Chapter 116: The Immediate Response
The Dubai call was a fucking disaster. A three-way negotiation between a sleep-deprived Kash, a pretentious French sculptor who kept invoking “artistic integrity,” and a hotel magnate who clearly wanted the installation for tax purposes, not beauty. Kash’s temples throbbed. He was marshaling data, leveraging contacts, his voice a calm blade slicing through the bullshit, when his phone vibrated against the polished conference table.
A notification. Amber. He almost swiped it away, but the preview text snagged his eye like a fishhook.
Missed you. Here’s what you missed.
An attachment. A video file.
His blood, already pumping with adversarial caffeine, diverted in a single, hot rush. The numbers on the screen, the droning voices through the speakerphone, blurred into static. “Gentlemen, excuse me for one moment. A critical family matter,” he said, his tone leaving no room for objection. He muted his line, stood, and walked out of his office with a controlled stride that felt like a lie.
The executive bathroom was cold marble and recessed lighting. He locked the door, leaned back against it, and opened the video.
The first frame—Amber, on their bed at the lakehouse, sunlight gilding her skin—stole the air from his lungs. Then she moved. The look in her eye, direct to the camera, to him, was a challenge and an offering. His hand was already fumbling with his belt, his zipper, before he consciously formed the thought. He freed his cock, already rock-hard, as her tongue touched the black silicone.
“Christ,” he whispered, the word echoing in the sterile room.
He watched, transfixed, as she brought the wand down. His thumb stroked his length in time with the circles he imagined she was making, a poor imitation. Then her fingers plunged into herself, and the raw, wet sound of it, coupled with her voice—broken, wanting, saying his name—unraveled him completely.
“Wish you were here to see this. To feel how fucking wet I am for you.”
A groan tore from his throat. He tightened his grip, stroking faster, his hips driving into his own fist. He wasn’t in a bathroom. He was there, on that bed, his mouth replacing the toy, his tongue lapping at her clit, his fingers buried deep inside her, feeling her contract around him. He imagined her taste, the musky-sweet scent of her arousal, the feel of her thighs clamping around his head.
“I’m gonna come all over this toy thinking about your mouth. Thinking about you begging on this bed.”
Her words were the final spark. His control, the last vestige he’d clung to through the shitty meeting, vaporized. Heat coiled, tight and urgent, at the base of his spine. “Fuck, Amber,” he grunted, his forehead pressing against the cool marble wall. His strokes became short, frantic jerks. With a choked, stifled roar, he came, his release splashing in thick, white streaks against the pristine white sink. He shuddered through it, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the phone still clutched in his other hand, paused on her spent, smiling face.
For a long moment, he just stood there, spent, listening to the hum of the building’s ventilation. The image of her—powerful, solitary, utterly wanton—seared into his mind. A possessive, aching pride swelled beneath the fatigue. She wasn’t pining. She was claiming. And she was claiming him.
He cleaned himself up efficiently, washed the sink, smoothed his tie. His reflection in the mirror showed flushed skin, dark eyes glittering with a renewed, singular focus. The problems in Dubai were noise. This was the signal.
He unlocked the door and walked back into his office, picking up the headset. “My apologies. Where were we?”
He concluded the call in under five minutes, deploying a brutal, take-it-or-leave-it ultimatum that left the sculptor sputtering and the magnate agreeing. He didn’t care. He texted his pilot, then opened his messages to Amber. His thumbs moved decisively.
Kash: I’m leaving now.
Kash: Don’t you dare touch yourself again until I get there.
He powered down his computer, grabbed his coat, and was in the back of the car heading to the airport within twenty minutes. The city lights streaked by, meaningless now. His whole world had condensed to a point north, to a lake, to a bed with red linens and a black satin pouch on his pillow.
The lakehouse was dark except for the porch light when the car crunched up the gravel drive just after midnight. The silence was profound, layered with the whisper of pines and the lap of water. He let himself in, the familiar creak of the door overly loud.
The master bedroom was lit by a single small lamp. Amber was asleep, or pretending to be. She lay on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek. She wore one of his old t-shirts. The sheet was pulled to her waist. On his pillow, exactly as promised, sat the small black pouch.
He stood in the doorway, drinking her in. The fierce urgency that had propelled him 600 miles softened into something deeper, more voracious. He quietly stripped off his travel clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. He approached the bed, his shadow falling over her.
He didn’t wake her with a touch. He opened the pouch and pulled out the wand. It was cool, inert. He clicked the remote on. The deep, familiar thrum filled the quiet space between them.
Amber’s eyes fluttered open. She didn’t startle. She smiled, slow and sleepy and knowing. “You made good time.”
“You left me no choice.” His voice was gravel. He knelt on the bed beside her. With his other hand, he pushed the hem of the t-shirt up, over her hips, exposing her. “You told me not to touch you.”
“I did.”
