Chapter 13: The Back Room Negotiation
The silence after his declaration felt heavy, a held breath. Amber stared at their joined hands, his knuckles white where they gripped hers. The voicemail icon on her phone glowed like a malevolent eye. “Together,” she echoed, the word tasting thin. “What does that look like, exactly? Me smiling beside you while some reporter implies I’m a corporate hooker who got knocked up for a settlement?”
He flinched, his grip tightening. “Don’t.” The word was sharp. “Don’t use their language. Not even in here.” He released her hand to cup her jaw, forcing her eyes to meet his. “It looks like you holding your head up. It looks like me putting my arm around you, in front of everyone. It looks like we stop letting them invent the story.”
The week blurred into a nerve-fraying countdown. Meisha became her drill sergeant, vetoing three potential gala dresses before settling on a column of liquid metallic gold silk that hugged Amber’s curves and made her skin glow. “You look like a fucking goddess,” Meisha stated, standing back with her arms crossed. “Now, practice not looking like you want to throw up on his Italian shoes.”
The night arrived, a suffocation of velvet ropes and blinding camera flashes. Simon drove them to the Convention Center, the city lights smearing across the tinted windows. Kash, in a tuxedo that cost more than her first salon’s lease, was a pillar of unnerving calm. He scanned legal briefs on his tablet, the blue light etching sharp planes into his face.
He only looked up as the car stopped. “Ready?” His gaze was a physical touch.
“No,” she said honestly, adjusting the slit in her dress.
“Good.” A faint, grim smile touched his lips. “Neither am I.”
The lobby was a roar of chatter and clinking glass. She felt hundreds of eyes land on her, a speculative, peeling sensation. Kash’s hand found the small of her back, a firm, guiding pressure. They moved through the crowd, a wake of murmured greetings and sudden silence following them. She saw the glances, the rapid calculations, the poorly hidden stares at her midsection.
“Kash! Over here!” A florid-faced man waved. Kash’s expression smoothed into a polite mask as they were drawn into a circle of developers and their wives. Amber smiled until her cheeks ached, her manicured nails digging into her clutch.
“And who is this lovely addition?” the florid man asked, his eyes dipping to her chest.
“Amber Dunn,” Kash said, his voice cutting through the din. “My partner.” The word hung in the air, deliberate and immense.
A tittering woman sipped her champagne. “Dunn… that sounds familiar. Are you in real estate, dear?”
Amber felt Kash’s thumb stroke her back. “I own a nail studio,” she said, her voice clear. “Two, actually. Uptown Nail Suite.”
“Oh!” The woman’s smile froze. “How… entrepreneurial.”
The air grew thicker, the questions a subtle interrogation wrapped in faux interest. Each moment was a performance. She felt herself separating, a part of her hovering near the vaulted ceiling, watching this beautiful, strained woman cling to a man in a tuxedo.
She needed air. She needed to not be looked at. Excusing herself to find the restroom, she navigated through the sea of sequins and tuxedos. The hallway to the VIP lounges was quieter, lined with modern art that cost more than her house. She pushed into the blessedly empty, amber-lit lounge, leaning against the cool marble of a wet bar, and closed her eyes.
The door clicked shut behind her. She didn’t need to look. His presence filled the room, a shift in the atmosphere.
“Thirty more minutes,” he said, his voice stripped of its party cadence. “Then we can leave.”
“I feel like a zoo animal,” she whispered, her eyes still closed. “Or a particularly controversial exhibit.”
His footsteps were silent on the plush carpet. She felt him behind her, his warmth against her spine. His hands settled on her bare shoulders. “You are the most stunning person in that room. You make them all look like ghosts.”
It wasn’t the compliment that undid her. It was the raw truth in his tone. She turned, her composure cracking. The facade she’d built, the proud smile, the straight spine, crumbled into dust. What was left was a raw, thrumming fear. “They hate me,” she breathed. “They all think I’m a gold-digging whore.”
“Fuck them.” The words were a low snarl. His eyes were dark fire. His hands slid from her shoulders down her arms, leaving a trail of heat. There was no tenderness in his touch now, only a savage possessiveness. “You know what you are? You’re mine. Every single inch of you.”
