Chapter 117: The Good Girl's Reward
The word “dead” hung in the sunlit room, a ugly, discordant note in the aftermath of sweat and satisfaction. The scent of sex turned suddenly cloying.
Kash didn’t move, but Amber felt the shift in him immediately. The languid, possessive warmth that had cradded her vanished, replaced by a wire-tight alertness. His hand, which had been stroking her back, stilled.
“Say that again.” His voice was flat, stripped of all gravel and warmth.
“Monique.” Amber held up the phone as if it were evidence. The screen was a chaos of frantic texts. “She just got a call from Laurent’s assistant. They found him in his Marrakech studio this morning. There’s… there’s talk it wasn’t natural causes.”
Kash sat up slowly, the sheet pooling at his waist. The morning light carved the sharp planes of his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw. He stared at the city skyline, but he wasn’t seeing it. He was seeing flowcharts, timelines, liability matrices. The Dubai deal wasn’t just a deal; it was a multi-layered acquisition involving Kash’s venture fund, the Dubai hotel group, and Laurent Desjardins as the coveted artistic centerpiece. A dead centerpiece complicated everything. Severely.
“Fuck,” he said, the word quiet and final.
He swung his legs out of bed and stood, a study of coiled motion. He found his phone on the floor beside his discarded pants. He scrolled, tapped, put the phone to his ear. “Charles. It’s Kash. You’ve heard about Laurent Desjardins… Yeah. I want everything. Local police preliminaries, who found him, the hotel group’s internal reaction, every clause in our contracts pertaining to force majeure and key-man risk. And discreetly. I don’t want a single breath of panic hitting our side of the deal. Get Mark on legal, have him triangulate with the Dubai team. I need a briefing in two hours.”
He listened, his expression granite. “No. I don’t care what the preliminary talk is. We operate on facts. Get them.” He ended the call.
The room felt different. The sanctuary had been breached. Amber watched him, the reality settling over her like a chill. She pulled the sheet around herself. “What does this mean?”
“It means the twelve-million-dollar installation is now a potential crime scene souvenir. It means the hotel group might try to back out, or worse, litigate for failure to deliver on the partnership promise. It means every vulture in the art and finance world will be circling by lunchtime.” He ran a hand over his face, then looked at her. The warmth returned to his eyes, but it was grim, underscored by worry. “It also means my morning just got swallowed.”
He moved to her, crouching down before the bed so they were eye-level. He took her hand, his thumb smoothing over her knuckles. “I’m sorry. The… reward… is going to have to be postponed.”
She squeezed his hand. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. This is what you do. Go handle it.”
He kissed her, a hard, promising press of his lips. “Hold that thought. All of them.”
An hour later, the house was a study in controlled chaos. Kash, dressed in a charcoal sweat suit that looked as commanding as a suit, was a vortex in his study, his voice a low, constant rumble through the speakerphone, layered over the rapid clack of a keyboard from his assistant Charles on the line. The twins, Sincere and Sidnee, sensitive to the shift in atmosphere, were fussier than usual, their usual breakfast babble replaced with whines.
Amber moved through it, an anchor in the storm. She handled the twins, her voice a calm, melodic counterpoint to the tension emanating from the study. She fed them, changed them, engaged them with soft toys, all while monitoring the texts from Monique, who was now a live wire of artistic gossip and panic.
“The word is ‘suspicious circumstances,’ Kash,” Amber said, leaning in the doorway of the study during a brief pause in his call. “Monique says there was a broken sculpture nearby. Not one of his. Something… foreign.”
Kash muted his line. His eyes were sharp. “Foreign how?”
“She doesn’t know. Just that it wasn’t part of his collection. The police are asking about his recent commissions, his conflicts.”
Kash unmuted. “Charles, add a layer. We need a full dossier on Laurent’s professional disputes from the last five years. Any scorned patrons, rival artists, curators he fucked over. Yes, I know it’s a long list. Make it happen.”
By midday, the twins were down for their nap, the house plunging into a fragile quiet. Kash was still in his study, the door closed, but Amber could feel the intensity radiating through the wood. She made a plate of food—a chicken salad sandwich, sliced fruit—and nudged the door open.
He was standing at the window, his back to her, phone to his ear. “...under no circumstance do we mention the word ‘murder.’ Not until it’s a confirmed headline from a credible source. Our position is profound sadness at the loss of a visionary, and full confidence in the ongoing viability of the project, potentially with a dedicated commemorative component. Yes. Pitch it as a tribute.”