“This isn’t me touching you.” He lowered the humming head of the wand, not to her clit, but to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. He traced a slow, torturous path upward. She inhaled sharply, her legs falling open in silent invitation. “This is me returning what you sent. With interest.”
He finally let the broad silicone tip press against her. She was already wet, her warmth welcoming the vibration. He watched her face, her lips parting, her eyes glazing over. He kept the pressure steady, unrelenting, mimicking the rhythm from the video but without the frantic need. This was a reclamation.
“You put on a hell of a show,” he said, his own desire a live wire inside him. “Sitting in my office, watching you come for me. You have any idea what that did?”
“I hoped,” she gasped, her hips beginning to lift.
He pulled the wand away. A whimper escaped her. “Uh-uh. My turn to direct.” He pushed her thighs wider. “I thought about my tongue right here.” He replaced the wand, the vibrations making her jolt. “I thought about you grinding against my face until you screamed.” He increased the speed. Her back arched. “But most of all, I thought about this.”
He dropped the wand on the bed beside her. Before she could process its absence, he was on her, his body covering hers, his cock—hard and aching—nudging against her soaked entrance. He didn’t tease. He gripped her hip with one hand, guided himself with the other, and slammed into her in one deep, claiming stroke.
The cry that ripped from her was pure, undiluted satisfaction. She was so fucking tight, so wet, her body clamping around him like a fist. He buried his face in her neck, breathing her in—lake air, her vanilla scent, the faint, musky trace of her earlier pleasure.
“This,” he growled against her skin, pulling out almost all the way before driving back in, hard. “This is what you missed. This is what I need. Not a toy. Me.”
“Yes,” she hissed, her nails digging into his back. “God, Kash, yes.”
He set a punishing pace, each thrust a wordless answer to her video, to her defiance, to her vulnerability. It was fucking, raw and primal, the bedframe knocking a steady rhythm against the wall. He crushed his mouth to hers, swallowing her moans, his tongue mimicking the invasion of his cock.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his breath hot on her lips. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You,” she panted, her legs locking around his waist, pulling him deeper. “You, you, you.”
“Say it again.”
“I’m yours, Kash! Fuck, I’m yours!” The confession tipped her over the edge. Her climax tore through her, a violent, shaking wave that clenched around him, milking him, pulling his own release from the very marrow of his bones.
He came with a deep, guttural shout, pumping into her, spilling himself as deep inside her as he could get. The world narrowed to the feel of her pulsing around him, the slick heat of their joined bodies, the ragged symphony of their breathing.
He collapsed onto her, his weight anchoring her to the bed. They were a mess of sweat and spent passion. After a long while, he rolled, taking her with him, keeping her wrapped in his arms.
Her head lay on his chest. Her fingers traced the tattoo over his heart. The wand, still buzzing faintly where it had fallen, was now just a piece of plastic on a rumpled sheet.
“Did you fix it?” she asked quietly. “The Dubai thing?”
“It’s handled.” He kissed the top of her head. “This was more important.”
She lifted her head, her eyes searching his in the low light. “I wasn’t trying to distract you. I just… needed you to know I was here. That I could be here, by myself, and still be yours.”
He understood. The video wasn’t just arousal; it was a bridge. A way to say the loneliness had teeth, but so did she. He cupped her cheek. “You scared the shit out of me. In the best way.”
She smiled, that radiant, contagious smile that had disarmed him from the very first nail appointment. It looked different now, layered with the intimacy of sweat and shared secrets. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that no deal, no amount of money or power, would ever feel as essential as this right here—this woman, this trust, this raw, complicated frequency they built between them, call and response, across any distance.
The hum of the lakehouse at dawn was a different creature. It was the groan of old pipes, the chitter of birds, the first faint line of peach light cutting across the floorboards. Kash woke to it, his body still tangled with hers, the scent of their sex a stale perfume on the sheets. Amber slept deeply, her breathing a soft counter-rhythm to the quiet. He carefully extracted his arm from beneath her and slid from the bed.
He moved through the quiet rooms, starting coffee, checking on the twins who slept lumped together like puppies. The normalcy of it was a grounding wire. He stood at the kitchen window, watching mist rise off the water, the black satin pouch from the nightstand now a weight in his hand. The video played behind his eyes, not as arousal, but as scripture. A text of her need.
Back in the bedroom, the coffee’s rich smell followed him. Amber stirred as he placed a steaming mug on her nightstand. Her eyes opened, dark and unguarded with sleep. She saw the pouch in his hand and her lips curved.
“Morning,” she rasped.
“It is.” He sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled the wand from the pouch, holding it up between them. It was just a thing. Plastic and silicone and a battery. And yet it thrummed with memory. “You remember what I said. In the text.”
She pushed herself up against the headboard, the sheet pooling at her waist. Her gaze was clear, direct. “I remember. ‘Don’t you dare touch yourself again until I get there.’”