His mouth crashed down on hers, a punishing, claiming kiss that tasted of bourbon and fury. It was nothing like the kitchen, nothing like the bedroom. This was a branding. She kissed him back with equal desperation, her hands fisting in his impossibly crisp shirt. She needed to feel real, to feel anything but the phantom stares.
He broke the kiss, breathing harshly. “They want a story?” he muttered against her lips. “Let’s give them one they can’t print.”
In one swift motion, he spun her around and bent her forward over the back of a deep leather sofa. The cool leather hit her stomach. He shoved the heavy silk of her dress up, bunching it around her waist. The air was cold on her exposed skin. He hooked his thumbs in the sides of her thong and yanked, the fragile lace tearing with a sharp, satisfying sound.
“Kash—” her protest was swallowed by a gasp as he dropped to his knees behind her.
His hands spread her apart. His mouth was on her, hot and demanding, without preamble. His tongue wasn’t teasing or exploring; it was claiming. He licked a broad, wet stripe from her entrance to her clit, then sealed his lips over the swollen bud and sucked, hard.
“God!” Her cry echoed in the quiet room. She buried her face in the leather to muffle the sound. The distant thrum of the orchestra was a mocking soundtrack.
He ate her with a single-minded intensity, his tongue flicking and plunging, his stubble rough against her inner thighs. He added two fingers, curling them deep inside her, finding that spot that made her vision blur. He fucked her with his mouth and his hand, a relentless, driving rhythm that chased away every thought, every fear, every outside eye.
“Taste that,” he grunted, his voice muffled against her flesh. “That’s mine. That sweet cunt is all mine. They don’t get this. They don’t get to even imagine this.”
The profanity, the sheer vulgar possession of it, shoved her brutally toward the edge. Her orgasm rocketed through her, a silent, convulsive scream that locked her muscles and stole her breath. She shuddered against his face, her hips jerking.
He didn’t let her come down. As the last waves receded, he was up, fumbling with his belt. She heard the rip of another foil packet, the rustle of clothing. The broad, hot head of his cock pressed against her soaked, sensitive opening.
He didn’t ask. He just pushed.
He entered her with a deep, stretching thrust that forced a ragged cry from her throat. He was so deep, so impossibly full. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, and set a furious, driving pace. The sofa squeaked in protest with every piston-like drive of his body.
“This,” he grunted, each word punctuated by a thrust. “This is the only truth. Right here. My cock in your perfect, greedy pussy. You take it so fucking good. You take all of me.”
She was boneless, pliant, utterly used and reveling in it. The world narrowed to the slap of skin, the creak of leather, his guttural sounds, the searing fullness where he split her open. One of his hands snaked around her hip, his thumb finding her clit again, rubbing rough, urgent circles.
“Come again,” he demanded, his breath hot on her neck. “Come on my dick while everyone out there is sipping champagne and telling lies.”
The second climax tore through her, sharper than the first, a white-hot wire of pleasure that pulled taut and snapped. She clenched around him, a rippling, milking pressure that pulled a roar from his chest.
His rhythm shattered. He drove into her, hard and unsteady, his release pumping into her in hot, wet pulses. He collapsed over her, his weight pressing her into the leather, his face buried in her hair. Their harsh breathing was the only sound.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out. He gently pulled her dress down. She turned, her legs trembling, and faced him. His tuxedo was disheveled, his bowtie askew. She reached up and fixed it, her hands surprisingly steady.
He captured her wrist, bringing her palm to his lips. He kissed it, his eyes closed. “You okay?”
She nodded, her voice gone. She was more than okay. She was remade. The phantom eyes were gone, burned away by a more elemental fire.
He righted his clothing, his expression settling back into its unreadable mask. He handed her the torn shreds of her thong with a faint, dark smirk. She shoved them into her clutch, a secret, ruined trophy.
He opened the lounge door. The noise of the gala rushed back in. He offered her his arm. She took it, her spine straight, her chin lifted. They stepped back into the light together.
They didn’t make it thirty minutes. As they moved toward the exit, a woman stepped into their path. She was sleek, in a severe black dress, a press badge dangling from her neck. Lyla Klein. Her smile was all polished, predatory warmth.