He ended the call and turned. He looked drained, but his gaze was fiercely intelligent, burning with the challenge.
“Eat,” she said, setting the plate on his desk.
He didn’t move toward the food. He looked at her, really looked, taking in her soft leggings, his old Howard University t-shirt, her hair piled in a messy bun. She was the antithesis of the crisis—soft, present, real.
“I need to get out of my head,” he said, his voice rough.
“The food will help.”
“That’s not what I need.”
The way he said it, low and direct, cut through the residual buzz of deal-talk. The air in the study changed, thickening. The large mahogany desk was a landscape of paperwork and glowing screens, a monument to the crisis. He walked around it, coming to stand before her.
“You were so good this morning,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. “Handling everything. Letting me work.”
“You had to work.”
“I did. And now I need to not think about dead artists and hostile contracts.” His hand slid down, over the cotton covering her breast, his thumb brushing her nipple. It peaked instantly under the fabric. “I need to think about you. About how you taste. About how you obey.”
Her breath hitched. This was the shift, the drop into the private dialect they shared. Here, in the middle of the storm, was their eye.
“On your knees,” she whispered.
A spark of surprise, then pure, unadulterated heat flashed in his eyes. This was her claiming the control, offering him the oblivion he craved. He sank to his knees on the plush rug without hesitation, his hands coming to rest on his thighs. He looked up at her, the powerful CEO brought to heel, his expression open and waiting.
She reached down, hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her leggings and her panties, and pushed them down in one slow motion. She stepped out of them, kicking the fabric aside. The afternoon sun streamed across her bare skin.
“You’ve been so good today,” she said, her voice taking on a low, commanding tone she knew unraveled him. “Managing your empire. Being a father. Carrying this weight. You deserve a reward.”
She spread her feet slightly, giving him a view. She was already wet, her folds glistening with an arousal that had been simmering since dawn, heightened by the day’s tension. The scent of her, warm and musky, filled the space between them.
“Show me how much you want it,” she commanded.
A groan tore from his throat. He didn’t need further invitation. His hands flew to her hips, gripping hard, and he pulled her forward, burying his face between her legs with a desperate, hungry sound.
His tongue was a revelation. It was not the tender, worshipful licking from the morning. This was frenzied, possessive, a starving man at a feast. He lapped at her slit, broad, flat strokes that gathered her wetness, then zeroed in on her clit, sucking the hard bud into his mouth, flicking it with the rapid tip of his tongue.
“Oh, fuck, Kash,” she moaned, her hands flying to his head, her fingers twisting in his short curls. She rolled her hips, fucking his face, seeking more pressure, more friction. The sharp, coiling tension began to build immediately, a counterpoint to the stress of the day.
He slid a hand around, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass, holding her open for him. He drove his tongue deeper, spearing into her opening, tasting her deeply before returning to her clit with relentless focus. The sounds were obscene—wet, sloppy, desperate—and they filled the quiet study, drowning out the memory of ringing phones.
“That’s it,” she panted, her head falling back. “Right there. Don’t you stop. Make me come all over that brilliant mouth of yours.”
He redoubled his efforts, his nose grinding against her, his tongue a wicked, unceasing instrument. He was murmuring against her, filthy, broken praise. “So fucking sweet… god, I need this… my pussy… give it to me…”
The climax hit her fast and brutal, a seismic release that tore through her center and radiated outward. She cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound as her knees buckled. He held her up, his mouth sealed to her, drinking down every pulse and shudder until she was weakly pushing at his shoulders, oversensitive and spent.
He released her, his lips and chin glistening. He looked wrecked, his eyes black with desire, his cock a hard, obvious ridge straining against his sweatpants. He was breathing like he’d run a mile.
“Please,” he begged, the word ragged. “Amber. I need to come. Let me come for you.”
She was still swimming in the aftershocks, her body boneless. She looked down at him, at the raw need on his face. This was the surrender he needed. The permission.
“How?” she breathed.
“Your hand. Just your hand. Let me watch your face.”
She nodded.
He scrambled to his feet, his fingers fumbling with the drawstring of his pants. He shoved them and his briefs down just enough to free his cock. It was thick, flushed dark, veins standing out in relief, leaking at the tip. He took her right hand—the one with the long, sharp, blinged-out nails—and wrapped her fingers around his length.
