Poundtown with Mr. Forbidden

Your Pitch, My Proposal

IRIS

My fingers fidget, and my stomach twists like I haven’t been preparing for this for the longest time. "I’m so nervous, Victor. I swear, I think I— I think I need to..."

"Girl, you’re ready, and you’ve rehearsed your pitch. You will do a great job. Now, head in." Victor wipes my forehead reassuringly.

He ushers me toward the meeting floor, and I hold onto the glass door like I still have the option to turn around, pack my shoes, and flee. But I can’t. For my late dad and for the sake of my mom, I can’t fail.

I take one deep breath before stepping into the meeting room. Even as I try to project dominance and elegance, my eyes struggle to fully take in the men seated before me. It’s suffocating, standing here with all my old and potential new investors, every single one of them influential men.

I begin. "Gentlemen, I thank you all for taking your time to listen to my pitch."

After receiving a few muffled sounds of approval, I continue. "Following Mr. Bellaire’s death—my father—the restaurant has faced a lot of turmoil. And just as your involvement once helped make Come-Feast a success, I’m here to request that same support again."

I steady myself and move forward. "For the past six months, I’ve been testing a new app. It’s a food delivery platform designed to expand Come-Feast globally by integrating with intercontinental restaurants across Paris."

Victor walks in just in time to distribute the app’s chart reports to the men while I continue. "As you can see from the data, we’ve generated significant organic leads, and once fully implemented, the revenue potential is substantial. But to achieve this, I need your investment. This isn’t the time to withdraw, it’s the time to build. To be part of the future where food meets technology."

I exhale softly when I finish. For a few seconds, there’s nothing but silence. The back of my neck prickles as I wait, then the first investor finally speaks.

"As exciting as this sounds, this chart is based on projected outcomes, not guaranteed returns."

Another adds, "Also, if Come-Feast uses this app to deliver for other restaurants, how do you maintain your own brand value when customers may prefer those other options?"

More questions follow, one after the other. Each time I answer one, another rises. My heart begins to feel weak, my body unsteady, dizziness creeping in as pressure builds. My eyes search the room, almost desperately, until a voice I’d recognize anywhere cuts through everything.

"I am quite interested in this. In fact, I’d like to invest."

Like a sudden rush of relief, my eyes snap toward him. Kaizen Montclair. What is he doing here?

He removes his shades and rises to his feet. "Gentlemen, if none of you are still interested, I’d prefer to discuss my proposal privately with Miss Bellaire."

One by one, they begin to leave. Panic rises in me as I try to stop them, but my words fall flat. They don’t even look back. Did this man just ruin everything for me?

When I turn to him, he wears an almost innocent expression, like he hasn’t just dismantled my entire opportunity.

"What did you just do?" I storm toward him. "I could have convinced them. I could have secured a real investor. How did you even get here?"

He laughs softly as he turns away, moving to sit at the end of the table. He gestures for me to join him.

"If you’d like to discuss business, I’ll explain a few terms."

I hesitate. I don’t even know this man—not really. Yet somehow, he keeps appearing in my life, whether physically or in my thoughts, distracting me.

"This place belongs to a close associate of mine," he says casually. "I came because I knew your pitch would fail."

Two women—a blonde and a brunette—walk in gracefully, placing a bottle of wine and glasses in front of us before leaving. From where I sit, I can feel his gaze on me, steady and intense. The curtains draw shut, and a dim red light fills the room.

Uh, what's happening now?

Before I can speak, he continues, "I am Kaizen Montclair, Miss Bellaire. I’m known for my controlling nature." He pauses, taking a sip of wine. "You may know that my empire runs several charity initiatives—feeding the homeless, supporting orphanages. My team needs someone who can make this more efficient. Your proposal aligns with that goal. In return, I invest in your company. You produce the food. I distribute it to those in need."

I narrow my eyes slightly. Since when did he become a humanitarian? I’ve never heard of him running charity at this scale. I make a mental note to research this with Victor later.

"You’re really proposing to invest in my restaurant?"

"That’s exactly what I said. You make the food. I use it to feed my people."

I swallow, unsure how to respond. "I... I don’t even know what to say. I wasn’t expecting—"

"Take your time," he interrupts smoothly. "By tonight, you’ll have access to my company’s email. My secretary will brief you. If you agree, I’ll draft a contract. If we work well together, the benefits will extend beyond this deal."

This feels dangerous and too calculated to be simple. "Why are you doing this? Why help me?"

"You’re a woman with a dream. I like my women with ambition."

The conversation starts drifting, and I begin packing my things, intending to leave and think it through later, when his voice cuts in again, sharper this time.

"If you... don’t leave yet. I’d like to discuss something else."

I slowly settle back into my seat, my laptop already tucked away. "And what would that be, Mr. Montclair?"

He takes his time before responding, biting lightly on his lower lip as he loosens his tie. "I’d like to f**k you, Miss Bellaire. Here. Right now."

My eyes widen despite my act of composure. I steady my expression, swallowing. "For the umpteenth time, Mr. Montclair, you don’t even know me."

"It takes only a moment to know a person," he replies, then adds, "not fully, but enough. You distract me too much, and I’d like to know you more. Keep you close."

"I’m not a property. You don’t own me." I push back, even as I notice him undoing more of his buttons. For the first time, I catch sight of ink on his skin, and against my will, I find myself wanting to see more of it, understand what's drawn.

"Maybe not," he says, his gaze lowering slightly, "but your body says otherwise."

I realize too late that the glass table is a see-through. I force myself to stay composed, even as heat creeps through me. "So let’s say I agree. What happens next?"

Three buttons undone now, his tie hanging loosely from his hand, he rises slowly. "First, I’d tie your hands behind you with this. Then I’d make you feel exactly how much pleasure your body gives me—something I haven’t felt before."

He pauses, then adds bluntly, "And I’ve had plenty of women."

The way he says it—unfiltered, direct—sends an unexpected wave through me. I should be offended. I should hate this.

Instead, I don’t.

He unzips and whips out his d**k, letting it hit the table. Once cool, the room is suddenly so hot and my p***y is insanely wet. My lips are slightly parted as my breathing grows uneven.

"And?" I decide to ask.

"I'd have you play with my c**k till it's hard and pulsating, requesting entry into your slick kitty. And right here, on this table, I'd f**k you till you c*m no less than thrice."

The imagery is vivid, dangerously so. For someone who consumes dark romance like oxygen, I hate how much this aligns with fantasies I’ve never admitted out loud.

My eyes zeros in on his d**k cap. The c*m-hole makes me salivate, wanting to lick from there down his length and choke on it. His balls resting on the sides doesn't make this temptation any easier. I'm dying and screaming internally.

Somehow, I manage to snap out of it. I grab my bag and stand abruptly. "Thank you for your time, Mr Montclair. I’ll take my leave now."

Before I reach the door, he catches my arm, pulling me back just enough to stop me. The proximity alone sends a rush through me I don’t want to acknowledge.

"I’d like a positive response, Iris. Your pitch and my proposal benefit us both. You know that." His tone shifts, more serious now.

"Goodbye, Mr Montclair."

"Goodbye, Miss Bellaire."