HIS PLAY THING

PARIS, UNWRAPPED

Ivy’s POV

Two days had passed since I slept with my boss.

Two days since I let him take me on his desk, ruin me with his mouth, and leave me trembling in his arms.

Two days of pretending everything was normal.

Dominic hadn’t texted. Hadn’t called. He hadn’t even glanced in my direction when he passed me in the hallway. And though I tried to play it cool—head down, eyes on my screen—I couldn’t help the sting of uncertainty every time I thought of his silence.

Had it meant nothing to him?

I was staring blankly at my laptop, trying to edit a client brief, when a voice broke through my thoughts.

“Miss Rivers,” came a familiar, clipped tone.

I looked up to find Dominic’s executive assistant standing beside my desk. Perfectly composed, as always.

“Mr. Hayes would like to see you now. His office.”

My heart did that embarrassing leap it always did at the sound of his name.

“Okay,” I said, trying to sound unfazed. I grabbed my notebook, smoothed down my skirt, and followed her down the hallway.

The walk to the 41st floor felt longer than usual. When I stepped into his office, the door clicked shut behind me.

Dominic stood behind his desk, tall and collected, in a navy suit that looked like it had been made just for him.

“Ivy,” he said, as if we were just colleagues, as if two nights ago he hadn’t made me moan his name into silk sheets.

“Sir,” I said carefully, my voice neutral.

He studied me for a beat too long. “How are you finding the office?”

A weird question. “It’s been… good,” I said. “Busy. But I like the work.”

He gave a small nod, like he was checking a box. “Good. Do you have passport?” He asked.

I blinked at him, confused.

“Why?” I asked, still trying to read the glint in his eyes.

“Because I want to take you somewhere. Paris. Friday.”

Just like that.

No build-up. No explanation. Just an invitation wrapped in command.

Before I could even process it, he added, “Pack something sinful.”

I should’ve asked why. Should’ve hesitated. But something in his voice—velvet wrapped in steel—made questions feel unnecessary. Irrelevant.

And the truth?

He didn’t ask. He decided.

—————

The day came fast. A black car picked me up and dropped me at the airport’s VIP entrance. My name was on the list. My ticket read Business Class—my first time flying like someone who mattered. The lounge offered champagne and pastries I couldn’t pronounce. The seat reclined into a bed. The flight attendant called me Madam.

I wasn’t a mistress.

I was a fantasy.

By the time we landed, I felt like I had crossed into someone else’s life. Paris was dreamy and moody under the dusk, draped in soft rain and golden lights. A private car whisked me away to a luxury hotel with Roman pillars and a chandelier taller than my entire apartment.

The suite? 1703. Top floor. Penthouse views.

I knocked gently, heart pounding in my ears.

The door swung open.

Dominic stood there—barefoot, dark slacks, a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the top. A drink in his hand, his jaw clenched in that way that made him look both devastating and untouchable.

“You made it,” he said, eyes drinking me in.

I stepped inside slowly, turning in awe as I took it all in. Gold trim, glass walls, velvet furnishings. And the view—the Eiffel Tower lit up like a secret whispering, this is yours, for now.

I turned back to him, still stunned. “This doesn’t feel real.”

Dominic didn’t speak.

He walked toward me slowly, his glass still in one hand. Then, without warning, his other hand slid into my hair and guided me gently down to my knees.

My breath caught.

I looked up, eyes wide. He stared down at me like a king granting permission.

My hands went to his belt.

I unfastened it slowly, unzipped his trousers, and lowered them enough to expose him. Already hard. Already needing.

I wrapped my lips around him.

He exhaled sharply, gripping my hair tighter, his hips pushing forward. I took him deeper, inch by inch, letting my tongue swirl at the tip, my hands gripping his thighs as I moved with slow, deliberate rhythm.

“Just like that…” he muttered, voice thick.

His moans grew darker, breath ragged, hips twitching in time with the pressure of my mouth. His free hand cupped my jaw, tilting my face up as I took him even deeper, gagging softly.

Then, with a sharp grunt, he pulsed into me—hot and hard.

He pulled back gently, lifting me up by the arms, and crashed his lips against mine.

“Bedroom. Now,” he growled.

⸻

He stripped me slowly, like unwrapping something forbidden.