“Like that,” he gritted out. “Just… move.”
She began to stroke him, her grip firm, her thumb smearing the precum over the swollen head. His eyes locked on hers, a depth of vulnerability in them that he showed no one else. His hips began to pump in time with her strokes.
“Talk to me,” he gasped. “Tell me I’m yours.”
“You’re mine,” she whispered, leaning in, her lips brushing his. “This cock is mine. All this stress, all this power… it’s all for me. Now come for me, Kash. Let it go.”
A harsh, choked sound escaped him. His body tensed, every muscle corded. His thrusts into her fist became frantic, irregular. “I’m… fuck, I’m gonna…”
“Do it.”
With a guttural roar that was part relief, part anguish, he came. His release shot over her fingers, hot and thick, stripes of it landing on her still-bare stomach and thigh. He shuddered through it, his forehead falling against her shoulder, his body trembling with the force of his orgasm.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, leaning against the massive desk, his spent cock still in her slick hand, his breath hot on her neck. The frantic energy that had surrounded him had bled out, leaving a heavy, sated exhaustion.
He finally lifted his head. He took her soiled hand gently, brought it to his mouth, and kissed her knuckles, licking his own spend from her skin with a slow, intimate care that made her shiver. He found a box of tissues on the desk and cleaned them both up with a tender, practical focus.
He pulled his pants up, then tugged her leggings back over her hips, his movements slow and deliberate. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, his face buried in her hair.
“Thank you,” he whispered, the words muffled.
She just held him, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart against her cheek. The crisis hadn’t disappeared. Laurent Desjardins was still dead. The deal was still in jeopardy. But for now, the man she loved was anchored again.
His phone buzzed on the desk. Once. Twice.
He sighed, the sound lifting his chest. He released her and picked it up. He read the message, his face settling back into its lines of command, but it was a calmer, more focused resolve.
“Charles,” he said. “The police in Marrakech have officially labeled it a homicide. Blunt force trauma. The broken sculpture wasn’t his. It was a piece listed for a competing gallery show in Dubai next month.” He met Amber’s eyes. “It wasn’t random. This was about the deal.”
He put an arm around her, pulling her close as he typed a one-handed response. The sanctuary was breached, yes. But they were inside it together, and now they knew the storm had a name, and a direction. It was coming for them.
The silence that followed his words was dense, charged with the new shape of their reality. A murder. A targeted one. Their deal was now a crime scene. Kash’s thumb stroked absently over her hip, his mind already racing down new, darker pathways.
“I have to call Dubai,” he said, his voice detached, tactical. “And our security team.”
She nodded against his chest, understanding the shift. The intimate space they’d carved out was already collapsing under the weight of this new threat. She pulled back, her hands framing his face. “Do what you need to do. I’ll hold everything else down.”
He searched her eyes, finding the unshakable steadiness he relied on. He kissed her, hard and brief. “I love you.”
“I know.”
She gave him the space he needed. She withdrew from the study, closing the door softly on the resumption of his low, urgent voice. The house felt different now; the sunlight through the windows seemed to illuminate threats instead of warmth.
Sidnee and Sincere were just waking from their nap, their cheerful babbling a necessary, life-affirming antidote. “Come on, you two,” she said, forcing brightness into her tone. “Let’s go get some air.”
The backyard was a secured, sun-drenched paradise. The twins, their walking now confident and wobbly-toddling, squealed with delight on the soft grass. Amber watched them chase a large rubber ball, their diapered bottoms bouncing, their falls cushioned by the lawn. She watched them, but part of her was inside that study, tracing the lines of worry on her husband’s face.
After an hour, their energy was spent. Sidnee plopped down on a patch of clover, sucking her thumb, while Sincere lay on his back, blinking sleepily at the sky. They were damp with sweat and grass stains.
“Okay, my little explorers,” Amber murmured, gathering them up. “You’re a mess.”
She took them inside, straight to the massive soaking tub in her bathroom. She filled it with warm water and a capful of lavender baby wash. Stripping them down, she lowered herself in with them, the warm water enveloping all three. Sincere splashed happily, while Sidnee tried to catch the bubbles with her chubby hands. Amber washed the day from their skin, from their soft hair, the simple ritual a grounding counterpoint to the chaos. She wouldn’t have to do it later. One less thing.
