The drone of his client’s voice faded into the general clatter of the restaurant—silverware on porcelain, the murmur of a dozen other meaningless conversations. Maurice stared at the wine glass in front of him, but he wasn’t seeing the deep red swirl of the cabernet. He was seeing Keana’s eyes, wide and dark in the dim light of his foyer. He was feeling the insane jolt that had shot up his arm the second he’d touched her shoulder, the way her body had gone rigid with a tension that was anything but fear. It was pure, unadulterated awareness. His cock, which had been uncomfortably hard for the entire drive to the restaurant, gave a thick pulse under the table. He shifted in his seat, the fine wool of his trousers suddenly feeling abrasive and restrictive.

He’d wanted to fuck her for months. It had started as a low hum of attraction, an appreciation for the curve of her ass in her tight jeans as she bent to pick up a toy, or the way her tongue would peek out from between her lips when she was concentrating on one of Maya’s complicated craft projects. But tonight, it had become a fucking roar. That shared smile over his daughter’s head had been more intimate than any kiss he’d ever had. It was a confession, a conspiracy. I see you. I want you. And you want me, too.

Fuck the dinner. Fuck the client. He slipped his phone from his pocket beneath the tablecloth, his thumb swiping across the screen to her contact. His fingers felt clumsy as he typed, his mind a mess of what he wanted to say versus what he could say. I can’t stop thinking about the way you smelled. No. I wanted to push you against the wall and bury my face between your legs. Definitely not. He deleted the words and settled for something tamer, something that walked the line.

Hope they're not giving you too much trouble. You're a lifesaver.

He hit send before he could second-guess it.

The house was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator. Keana had checked on the kids twice. Both were sound asleep, Maya clutching Barnaby, Leo sprawled out like a starfish. She sat on the huge, plush sectional in the living room, the memory of Maurice’s touch still a phantom heat on her skin. Her clit throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and her panties were damp. She had been replaying that moment in the foyer on a loop—the weight of his hand, the darkness in his eyes, the way his mustache had framed that dangerously intimate smile. It felt like a promise.

Her phone vibrated on the cushion beside her, the buzz loud in the stillness. Her heart hammered against her ribs as the screen lit up with his name. Maurice Henderson.

She snatched it up, her breath catching as she read the words. You’re a lifesaver. It was so simple, yet it felt like everything. It wasn’t Mr. Henderson, the boss, checking in. It was Maurice, the man whose hand had lingered on her shoulder, reaching out from across the city to close the distance between them. A hot flush spread up her neck and across her cheeks. This was a private channel, a bubble just for them, created with a few simple words. She bit her lower lip, a nervous thrill dancing in her stomach. He was thinking about her. Right now.

Her reply had to be perfect. Warm, but not desperate. Appreciative, but with a hint of their shared secret.

They were perfect angels, as always, she typed. The Grumpy Troll was a big hit. The house is quiet now.

She stared at the message, her thumb hovering over the send button. Including the Grumpy Troll was a direct reference to their moment, a little secret passed back to him. It was her way of saying, I haven’t forgotten either. She pressed send. The message disappeared into the ether, and the quiet house suddenly felt charged, humming with a new, thrilling tension.

Needing to move, to do something with the nervous energy thrumming through her veins, Keana stood up. The silence of the house pressed in, no longer just quiet but charged with the weight of their unspoken conversation. Tidying was an excuse, a way to ground herself in the physical world when her mind was spinning. She fluffed the pillows on the enormous sofa, straightened a stack of glossy design magazines, and carried an empty water glass to the kitchen.

When she returned, her eyes landed on the coffee table. Amidst the curated objects—a heavy art book, a sculptural piece of driftwood—was a large, black sketchbook. It was open, lying there as if he’d been called away mid-thought. It felt like a trap and an invitation all at once. Her professional instincts screamed at her to leave it, to respect his privacy. But the woman in her, the one whose panties were still damp from his nearness, was desperate for another glimpse behind the curtain.

Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for it, her fingers brushing against the soft, worn leather. She sat on the edge of the sofa and pulled the book onto her lap. The first few pages were filled with what she expected: breathtaking architectural designs. Bold, clean lines defined impossible structures that seemed to defy gravity. There were detailed floor plans and cross-sections, his handwriting a sharp, intelligent scrawl in the margins. It was the work of a brilliant, controlled mind. The mind of the man who ran this perfect house, who wore those perfect suits.

Then she turned a page, and her breath caught in her throat.

