whatever this is, it belongs to all of us now.
I stand on shaking legs, surveying the destruction.
"This is insane," I whisper.
Neither man disagrees.