Afterwards, wrapped in fluffy towels, she got them into fresh onesies. They were drowsy, their heads heavy on her shoulders as she carried them to their nursery. She rocked them in the oversized glider, humming until their breathing evened out into the deep rhythm of a late nap.
The silence of the house was profound. Kash’s office door remained shut.
She went to the kitchen. She needed her hands busy, to create something nurturing and tangible. She pulled out the heavy cast-iron skillets. She seasoned chicken thighs with a storm of paprika, garlic powder, onion powder, salt, and pepper. She fried them until the skin crackled and popped, the smoky, savory scent filling the air. She peeled potatoes for mashing, boiled them soft, whipped them with butter and cream until they were clouds. Collard greens, washed and chopped, went into a pot with smoked turkey, a dash of vinegar. It was a full Southern meal, a language of care she knew he’d understand.
The food was nearly done, the greens just tender, when she heard his office door open. Footsteps, heavy with fatigue, approached the kitchen. He appeared in the doorway just as a twin’s cry echoed on the monitor. Perfect, synchronous timing.
“See?” she said, nodding toward the monitor. “They waited for you.”
He managed a tired smile. He looked hollowed out, the vibrant intensity from the morning replaced by a grim, leaden focus. He came to her, wrapped his arms around her from behind, and buried his face in the crook of her neck. He just held her, breathing in the scent of her skin and the cooking food.
“It’s bad?” she asked quietly.
“Complicated,” he murmured into her skin. “It’s a fucking spiderweb.”
She turned in his arms, kissed him. “Food first.”
They ate at the breakfast nook, the twins in their high chairs. Sincere squeezed a handful of mashed potatoes, studying the texture with profound seriousness before attempting to smear it on Sidnee’s arm. Sidnee, in turn, gummed a piece of chicken, drool and savory juices running down her chin. Kash watched them, a faint, distant smile touching his lips.
“She’s definitely going to be the troublemaker,” Amber said, wiping Sidnee’s face.
“Takes after her mother,” Kash replied, the attempt at levity not quite reaching his eyes.
He ate mechanically, devouring the food but tasting none of it. Amber tried to draw him out. “Monique texted again. She’s thinking of flying to Marrakech.”
“She shouldn’t,” he said, his voice flat. “Not until we know who wanted him dead and why.”
“Kash… are we safe?”
He looked at her then, really looked, and the protective ferocity that flashed in his eyes was more reassuring than any platitude. “Nothing touches this house. Nothing touches you three.”
After dinner, they moved to the great room sofa, a soft, sprawling space littered with baby toys. The twins, re-energized by food, crawled and tottered over them, pulling at socks, grabbing noses, babbling their own urgent stories. Amber leaned against Kash, Sincere asleep on his chest, Sidnee curled in her lap. She put on a movie, something colorful and musical.
She could feel the tension in him. It vibrated beneath his skin, a low hum of contained energy even as he absently stroked Sincere’s back. She tried to soften it.
“Their birthday is next month,” she said, her voice light. “I was thinking maybe a garden party here. Simple. Just family, a few friends. A bouncy castle.”
“Hmm? Yeah. A bouncy castle. Sounds good,” he said, his gaze fixed on the screen but seeing none of it. He was running scenarios, meetings, financials, threat assessments.
She let the conversation die. She just held Sidnee closer, absorbing the weight of his worry through the quiet contact of their bodies.
By the time the movie’s credits rolled, both twins were deeply asleep, limbs splayed in boneless surrender. Kash carried Sincere, she carried Sidnee, and they laid them down in their cribs, the moonlight through the nursery window painting their peaceful faces silver.
When she came back to the great room, he was exactly where she’d left him, staring at the now-black screen, his posture rigid. The pent-up force in him was a physical presence, a storm trapped in a glass jar.
She walked to the center of the room, directly into his line of sight. She had shed her clothes in the hallway. The only thing in her hands was a coil of sleek, black nylon rope.
He blinked, his focus slowly pulling from the internal abyss to the reality of her naked form. Her curves were softened in the low light, her stance open and offering. She held out the rope.
“Tie me up,” she said, her voice clear and calm, cutting through the thick silence. “And do whatever you need to. For as long as you need to.”
For a long moment, he just stared at the rope in her hand, then at her eyes. The distant, calculated look in his gaze dissolved, replaced by a dark, hungry recognition. This was a language he understood. An offer of control, of surrender, of a conduit for everything snarled inside him.
