Chapter 8: The Stickiness of Secrets
The velvet curtain parted with a theatrical swoosh, and the booth was suddenly alive with perfume and laughter and the click of heels on marble.
Tanya came first, all sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes, her blonde hair swept back in a sleek ponytail that swung with each step. Behind her, Chloe and Sasha, a matched set of sorority girls who had transferred their allegiance from campus mixers to bottle service the moment they'd discovered the city's underbelly. They descended on the booth like a flock of designer-clad locusts, their voices cutting through the thumping bass.
"Girl, we've been looking everywhere for you," Tanya announced, sliding onto the opposite couch with the practiced grace of someone who'd never paid for a drink in her life. Her gaze swept over Holland, perched on Adam's lap like a cat who'd found the warmest spot in the house. "Why are you so flushed? It's freezing outside."
Holland giggled, a sound that vibrated against Adam's chest. She shifted her weight, deliberately, and felt the wet heat of his release begin to seep from her, a slow trickle that painted the inside of her thigh in sticky warmth. She clamped her muscles, a quick, subtle squeeze that made Adam's breath hitch behind her.
"Just hot in here," Holland said, her voice light, innocent. "All these bodies."
Chloe fanned herself with a cocktail menu. "Tell me about it. The line was insane. Some bitch tried to cut us, and I was like, absolutely not."
Sasha was already signaling the waitress, her thin arm raised high. "Another bottle. The good stuff. Adam's buying." She winked at him, a familiarity that bordered on disrespect. "Right, Adam?"
Adam's arm was still around Holland's waist, his fingers splayed possessively over the curve of her hip. He nodded, a tight smile on his face. "Put it on my tab."
The waitress appeared and disappeared. The girls chattered—about a DJ they'd met in the Hamptons, about a designer sample sale, about a girl from their floor who'd been caught giving head in the library stacks. Their words washed over Holland like background noise. She was focused on the sensation between her legs, the evidence of what they'd just done, the secret she wore like a second skin.
She felt Adam's cock twitch inside her, a faint, involuntary pulse. He was still half-hard, still lodged in her, a fullness that was both uncomfortable and deeply satisfying. She ground down, just slightly, and heard him exhale through his nose.
"I need to pee," Holland announced, popping up from his lap with a suddenness that made Tanya pause mid-sentence.
The movement dislodged him. She felt him slip out, the sudden emptiness almost painful, and a fresh gush of his come ran down her inner thigh. She pressed her legs together, a quick, reflexive clench, and felt the wetness bloom against her skin. It would soak through her thong, stain the sheer fabric of her dress. A mark of ownership.
She leaned back down, her face inches from Adam's. Her lips found his, a wet, open kiss that tasted of champagne and the salt of her own skin. She heard Chloe make a gagging sound, teasing, but she didn't care.
"Don't go anywhere, daddy," she whispered against his mouth, her breath hot, her tongue flicking out to trace his lower lip. "I'm not done with you yet."
She straightened, smoothed the front of her dress—a futile gesture, the fabric was already clinging to her damp skin—and walked away.
The club's lighting caught her as she moved, the strobes painting her figure in flashes: the curve of her ass, the long line of her legs, the slight unsteadiness in her stride. She felt Adam's gaze on her like a physical touch, a hot, possessive weight between her shoulder blades. He was watching her limp, she knew. Watching the evidence of their coupling move down her leg with every step.
The bathroom was a cathedral of marble and gold light. She found an empty stall, locked the door, and sank onto the toilet with a shaky breath.
She pulled up her dress and looked down. Her thighs were slick, glistening. A thick, pearly string of his come stretched from her opening to her inner thigh, and she watched it break and run, tracing a path toward her knee. She swiped a finger through the mess, then brought it to her lips, tasting the salt and bitterness of him.
Her phone buzzed in her clutch. A text from Tanya: Your cousin is hot. What's his deal?
Holland smiled, a slow, calculating smile. She typed back: Family friend. He's helping me with expenses.
Expenses? Tanya replied, with a string of emojis. Girl, he can help me with my expenses.