My dress hit the floor first. Then my bra. Then the silk thong he’d picked out and mailed to my apartment two nights ago.

He kissed down my neck, sucking gently at the base of my throat. His hands moved with purpose—gripping my hips, tracing every curve, owning me.

He laid me down on the bed, then hovered above me, dragging his tongue across my chest, down my stomach, to where I throbbed for him. He licked once, slow and hot, before slipping two fingers inside me.

“You’re already soaked,” he whispered. “Say it. Say you need me.”

“I need you,” I breathed.

Then he was inside me.

Slow at first—deep, measured strokes that had my back arching off the bed. His grip tightened on my wrists, holding them above my head as he pounded deeper, faster. I cried out his name, again and again, legs trembling, vision blurring.

He flipped me onto my stomach, pulled me back by the hips, and slid in again, rougher this time. The sound of skin on skin echoed through the suite. He grunted, bit my shoulder gently, and finally came with a growl that made my body collapse into his.

⸻

That night, we went to a jazz club tucked into a dimly lit street in Saint-Germain.

He wore a tailored coat and black turtleneck. I wore the backless slip dress he’d left for me on the bed, with heels that made my calves ache—but I didn’t care. I wanted to look like I belonged to him.

The band played smoky blues. The lights were low and golden. We danced close, his hand low on my back, his breath brushing the shell of my ear.

“I could get used to you like this,” he murmured.

“Like what?”

“Mine. Beautiful. Quiet.”

I smiled, heart twisting. “You like me better quiet?”

He said nothing.

On the walk back, the night was cool and breezy, the streets nearly empty. Halfway to the hotel, he pulled me into a stone alleyway.

“I’ve been thinking about you all night,” he said.

He kissed me hard, hands already sliding under my dress.

“Dominic, someone could see—”

“I don’t care.”

He lifted one of my legs and pushed into me, pinning me against the wall. I gasped as he filled me again, my back arching into the cold stone, his mouth devouring mine.

My moans disappeared into his kiss.

It was wild. Shameless. Perfect.

⸻

The next morning, he left early for a business meeting. Before he walked out the door, he handed me a wallet filled with euros.

“Go have fun,” he said. “Get lost. Buy something ridiculous.”

I smiled. “How ridiculous?”

He kissed me. “You’ll know when you see it.”

And I did.

Paris in the daylight was everything. I wandered cobbled streets, ate too many pastries, got lost in a bookstore where no one spoke English but still handed me coffee like I was family.

At a market near the Seine, I saw it: a vintage film camera with silver knobs and faded leather casing. It reminded me of something old and romantic.

“I’ll take it,” I told the vendor.

⸻

That night, Dominic came back late. He dropped his coat on a chair and poured two glasses of wine.

“How was your day?” he asked.

I smiled and climbed onto his lap. “Perfect. I got something.”

I showed him the camera.

His brow lifted. “You bought this?”

“I thought it was sexy.”

He took it in his hands, inspecting it. Then he gave me a slow, crooked smile—the kind that always led to danger.

“Let’s play a game,” he said. “You be the photographer. I’ll be the model.”

I giggled. “Seriously?”

He stood. “For every picture you take, I’ll take off something.”

“Dominic…”

He started with his jacket. Struck a strong pose. I raised the camera, heart racing.

Click.

Next came his shirt. He posed against the doorframe, abs on full display, eyes smoldering.

Click.

Then he walked backward, shedding clothing one piece at a time—from the hallway, to the couch, to the bedroom.

When he reached the bed, he turned to me, bare and erect.

“Your turn,” he said.

I set the camera on the bed, still recording. Then I peeled off my dress slowly, letting the straps fall off my shoulders, teasing him with every inch of skin.

He watched like he was starving.

I was down to nothing.

I climbed into bed, crawled on top of him, and pressed my lips to his.

The camera caught everything.

⸻

The next day, I returned home—tired, sore, glowing.

Cassie opened the door with a scream. “b***h, you look like s*x and Paris threw you into a blender!”

I laughed, dragging my suitcase into the apartment.

“I need a nap first,” I muttered. “Then dinner.”

“Fine. But you better tell me everything.”

“Oh, I will,” I said with a smile.

I dropped onto the bed and buried my face in the pillow, heart racing.

He took me to Paris.

But what I didn’t realize then was… Paris would be the high before the fall.

And I was already falling.