“Mr. King. Dunn. What a pleasure.” Her eyes swept over Amber, missing nothing. “I’ve so been hoping to chat. Your story is just fascinating.”
Kash’s arm tightened around Amber. “Our story,” he corrected, his voice cool steel, “is private.”
“Of course,” Lyla purred, unperturbed. Her gaze lingered on Amber. “I’m just curious, Ms. Dunn. For our ‘Lifestyle’ section. How does a small business owner navigate a world like this?” She gestured vaguely at the opulent room. “The transition must be… intense.”
Amber felt the eyes gathering again. She felt Kash coil beside her, ready to strike a lethal verbal blow. She squeezed his arm, a silent signal. She looked directly into Lyla Klein’s clever, hungry eyes.
“The transition?” Amber echoed, her smile not quite reaching her own. She let her voice carry, clear and poised. “I’m not transitioning, Ms. Klein. I’m just expanding my territory.” She glanced up at Kash, then back at the reporter. “Now, if you’ll excuse us. We have a prior engagement.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. She guided Kash, for once, through the parting crowd, her head high, the scent of their sex a secret flag she carried on her skin.
She guided Kash, for once, through the parting crowd, her head high, the scent of their sex a secret flag she carried on her skin. The limousine door shut, sealing them in a silent, plush world. He didn’t speak, just pulled her into his lap, his mouth finding hers in a tired, possessive kiss that tasted of victory and exhaustion. “Prior engagement?” he murmured against her lips, his hand already sliding up her thigh, beneath the gold silk.
“You said thirty minutes,” she whispered, arching into his touch.“I was expediting the timeline.”
His low chuckle vibrated through her. Simon had the partition up, the world outside a blur of light and shadow.They didn’t make it home. The need was too urgent, a live wire still sparking from the lounge. “Pull over at the LeGrande,” Kash said, his voice rough, into the intercom. It was his building, a sterile corporate hotel he kept for overseas clients.The silence there would be absolute.
The suite was cold, all chrome and white linen. He had her against the door the moment it closed, her dress rucked up once more, his belt already undone. It was faster this time, harder, a raw coupling against the unyielding wood. There was no finesse, just the brutal, perfect alignment of need. He came with his face buried in her neck, her name a fractured sound.After, they lay in the vast, empty bed, the city’s glow the only light. The high from her defiance was fading, leaving a familiar, cold anxiety in its wake. “Lyla Klein,” she said into the darkness. “She won’t stop.”
“I know.” His arm tightened around her.“But you were magnificent. ‘Expanding my territory.’” She could hear the proud smile in his voice.It almost warmed her.Sleep was a shallow, fragmented thing. She woke just before dawn, nauseous and restless. Kash was dead asleep, a stark, beautiful sculpture in the gray light. Slipping from the sheets, she padded to the suite’s lavish bathroom, a cavern of marble and polished nickel. She drank water from the tap, splashing her face, trying to quiet her rolling stomach. The reflection in the mirror showed smudged mascara and a woman peering out from behind her own eyes.The door opened softly. Kash stood there, silhouetted, his sleep pants slung low. “Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, his voice gravelly.She shook her head, turning to lean against the cool counter. He approached, his eyes dark with a renewed, possessive hunger. The adrenaline of the night had burned off, but this was different—a deep, somatic craving. He crowded her against the vanity, his hands sliding down to grip the backs of her thighs. He lifted her, seating her on the cold marble edge, her legs automatically wrapping around his waist.
“I need to feel you again,” he muttered, nuzzling her throat, his hands pushing her sleep shirt up. “Need to know you’re real.”
His mouth was on her breast, sucking a peaked nipple deep, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair. There was no gentleness here, only a desperate, consuming urgency. He shoved his sleep pants down just enough, freeing his cock, already thick and heavy in his hand. He was slick with precum, the head dragging a wet line up her inner thigh.
“Fuck, you’re wet already,” he groaned, positioning himself at her entrance. He didn’t ask, just pushed inside with a slow, inexorable thrust that stretched her gloriously, brutally full.She cried out, the sound bouncing off the tile. He filled her completely, a deep, burning occupancy that anchored her to the earth.