She didn't answer. She cleaned herself up, using a wad of toilet paper to wipe the worst of it from her skin. The thong was ruined; she peeled it off and stuffed it in her clutch. Going commando felt appropriate. It made her feel more exposed, more ready.
When she emerged, she found Adam standing at the bar just outside the VIP section, his back to her. He was alone, the girls presumably still holding court in the booth. He was talking to a man in a bespoke suit, someone whose watch cost more than her rent. A business associate, probably. She watched the way he held himself, the confident tilt of his chin, the easy authority in his shoulders. He was a man who owned rooms. And she, somehow, had him by the balls.
She slipped up behind him, pressing her body against his back. Her arms wrapped around his waist, her cheek resting between his shoulder blades. She felt him tense, then relax as he recognized her scent.
"Problem?" she asked, her voice muffled by his jacket.
"No problem." He turned, his arm coming around her automatically, and she tucked herself into his side like she belonged there. The man in the bespoke suit raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"Gary, this is Holland," Adam said, his voice even. "A family friend."
"Charmed," Gary said, his eyes lingering on her a beat too long.
Holland smiled her perpetual pout and extended a hand. "The pleasure's mine."
Gary excused himself after a few more minutes of meaningless business chatter—something about a merger, something about quarterly projections. When he was gone, Adam turned to her, his hand cupping her jaw, tilting her face up.
"You left your panties in the bathroom, didn't you?"
She blinked, surprised. "How did you—"
"I can smell you on me." He leaned in, his nose brushing her hair, her ear. "I can smell us. It's obscene."
"Well." She pressed closer, letting him feel the soft curve of her hip, the lack of fabric between her legs. "Then maybe we should find somewhere more private."
His eyes darkened. The calm mask slipped, just for a second, revealing the hunger underneath. "My car is outside."
"Your car?" She tilted her head, considering. "Or your apartment. The one with the terrace."
He studied her, a long, searching look. He knew what she was doing. He knew she was playing him, using him, angling for access to his life, his money, his sun-drenched rooftop where she could lounge and Instagram her way through his hospitality. And he was letting her because saying no would require caring, and he had spent years perfecting the art of not caring.
"My apartment," he agreed, his voice low. "But you're not sleeping in the guest room."
"Wasn't planning on it."
He took her hand—not possessive now, but efficient, a man closing a deal—and led her toward the exit. Her friends wouldn't notice. They were probably already ordering another round on his tab.
Outside, the cold hit her like a slap. She hadn't brought a coat, and the wind cut through her sheer dress, making her nipples harden, making her shiver. Adam shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. It smelled like him: cedar and whiskey and money.
The black Town Car was idling at the curb. He opened the door for her, and she slid in, the leather seat cold against her bare thighs. He climbed in beside her, his hand finding her knee, sliding up under the jacket, under the hem of her dress.
"So wet," he murmured, his fingers finding her slick heat, dipping inside with a rough, claiming touch. "You're dripping for me."
She moaned, letting her head fall back, letting her legs fall open. "You did this to me."
"I know."
He kept his fingers there the whole ride, a slow, relentless tease, pushing her to the edge and pulling back. The city lights flashed past the tinted windows, painting her in blues and golds. He didn't let her come. He wasn't done being cruel.
They pulled into an underground garage, and he led her to a private elevator, keyed to his floor. The doors closed, sealing them in a small, mirrored box. He pressed her against the wall, his body pinning her, his mouth finding hers in a deep, bruising kiss.
"Taste yourself," he said, pulling his hand from her skirt and pushing his fingers into her mouth. She sucked them clean, tasting the salt and sweet of her own arousal, watching his face in the reflection behind him—all that calm composure shattered, replaced by raw, uncomplicated need.
The elevator doors opened onto his penthouse. She had barely crossed the threshold before he was on her, pressing her against the cold glass of a floor-to-ceiling window, the whole of Manhattan spread at their feet like a circuit board.
"Show me how much you want it," he said, his voice a ragged command.
She turned, facing the window, her palms flat on the glass. She arched her back, pushing her ass against him, and whispered the only thing she knew would break him.
"Please, daddy. Fuck me until I can't walk."