Gems Cavern

“I don’t understand why you let it bother you,” Gina sighs. “Even if all the petty rumours are true, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s a literal Tony Stark in the flesh and that interviewing him will give us so much extra credit we’ll be drowning in it until graduation. Not to mention the clout we’ll get just for having his name attached to us.”

You huff indignantly, as irritated by her insight as with your own sour mood. “I don’t want the name of a psycho attached to me, thank you very much.”

“Oh my god, spare me from the morally upright of this world,” Gina groans into the air. “Dude’s allegedly into a bit of bondage and that makes him a psycho?”

Your cheeks heat with embarrassment; you cast a mortified glance around the café, glad that nobody appears to have caught that.

“Keep your damn voice down,” you hiss.

Gina finishes her latte, swiping the foam from her top lip. “Appointment is for twelve tomorrow,” she says flatly. “Don't forget the Dictaphone and make sure whatever notes you take are readable.”

She rises from her chair, stepping out from around the table. “If you unclench enough to make it there, that is.”

With a cackle and a flourish, she about-faces and leaves the café, leaving you to stew in nerves. In one thing, she’s not so wrong. Chan Christopher Bang is the billionaire playboy philanthropist of the nonfiction world, and there’s not a self-respecting economics student that doesn’t know his name, much less one that wouldn’t tear your arm off for a chance to interview him in your place.

A mug smashes behind the counter, the crack of porcelain ringing shrill through the café. A young, overworked barista apologises profusely, going about collecting the scraps from the floor.

There’s something unsettlingly portentous about it.

***

The corporate offices of B.C.C. Holdings are a monolith; a statement of power and money amongst the pond life of the city.

Stepping into the sleek marble lobby, the first and most prominent sensation is nausea. It seems that even despite your attempts to look the part with a (wholly uncharacteristic) pencil skirt and smart blouse, you very much don’t feel it, and that’ll doubtless be the first thing anyone in this bloodhound kennel will notice about you.

Approaching the reception desk manned by a woman that can only have been poached from a Vogue editorial, you summon your courage.

“Hello,” you smile. She glances up from her computer. “I’m here to see Mr. Bang.”

“Mr. Bang sees people by appointment only.” She turns back to her computer.

“R— Right, of course. Sorry; I do have an appointment? Twelve o’clock?” Quite why the irrefutable fact comes out like a question, you’re not sure, but the woman quirks a groomed brow and asks for your name. A few tip-taps on her keyboard, and she says, “Elevator to the top floor, take a seat in the waiting room.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

The top floor, it transpires, is the thirtieth floor, and the vertigo of the elevator does nothing to ease the rising sickness that pangs your gut. Glad to be free of it when the doors glide open to reveal a neat and minimalist seating area, you teeter to the nearest cushioned chair and slump into it. The relief on your aching soles is pleasant—you’re not so practiced in the art of wearing heels—but after ten minutes of waiting ticks to twenty minutes, then thirty-five, your impatience begins to make reckless suggestions.

You send a text to Gina to immortalise the moment; you want this on record.

<< still waiting for this asshole. even tony stark was punctual.

And as you send it, the elevator doors ping and slide smoothly open for the same model as was on reception. She smiles, looking over the top of your head as she says, “Mr. Bang will see you now.”

You think about voicing a complaint for the tardiness, but are instead forced to hop up from your chair and jog down the connecting hallway after her hasty pace, just narrowly avoiding stumbling over your heels. At the end of it, she stops before a set of rich mahogany doors, knocking twice.

A voice comes from the other side: “Enter.”