He set a rhythm that was all deep, grinding rolls of his hips, designed to rub every aching nerve inside her. The marble was cold and unforgiving beneath her, his body a furnace against her. He fucked her with a focused, intense passion, his eyes locked on hers. “This cunt,” he panted, his voice raw.“This perfect, tight cunt is my fucking home.You understand? Mine.”
She could only nod, her head falling back as he drove into her, again and again. One of his hands slid between them, his thumb finding her clit, applying a rough, perfect pressure. Her second orgasm built like a storm front, dark and inevitable. It broke over her with a force that stole her breath, a pulsing, internal convulsion that clenched rhythmically around his pounding length.Feeling her spasms, he lost his controlled rhythm. His thrusts became jagged, desperate.“Gonna come,” he grunted, a warning and a promise. “Gonna fill you up.Take it. Take all of it.” He buried himself to the hilt, his body rigid as he pulsed inside her, a hot, claiming flood. He collapsed forward, bracing himself on the counter, his forehead against hers, their ragged breaths mingling.
They stayed like that, joined, for a long moment. In the perfect, spent silence, a faint, almost imperceptible sound registered—a soft, mechanical click, like a latch settling. It came from the direction of the two frosted-glass toilet stalls behind them. Kash, still breathing heavily, lifted his head, his eyes sharpening.“You hear that?” he whispered.
“The plumbing,” she murmured, drowsy and saturated. “This whole place probably sighs.”
He listened, his body tense for a second longer, then relaxed.He kissed her softly, withdrawing. He helped her down, fetching a towel, his touch now tender.The moment of suspicion evaporated in the warm afterglow. They shuffled back to bed, a tangled mess of limbs and quiet laughter, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.
They awoke late to Kash’s phone vibrating incessantly on the nightstand. He groped for it, his voice thick with sleep.“King.” She watched his face change. The soft, post-sex languor dissolved, replaced by a cold, hardening mask. His eyes, when they found hers, held a storm.“Where?” he barked into the phone.“Send me the links. Now. And get Franklin on a call in ten.”
He threw back the sheets, stalking naked to the living area of the suite, grabbing his tablet. Amber’s own phone, charging on her side, began to buzz. Not a call, but a relentless cascade of notifications—Instagram tags, Twitter mentions, texts from numbers she didn’t know.Her stomach, already unsettled, plunged.
Meisha’s name flashed on the screen.She answered, her voice trembling. “Meish?”
“Don’t open anything,” Meisha said, her tone ferociously calm. “Do not go online.Where are you?”
“With Kash.At the LeGrande. What’s happening?”
“The gala pics hit the society blogs.You look amazing, for the record. But there’s… something else.” Meisha took a shaky breath.“A video. It’s… it’s you guys.In a bathroom. It’s all over this fucking site called ‘The Whisper.’ It’s linked to the photos.”
The cold marble of the vanity flashed in her mind.The click.It hadn’t been the plumbing. Amber dropped the phone.It clattered on the floor. She walked slowly into the living room, her body moving on autopilot. Kash stood rigid before the floor-to-ceiling window, his tablet in hand, the screen glowing.He didn’t try to hide it.
On it, in shockingly clear high-definition, was them. Her on the counter, her legs wrapped around him, his face buried in her neck.The angle was from slightly above, looking down.It was unmistakable. Her face, his face, every profane, private word crystal clear. “This cunt… This perfect, tight cunt is my fucking home…” The audio was pristine.
The video ended, freezing on a final, explicit frame. Below it, the headline screamed: KING’S CONQUEST: Billionaire’s Boardroom Tactics Extend to the Bathroom with “Small Business” Beau.She couldn’t breathe.The world tilted, the sleek room telescoping away. Kash turned to her, his expression a brutal composition of fury and devastation. “It was the stall,” he said, his voice hollow. “Someone was in the goddamn stall.”
Her phone, still on the floor, rang again.The number was blocked. She picked it up, a numb, distant part of her answering.“Hello?”
“Ms. Dunn?” It was a woman’s voice, crisp and professionally sympathetic.Lyla Klein. “I’m so sorry you’re having to see this vulgar invasion of privacy. I’d really like to offer you a chance to tell your side of the story.On the record. Before the narrative is completely out of your control.”
