Dinner ends. Clients gone. He grabs my arm tight, fingers digging in. “I’m driving you home. No discussion.” My stomach flips hard. We’re in his black Mercedes, city lights sliding past the windows, and I’m squeezing my thighs together so hard it hurts, my panties already soaked from the way he stared at me all night. He doesn’t say a word. Just drives. Then he turns into his building’s underground garage instead of my street. Dark. Concrete walls closing in. One flickering bulb buzzing overhead like it knows my secret.
“Get out.”
I freeze, hand on the door handle. “Richard… Mr. Thompson… this isn’t my apartment...”
“Kneel. Now.”
My knees hit the cold rough floor before my brain even catches up. What the f**k am I doing? He steps right in front of me, unzips slow, and that thick heavy