It wasn’t a building. It was a portrait, rendered in rough, expressive charcoal. A woman’s face, tilted up, eyes closed, lips parted on a silent gasp. It wasn’t a photographically perfect rendering; it was an emotion captured on paper. The shadows on her throat were deep and smudged, as if created by a desperate, hurried hand. Keana felt like a voyeur, like she had stumbled upon a scene of intense, private passion.

She flipped the page again, her heart hammering. Another portrait. This time, just a pair of eyes, wide and staring directly at the viewer. They were filled with a raw, aching sadness that made her own chest tighten. This wasn't just sketching; this was him excavating his own soul.

The next page made her pussy clench with a sudden, sharp throb. It was a nude. A woman’s torso, from the base of her throat to the swell of her hips, but it was the hands that captured her attention. A man’s hands—unmistakably his, strong and sure—were splayed across the woman’s stomach. They weren’t gentle. They were possessive, fingers digging into the soft flesh, thumbs pressing down on either side of the navel. The drawing was pure, undiluted want. It was brutal and carnal, a depiction of ownership.

This was him. This was Maurice. Not “Mr. Henderson,” her employer. This was the man behind the controlled facade, a man of intense, almost violent passion. The same hands that could draw a blueprint with surgical precision could also create this raw, savage art. She imagined those hands on her, stained with charcoal, gripping her hips, leaving bruises. The thought sent a jolt of pure lust through her, so powerful it made her dizzy. He wasn't just a hot dad. He was a complex, brooding artist, and seeing this hidden part of him made her desire shift from a simple spark of attraction into a raging, uncontrollable fire.

She slammed the sketchbook shut, the sound of the leather cover slapping against the thick paper unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Her breath was coming in short, ragged pants. Her pussy was dripping, the wetness soaking through the thin cotton of her panties and making her thighs feel slick and hot. She could feel her own clit, hard and aching, pressing against the seam. He wasn't just a man who wanted sex; he was a man who wanted to possess, to dominate, to leave his mark. And God, she wanted to be the one he marked. She wanted those charcoal-stained hands gripping her, bruising her, fucking her until she was nothing but a collection of raw nerve endings screaming his name.

She carefully placed the book back on the coffee table, exactly as she had found it, but it was too late. She couldn't unsee it. The barrier between Mr. Henderson, her handsome, respectable boss, and Maurice, the dark, carnal artist, had been annihilated. There was only Maurice now, and the knowledge of what lay beneath his calm surface had her cunt throbbing with a desperate, greedy pulse.

Across town, Maurice pushed his chair back from the table, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. The client stopped mid-sentence, his mouth slightly agape.

“Something’s come up,” Maurice said, his voice flat and final. He threw a few hundred-dollar bills onto the table, more than enough to cover the check. “We’ll be in touch.” He didn’t wait for a reply.

He had seen Keana’s text. The Grumpy Troll was a big hit. It was a direct hit, a bullseye right in the center of their shared secret. She was playing the game with him. She was acknowledging the intimacy, feeding it. The thought of her alone in his house, the house that suddenly felt more like their space, was making him insane. He needed to be there. Now.

The drive was a blur of red lights and the glare of oncoming traffic. His cock was painfully hard, pressing against the zipper of his trousers. He gripped the steering wheel, imagining his hands on her instead. On her throat, in her hair, gripping her ass and pulling her onto his cock. He wanted to fuck her in every room of his house, starting with the kitchen counter. He wanted to hear her scream, to watch her face as he pushed her over the edge.

He pulled over a block from his house, the engine still running. He couldn't just walk in. The night had to be handled correctly. It needed one final push, one last move to erase any ambiguity. He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over her name. He typed, deleted, and typed again, settling on the perfect blend of casual and commanding.

Dinner ended earlier than I expected. On my way home now. He paused, then added the final, critical line. Don't rush off when I get there, let me pour you a proper thank-you drink.

He hit send. It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration.

Keana’s phone buzzed against her thigh, and the vibration shot straight to her core. She fumbled for it, her hands still unsteady. His name lit up the screen again. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she read the words.

On my way home now.

The blood rushed in her ears. He was coming. Now. The polite, professional veneer of her job was about to be stripped away. Then she read the last line.

Don't rush off when I get there, let me pour you a proper thank-you drink.

A wave of heat washed through her, so intense it felt like a fever. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a summons. A proper thank-you. She knew exactly what kind of thank-you he had in mind. It had nothing to do with a drink and everything to do with the savage art in his sketchbook. The quiet anticipation she’d been feeling all night exploded into a frantic, nervous certainty. This was happening. He was coming home to her, and the night was far from over.