The phone felt like a live wire against her ear. Lyla Klein’s voice was honey poured over broken glass. Amber’s mouth had gone completely dry. She watched Kash across the room, his body a rigid silhouette against the blinding morning skyline, and the truth was a cold, metallic flood in her veins. Someone had been listening. Watching. Recording the most private, raw moment of her life and packaging it for the world’s consumption.
“My side?” Amber heard herself say, her voice strangely flat and distant. “My side is that I was fucked in a bathroom by the man I love. That’s not a story. It’s a crime.”
She ended the call and dropped the phone on the plush carpet as if it had burned her. The silence in the suite was absolute and suffocating. Kash was staring at her, the tablet slack in his hand, the frozen image of their joined bodies a grotesque banner between them. The fury in his eyes had solidified into something colder, more dangerous: a calculated, murderous intent.
“Give me the phone,” he said, his voice devoid of all inflection.
She didn’t ask why. She retrieved it, her fingers clumsy, and handed it to him. He scrolled with swift, precise movements, his jaw a hard line. He was accessing a cloud portal, a secure server. “The LeGrande uses a keycard system for suite access and logs all service entries,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “No one from the hotel would risk this. The angle… it’s from the far stall. Someone was already in there. Waiting.”
“For us?” The question was a whisper.
“For me.” He looked up, his gaze connecting with hers. The devastation she saw there was carefully banked, but it shimmered beneath the ice. “This is a message. To intimidate me, to destabilize the case by humiliating you. To make you run.” He took a step toward her, but stopped, as if he feared his touch would break her. “They wanted a weapon. They didn’t care what they destroyed to forge it.”
Her legs gave out. She sank onto the arm of a sofa, the luxurious fabric feeling cheap and alien. The nausea was back, a greasy swirl that had nothing to do with pregnancy. It was the violation, deep and cellular. She could still feel the cold marble beneath her, his warmth inside her, the private words they’d spoken. And now millions of strangers had shared that. Had heard him call her that filthy, beautiful word. Had seen her naked ecstasy.
A raw, shuddering sound escaped her. It wasn’t a sob, but a guttural expulsion of pain. Kash was beside her in an instant, not touching her, just kneeling on the floor, his face level with hers. “Look at me, Amber. Breathe.”
“I can’t,” she gasped. “They saw… they heard…”
“I know.” The two words were ripped from him. “And I will find who did this, and I will erase them. But right now, I need you here. With me. Don’t let them steal this from you. From us.”
His words were a lifeline thrown into a churning sea. She focused on his eyes, the dark, unwavering gravity of them. She dragged air into her lungs. The panic receded a fraction, leaving a hollow, shaking rage in its wake. “Meisha,” she choked out. “My clients. My mother. Oh, God, my mother.”
“We’ll call them. Together.” He stood, pulling her up with him. His hands on her shoulders were firm, anchoring. “But first, you need to get dressed. We’re leaving this fucking place.”
He packed their things with a savage efficiency while she moved through the suite like a ghost, pulling on yesterday’s clothes. Every surface, every object, felt contaminated. The drive back to his penthouse was a silent, pressurized tunnel. Simon, his face carefully blank, navigated the streets. Kash’s phone buzzed incessantly—his lawyer, his PR head, his security chief. He answered in terse, coded phrases, his hand gripping Amber’s so tightly her bones ached.
His penthouse, once a sanctuary, now felt like a bunker. The floor-to-ceiling windows, which usually offered the city, now felt like a screen they were displayed upon. Kash closed the automated shades, plunging the great room into a dim, amber twilight. He poured two fingers of bourbon, then reconsidered and fetched her a glass of water instead.
“Franklin is filing a criminal complaint for invasion of privacy and unlawful surveillance. We have the logs from the LeGrande. A name will come up.” He spoke calmly, logically, but a muscle twitched in his temple. “The civil suit against the website for distribution will follow. We will bury them.”
She sipped the water, the cool liquid doing nothing to quench the fire in her chest. “That doesn’t unsee it, Kash. The people at the salon, they’ll have watched it. My clients. My employees.” The humiliation was a physical weight, crushing her lungs.