“And did you?” He let the question hang. “After you sent that video. After you made me come in a corporate bathroom sink. Did you touch yourself again before I got home?”
She held his stare. A faint flush rose on her chest. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you told me not to.”
The simplicity of her answer, the utter lack of defiance or coyness, hit him in the solar plexus. It was a different kind of power than she’d wielded with the wand. This was the power of ceding power. It was an atom bomb of trust.
He nodded, once. He believed her. He set the wand aside. “Show me.”
Her eyebrows lifted, just a fraction. A silent question.
“You heard me.” His voice was quiet, gravel-rough. “You didn’t touch yourself. So now you’re going to show me what that did. How wet you got just from being good. From obeying.”
A sharp inhale. Her pupils dilated, swallowing the warm brown of her irises. She didn’t look away. Slowly, deliberately, she pushed the sheet down her legs. She shifted, settling back, and let her knees fall apart. The morning light caught the glistening proof between her thighs.
She was soaked. A sleek, swollen testament to a night of denial. The dark curls were plastered, her inner lips slick and pouting. The scent of her, musky and deep, unfurled in the space between them.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word punched out of him.
“See?” she whispered, her voice thick. “I listened.”
He moved. He didn’t kiss her. He put his hands on the inside of her thighs, pushing them wider, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. He lowered his head. His tongue was a broad, flat stroke through her soaked folds, licking up the accumulated want. She cried out, her hands flying to his hair, fisting in the short curls.
He ate her with a single-minded hunger, lapping at her clit, suckling the hard little bud, spearing his tongue into her opening to taste the very heart of her obedience. It was salt and heat and a faint, electric tang. Her hips bucked off the bed, seeking more, fucking his face.
“That’s it,” he growled against her, the vibration making her shriek. “This is your reward. This is what you earned. Come all over my tongue, Amber. Do it.”
He pinned her hips down with his hands, holding her still for the ravishment of his mouth. He worked her with ruthless precision, his tongue circling, flicking, plunging. Her pleas were a broken chant, his name and “please” and “don’t stop” woven together. He felt the exact moment her control shattered. Her entire body seized, rigid, a silent scream trapped in her throat before it broke into a raw, shaking wail.
She flooded his mouth, pulsing around his tongue, her climax wracking her in long, violent waves. He drank her down, relentless, until she was a trembling, oversensitive mess, pushing weakly at his head.
He crawled up her body, his lips and chin slick with her. He kissed her, forcing her to taste herself on his tongue. She whimpered into the kiss, her body still jerking with aftershocks.
He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against her slick, swollen flesh. He looked down at her, her face wrecked with pleasure, her eyes dazed. “You obeyed perfectly,” he said, his voice husky with reverence and possession.
He sank into her in one slow, devastating inch. She was so impossibly tight, hot, and wet, clenching around him like a velvet fist. He groaned, his forehead dropping to hers. “Christ. You feel like heaven made just for me.”
“It is,” she gasped, her legs wrapping around his waist, heels digging into his ass. “It is. Now fuck me, Kash. No more waiting. Just fuck me.”
He obeyed. He pulled out and drove back in, setting a deep, pounding rhythm that shook the bed. Each thrust was a claim, a punctuation to the long night of distance and digital connection. This was analog. This was blood and bone and sweat.
“Tell me whose pussy this is,” he demanded, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. The slap of skin on skin filled the room.
“Yours!” she cried, arching to meet him.
“Louder.”
“It’s yours, Kash! It’s always been yours!” The confession tore from her, raw and true, as he angled his hips, hitting a spot that made her see stars.
He could feel his own climax building, a pressure gathering in his balls, tightening up the base of his spine. He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “Come with me. Now.”
It was an order she couldn’t refuse. Her second orgasm slammed into her, a brutal, convulsing takeover that milked his cock in rhythmic pulses. With a guttural roar, he followed her over, plunging deep as he came, his release jetting into her in hot, endless spurts. He collapsed, his weight crushing her into the mattress, both of them slick and spent and utterly fused.
Long minutes later, he managed to roll, taking her with him. She lay sprawled on his chest, listening to the frantic hammer of his heart slow into a steady, powerful rhythm. The peach light had turned to gold.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Once. Twice. A third time.
“Ignore it,” he murmured, his hand stroking her spine.
“Can’t.” Her voice was muffled against his skin. “It’s Monique’s ring.”
She reached for it, squinting at the screen. Not a call. A barrage of texts. Amber’s body went still. Then tense.
“What?” Kash asked, feeling the change in her.
Amber sat up, the sheet falling away. She stared at the phone, her face paling beneath its glow. “It’s not about Dubai.” She looked at him, her eyes wide with a shock that had nothing to do with pleasure. “It’s about the artist. The sculptor. They just found him in his studio.”
She swallowed. “Kash, he’s dead.”