Chapter 4: Dangerous Games
The silence after the washing machine stopped had been a physical thing, a weight Lisa carried for two days. It sat in her stomach as she packed lunchboxes, marked by the faint bruises on her hips, hidden under denim. She’d started three texts to Ben and deleted them all. The need was a low, constant thrum, but so was the shame, slick and cold.
His invitation, when it came, was a command disguised as a question. Sarah’s at a conference overnight. Come to the penthouse. 8 PM. Use the service elevator.
The impersonal instructions thrilled her. This was his world, not the messy, laundry-scented domain of hers. She told David she was meeting a friend from college for drinks, a lie that tasted like aluminum on her tongue. He nodded, absorbed in a spreadsheet.
The penthouse was all sharp angles and cold light. Floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the city like a glittering circuit board. It smelled of lemon polish and something else, something sterile and expensive.
“You came,” Ben said, opening the door. He was in dark jeans and a grey henley, sleeves pushed up over his forearms. He didn’t kiss her hello. He pulled her inside, his hands already on her, mapping her body through her clothes as if verifying she was real. “I can’t stop thinking about you bent over that machine.”
“It’s all I’ve thought about,” she admitted, the confession muffled against his chest.
He led her not to a bedroom, but to his study, a room dominated by a massive chrome and teak desk. The city sprawled behind it. “I have a conference call,” he said, his voice casual, but his eyes were dark. “International. Rugby league brass in Sydney. Should be quick.”
Disappointment dripped through her. “Oh. I can wait in the—”
“No,” he interrupted, squeezing her hand. “Stay. I want to look at you.” He guided her to the leather chair behind the desk, a throne. He sat, pulling her onto his lap, her back to his chest. He nuzzled her neck, his hands sliding up her thighs, under her skirt. “Just be quiet for me, alright?”
Before she could answer, the phone on the desk buzzed. A video call request. He clicked a button, and a screen flickered to life, showing three men in suits. Ben’s arm tightened around her waist, his other hand disappearing between her legs, his fingers finding her through the silk of her panties.
“Gents,” Ben said, his voice relaxed, professional. “Thanks for making the time.” His fingers pressed, a slow, deliberate circle.
Lisa froze. She stared straight ahead at a framed jersey on the far wall, her body rigid. One of the men on screen began talking about viewership statistics. Ben’s finger pushed the silk aside, finding her wet and slick. He pushed one finger into her, then two, his palm grinding against her clit. A small, choked sound caught in her throat.
“Interesting figures, Mike,” Ben responded smoothly, his breath hot against her ear. “But the prime-time slot is non-negotiable.” He curled his fingers inside her, a deep, punishing rhythm. Pleasure, white-hot and shameful, lanced through her. She buried her face in his neck to silence her own breathing, her hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk against his hand.
He worked her like that, through ten minutes of dense sports-broadcast negotiation, his touch never relenting, his own voice never betraying a flicker of strain. She was hovering on a terrifying edge, her muscles coiled, when they all heard it. The distinct sound of a key in the front door.
Ben’s hand stilled. The men on screen were saying their goodbyes. “Cheers, lads. Send the contracts through,” Ben said, his voice steady, and ended the call.
The front door opened. High heels clicked on marble.
“Ben? You home?” Sarah’s voice, clipped and clear, echoed down the hall.
“In the study!” he called back, his hand swiftly withdrawing from Lisa. Panic, pure and blinding, seized her. She tried to scramble off his lap, but he held her fast, his grip iron.
“The desk,” he whispered, urgent. “Now.”
He practically lifted her and slid her underneath the vast teak plane. It was a deep cubby, meant for legs, not a hiding person. She folded herself into the dark, dusty space, her heart hammering against her ribs. The tang of polished wood and ozone from electronics filled her nose.
Sarah walked in. Lisa could only see her legs from the knees down: tailored black trousers, black stiletto heels that looked like weapons. She stopped a foot from the desk.
“Conference was a waste. The keynote got food poisoning. I caught an earlier flight.” Sarah sounded irritated, dismissive. “You’re working late?”
“Just finished a call with Sydney,” Ben said. Lisa heard the rustle of him leaning back in his chair. He was so close. His knees framed her hiding spot. She had to press her forehead against his shin to stay completely concealed.
“Hmm. Did you eat?”
“Not yet.”
“There’s leftover salmon. Don’t leave it to rot.” A pause. Lisa heard the clink of something—Sarah setting her keys on the desk. Right above her head. “I’m going to take a bath. I’m exhausted from all the vapid networking.”
“Okay. I’ll be in soon.”
Sarah’s heels turned. They clicked away, faded down the hall. A door closed. The sound of bathwater running, distant.
The relief was so profound Lisa almost whimpered. She started to creep out.
Ben’s hand came down, firm on her shoulder, pushing her back into the darkness. She looked up. His face was a silhouette against the harsh desk lamp, his expression unreadable. He held a finger to his lips. Shhh.
Then, with glacial slowness, he unzipped his trousers.
The sound was deafening in the confined space. He freed himself. He was already fully hard, thick and straining. He guided himself toward her face. The meaning was horrifying, explicit.
No, she tried to mouth, shaking her head.
He leaned forward, his voice a whisper so low it was almost inaudible. “Open your mouth.”
Terror and a sharp, illicit thrill juddered through her. The bathwater was still running. Sarah was thirty feet away. Lisa opened her mouth.
He didn’t ease in. He pushed the head past her lips, then further, his hand tangling in her hair, controlling the pace. He filled her mouth, the taste of him salty and musky. She gagged, eyes watering.
“Suck it,” he breathed, his voice strained. He began to move her head, a slow, shallow fucking of her mouth. “That’s it. Just like that.”
From down the hall, Sarah called out, her voice muffled by the door. “Ben! Did you pick up my dry cleaning?”
He stopped moving, his cock resting heavy on her tongue. “Tomorrow!” he called back, his voice miraculously even. “Forgot!”
“Unbelievable,” Sarah’s voice faded.
He looked down at Lisa, his eyes blazing. He resumed, his thrusts getting deeper, more forceful. “Take it all, you perfect fucking slut,” he whispered, the filthy words sending a bolt of lightning straight to her core. She was achingly wet, her own desperation now mingling with the fear. She sucked, hollowing her cheeks, her hands braced on his thighs.
He was grunting softly, his abdominal muscles clenched. “Gonna come in your stupid, dirty mouth,” he hissed. “Swallow every drop. Don’t you dare spill a fucking drop.”
The orgasm took him. His body tightened, and he shoved himself deep, pulsing, the hot, bitter fluid hitting the back of her throat. She swallowed convulsively, again and again, until he was spent.
He pulled out with a soft, wet sound, tucking himself away. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant splash of Sarah’s bath.
He reached down, his thumb wiping a stray trickle from her chin. His touch was almost tender. Then he nodded toward the study door, his eyes clear and focused. A silent command: Get out.
She crawled out from under the desk, her legs weak, her mind a white void. She straightened her skirt. He was already turning his monitor back on, the picture of a man working.
She walked out of the study on numb legs, past the murmur of the bathroom, and let herself out the front door into the silent service elevator. As it descended, she leaned against the wall, the taste of him still in her mouth, the scent of Sarah’s perfume still in her nose.
She didn’t feel like a secret lover. She felt like a ghost. The city lights outside the elevator glass yawned below, endless and cold, and for the first time, she wondered what kind of hole she was digging, and if she would ever be able to climb back out.