He crossed the room, crouching before her where she sat curled on the sofa. “Then you walk in there and you own it.”
She let out a harsh, tearless laugh. “Own it? I own two nail salons, not a porn studio.”
“You own your life.” His voice was low, intense. “You walk in with your head up, and you show them that a video of you taking my dick has nothing to do with your talent, your business, or your worth. You show them you cannot be shamed.”
The crude words, in this context, were a shock. They hung in the dim air. A defiant spark flared in the hollow of her shame. He saw it. His eyes darkened, the calculation shifting into something more primal.
“They wanted to make you feel small. Exposed.” He stood, pulling her up with him. His hands went to the button of her jeans. “Don’t let them.”
“What are you doing?” she whispered, even as her body stirred in response to his touch.
“Reclaiming what’s ours.” He popped the button, slid the zipper down. His fingers pushed into the waistband of her jeans and panties, dragging them down her hips in one rough motion. “Right here. Where they can’t see. Where it’s just us.”
He turned her, bending her over the back of the same sofa where, just days before, he’d tied her with silk. This was different. This was not about pleasure, but possession; not about passion, but power. He freed himself from his trousers, his cock already brutally hard. He was not gentle. He spit into his palm, slicking himself, and positioned the thick head at her entrance.
“This is mine,” he growled, and pushed into her with one deep, searing thrust.
She cried out, her fingers clutching the leather. He was too big, too sudden, the stretch a delicious burn. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a relentless, punishing pace, each drive a punctuation mark on his words.
“Not. Theirs.” Thrust. “Mine.” Thrust. “This pussy, this ass, these sounds you make.” Thrust. “Mine.”
He fucked her with a driven, furious intensity, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. The slap of skin was loud in the quiet room. It was raw, almost brutal, a physical overwriting of the violation. He was branding her from the inside, replacing the memory of the cold, watching lens with the heat of his body.
“Say it,” he demanded, his breath hot on her neck.
“Yours,” she gasped, the word torn from her.
“Louder.”
“Yours!” The shout was a release. Tears she hadn’t been able to cry before now streamed down her face, mingling with the sweat on her lips. Her orgasm came not as a wave of pleasure, but as a seismic shock of catharsis, a violent, shuddering release that felt like shedding a skin. She clenched around him, sobbing.
He followed with a guttural roar, pounding into her through her contractions, his own release a hot, claiming flood. He collapsed over her, his weight pressing her into the leather, his face buried against her back. They stayed there, joined and breathing heavily, the only sound their ragged breaths.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out. He turned her, gathering her against his chest. She was limp, spent, the tears still coming in silent waves. He carried her to the shower, washing her with a tender focus that was the absolute inverse of the act they’d just performed. He dried her, dressed her in one of his soft t-shirts, and tucked her into his bed.
He lay beside her, pulling her into the curve of his body. The storm of emotion had passed, leaving a strange, battered calm. Her phone, silenced, lit up on the nightstand. A text from Meisha previewed on the screen: Shop’s fine. A couple of lookie-loos. We handled it. You come in when you’re ready. We got you.
She showed it to Kash. He read it, his thumb stroking her arm. “See?” he murmured. “Your territory.”
A moment later, his own phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his body going still. He sat up, showing her the screen. It was an email from his head of security. The subject line was: LE GRANDE KEYCARD LOG – CONFIRMED.
The message below was brief: Card assigned to Robert Hart’s executive assistant, Eliza Renfrew, was used to access the hallway outside your suite at 6:47 AM. Log shows entry to the suite at 6:52 AM via master key override. She did not exit via the main door. Must have used service elevator. Confirmed via staff uniform CCTV on sub-level at 7:18 AM.
Kash looked at Amber, the ice in his eyes crystalline and absolute. “Robert Hart,” he said, the name dropping into the quiet room like a stone. “His assistant was the one in the stall.”
He swung his legs out of bed, the peace of moments ago obliterated. “This just became a different kind of war.” He began to dress with a lethal, focused speed. “Get some rest. I have to go. There are things that need to be done now.”
“What things?” she asked, sitting up, the sheet pooling around her.
He leaned over, kissing her forehead. His lips were cool. “Things,” he repeated, his voice low and final, “that stay in the perimeter.”