He took the rope. The nylon felt cool and sinuous in his hands. He stood, circling her slowly. His breathing changed, deepening. He took her wrist, his grip firm, and guided her arms behind her back. He began to loop the rope around her wrists, the movements practiced, deliberate. He pulled the binds tight—not cruel, but uncompromisingly secure. The friction against her skin was a sharp, promising bite.
“Anchored,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, as he threaded the rope around her torso, creating a harness that pinned her arms back and accentuated the swell of her breasts. He knotted it off between her shoulder blades.
He stepped back, looking at his work. Her breathing had quickened, her nipples hardening in the cool air. The vulnerability of her position, the explicit offering, was a potent drug.
“On your knees,” he commanded, his voice rough.
She lowered herself slowly, the plush rug soft against her skin. With her arms bound behind her, her posture was one of absolute presentation. He walked around her, a slow, possessive orbit. His hand came down, not in a strike, but in a heavy, claiming weight on the back of her neck, guiding her face forward.
“You’re giving me this,” he said, a statement laced with awe and a gathering ferocity.
“Yes.”
He undid his pants, freeing his cock. It was already fully erect, thick and straining. He gripped himself at the base, the other hand still firm on her neck. He didn't guide himself into her mouth. He simply presented the angry, purple head at her lips.
“Open.”
She did, her tongue coming out to lick a broad stripe across the tip. He swore, a harsh, guttural sound. He pushed forward, not slowly, filling her mouth in one relentless stroke until she felt the head nudge the back of her throat. She relaxed her jaw, letting him set the pace.
It wasn’t loving. It wasn’t gentle. It was a physical purge. He fucked her mouth with deep, punishing strokes, his hand in her hair now, holding her still. Tears welled in her eyes from the force, the overwhelming fullness. The sounds were wet, raw, obscene—the slap of his skin against her lips, his ragged groans.
“Take it,” he growled, his hips pistoning. “Take all of this fucking mess.”
She did. She took the frustration, the fear, the anger, the ruthless calculation. She swallowed around him, urging him deeper, offering her throat as a vessel for his release. His control shattered.
He pulled out suddenly, a string of saliva connecting his cock to her swollen lips. “Turn around. On your hands and knees.”
She obeyed, the position more exposed with her arms bound. He knelt behind her, his hands gripping the generous flesh of her hips. He spat once, twice, onto her exposed cunt, the crude lubrication glistening in the low light. Then he angled himself and drove into her in one brutal, unyielding thrust.
She cried out, the penetration a stunning, delicious stretch. He didn’t pause. He set a relentless, hammering rhythm, each impact jolting through her. The rope bit into her wrists, the harness pulled taut across her breasts. He leaned over her, his chest against her bound back, his mouth at her ear.
“This is what I needed,” he panted, his voice wrecked. “To be inside you. To know this is real. This is mine.”
His pace became erratic, desperate. One hand slid around her hip, his fingers finding her clit, rough and urgent. The dual sensation, the deep filling and the harsh friction on her sensitive bud, coiled the pleasure inside her until it was an unbearable pressure.
“Come for me,” he demanded, his voice cracking. “Come on my cock while I pour this fucking day into you.”
The command, the raw need in his voice, broke her. Her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, convulsing wave that made her scream into the rug. As she clenched and milked him, he lost his rhythm entirely, his thrusts becoming wild, shallow jerks.
“Fuck! Amber… fuck!” His release was a harsh, groaning shout, a primal sound of expulsion. He held himself deep, pulsing into her as his body shuddered violently against her back.
He collapsed over her, his weight a comforting anchor, his sweat-slick skin glued to hers. His breath was a hot, ragged rush against her shoulder. For minutes, there was only the sound of their breathing slowing, the faint smell of sex and nylon rope in the air.
Slowly, carefully, he withdrew. His hands, now tender, went to the knots at her back. He worked them loose, his fingers gentle where they had been demanding. When her arms were free, she brought them around, wincing at the prickling sensation of blood flow returning.
He gathered her into his lap on the floor, cradling her against his chest. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her mouth with a soft, reverent hunger that was the polar opposite of what had just transpired.
“I’m here now,” he whispered into her hair, his voice clear, present. “All of me is here.”
The storm had passed through him. For now, the glass jar was empty, and the man inside it was finally, fully, home.