Hospitality Man Series II: His Magnificent Specimen (ENGLISH VERSION)

CHAPTER-1

A sharp knock against the tinted glass of my office door had dragged me back to the present, shattering the delicate veil of memory that had momentarily wrapped around me. My jaw tightened as I straightened, schooling my expression into one of practiced indifference.

Through the shadowed distortion of the glass, I recognized the silhouette—Paige, my secretary. Reliable. Efficient. Ever observant.

With a measured breath, I pushed away the remnants of my thoughts and called out, "Come in."

She stepped inside with her usual grace, though there had been a flicker of hesitation in the way she moved, as if sensing the lingering distraction in my gaze. She had been composed, professional, yet beneath that polished demeanor, I had caught the quiet admiration in her eyes—the same unspoken reverence I had seen in others. I had long accepted it, dismissed it.

Because none of it had ever mattered.

Not when my desires had remained shackled elsewhere.

"Sir, your meeting is in five minutes." Her voice had been soft, unobtrusive, yet effective—like a silk thread slicing through glass.

Ah. The board meeting. A necessary disruption, though an unwelcome one. A chain pulling me back to reality when all I had wanted was to drown in the indulgence of memory.

I had nodded, a subtle gesture of acknowledgment, and with that, she had disappeared as seamlessly as she had arrived. The door had whispered shut behind her, sealing me back into solitude.

For a moment, I had done nothing. I had simply sat, my fingers curled loosely against the armrest of my chair, eyes unfocused as the ache within me pulsed—a slow, deliberate torment that refused to subside.

Her.

Even now, she lingered beneath my skin, a phantom imprinting herself upon me in ways I could not undo. Her name had remained unspoken, yet it had coursed through my veins like an unquenched thirst. The memory of her was a fire I had long ceased trying to put out—because, deep down, I had never truly wanted to.

My body had betrayed me, reacting to the mere thought of her—the warmth of her against me, the way her breath had hitched in that fragile moment between resistance and surrender. She had never been just a fleeting indulgence.

She had been a storm.

One I had willingly stepped into, knowing I would never emerge the same.

I had exhaled, amusement flickering beneath the weight of my torment. I missed her. More than I should have. More than time should have allowed.

Pushing away from my chair, I had strode toward the private washroom, fingers already loosening the belt at my waist. I hadn’t bothered looking in the mirror. I had already known what I would see—restless eyes, tension coiled beneath the surface, an ache not even time could dull.

Back at my desk, my hand had hovered over my phone, drawn by a number I should have erased long ago. But I never had. While others had faded into irrelevance, hers had remained. A door left open. A possibility I had refused to abandon.

My men searched relentlessly, chasing whispers, tracing footsteps that had long since been erased. But she had become a ghost, her past rewritten, her existence carefully veiled in secrecy. And still…

I waited.

For the impossible. For the moment fate decided to be merciful.

The meeting had begun, voices droning around me in a monotony of figures and negotiations, but I had barely heard them. My body had been there, bound to the expectations of the world I had built, but my mind?

My mind had betrayed me.

It had pulled me back into the past, where she still existed—not as a memory, but as a promise yet to be fulfilled.

Her lips were the softest indulgence, a taste that intoxicated me more than the richest of wines. I claimed them with fervor, with urgency, as if the world itself was on the brink of collapse. My tongue sought hers, a dance of warmth and desire, and after a breathless pause, she reciprocated, hesitant at first, then matching my hunger. The air between us grew fevered, the sound of our union echoing in the quiet space we occupied—lips parting, meeting again, tongues twining in a battle neither of us wished to win.

I trailed my lips lower, finding the delicate curve of her ear, tracing a path down to the slope of her neck. A sigh escaped her, a shiver betraying the quiet storm within. But it was not enough—not yet. I craved more, the kind of surrender that left no space for uncertainty. My hands moved with reverence, tracing the fabric that concealed the delicate contours of her skin.

One by one, the barriers fell, slipping away like silk in the moonlight. Her breath hitched as I kissed along the rise and fall of her form, mapping her body as if she were the most treasured scripture. Every sigh, every whispered plea, became a symphony to my ears, each note pulling me deeper into the abyss of her.

She was beautiful beyond words, a vision of moonlit softness and trembling need. I traced my fingers along the delicate line of her spine, feeling the quiet hum of anticipation beneath my touch. When I finally took her into my arms, when I became one with her, it was more than passion—it was something unspoken, something that lived between breaths, between heartbeats. A promise. A vow. A love that defied reason and time.

I met her gaze in the dim light, her eyes holding a thousand emotions, a thousand unsaid words. I pressed a kiss against her forehead, brushing the damp strands of hair away.

"Stay with me," I murmured against her skin, not just in body but in soul, in existence.

She answered with a sigh, a whisper, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.

Even now, in the midst of a meeting, in the confines of an office where she does not exist, she is still here. Her presence lingers like an eternal flame, refusing to be extinguished. And so, I remain a prisoner to my memories, lost in the exquisite ache of longing for the one I cannot—will not—let go.