She does so, pushing and holding the left door open for you. Hand in hand with trepidation, you step inside, and find you can no longer recall the image your expectations had created of this very place; how should the office of a man such as Chan Christopher Bang look? Well: floor to ceiling glass walls run the front and left-hand of the room, the view of the city from such lofty heights uninterrupted. On the plush crimson carpet rests luxurious furniture; a leather suite of armchairs around a short glass table, shelving built into the right-hand wall displaying a selection of books, liquors and crystal. A fireplace sits unlit near the leather suite, a rug of tiger skin sprawled out before it. Concealed spotlights track the length of the ceiling, the daytime hours rendering them surplus to requirement, but you imagine their glow to be soft come nightfall.

The clicking of the closing door accompanies the harsh click of your dry swallow.

“Do come in. Don’t be shy.”

At the head of the room and seated at a grand desk of pristine burlwood is the man himself. Striking in every way one may strike—and he does; make no mistake—the first impression is one of dripping expense. His dark tailored suit compliments the dewy pale of his complexion, the waves of his thick blonde hair reveal his high forehead. His features are strong; sharp nose, plush lips, deep cheekbones all unthinkably defined, and his fingers are beringed, his wrist adorned with a Rolex.

“You must be my twelve o’clock,” he says, rising from his desk chair.

It says something to your addled state that on his statement, you scoff out loud. He stops his approach, face drawn with amusement as your mortification registers stiltedly. “I suppose we are late getting started, yes,” he smiles. “My conference call ran over. Turns out doing business abroad takes some fine communication.”

Ground, swallow.

He crosses the rest of the office, hand outstretched when he’s close enough, which you take amicably.

“I— It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Bang.” God, your voice is chalky.

“Chan, please.” He shakes your hand gently, an all-encompassing grip that might make your stomach clench just a little. In closer proximity, he appears even more attractive; kind eyes, you note. A slight slant to his smile. Veiny hands.

“Would you like to take a seat?” he then asks, gesturing with his other hand to the armchairs at his desk.

“Sure.”

Moving to the designated area is done so under his (watchful?) gaze burning something of a hole into your back until you’re seated, and it’s with muted disdain that you narrowly stop from falling back into the sheer size of it; were you to sit with posture in mind, spine straight against the seat, your feet wouldn’t touch the floor. Perching on the edge with legs crossed is as comfortable a position as you can manage.

Chan takes up seat at his desk, chin propped on his knuckles as he watches you fish your notepad and Dictaphone from your little bag.

“Is it okay to record this?” you ask as an afterthought.

Chan nods flatly, eyes trained to you. Something warm curls around your chest.

“A— And I'll be taking notes too, if that’s—”

“That’s fine.”

Do you imagine the way his gaze drops briefly—almost accidentally—to your legs? You clear your throat, pulse spiking. God.

“This interview is for...?” he then asks.

Glad of an excuse to talk (if a little miffed at his apparent ignorance) you do just that: “A school project; our final project, I mean.”

“I see. What are you studying?”

“Business and economics.”

“Undergrad?”

You nod. “Graduating this year. This project makes up thirty percent of our final grade.”

“Thirty percent, huh?” he muses softly, running his fingers absentmindedly under his jaw. You tear your eyes from him, down to your notepad.

“S— So, if you don’t mind, may I ask you some questions?”

He smiles. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

“Alright,” you shift, balancing the pad on your knee, clicking the Dictaphone to record. “Mr. Bang,” you begin. Chan purses his lips in something akin to disapproval; you continue regardless. “Could you tell me what inspired you to start a company?”

“I wanted to be rich.”

You glance at the Dictaphone, as though it’s an active audience. “Of course,” you indulge him. “Let me rephrase that: aside from financial gain, what was your motivation?”

“I wanted to be powerful,” he deadpans.

Irritation simmers under your skin. “Could you elaborate?”

Chan sinks into his chair, beringed fingers linked at his chest. “Doesn't everyone crave power?” he asks rhetorically. “Power brings control, and control is everything.”

You scribble that down in the notepad. “I see.”

“Not profound enough for you?”

Looking up at him, eyes lock over the desk; your pulse throbs. “It’s fine. Thank you.”

He drops into a smirk, though what precisely is so amusing to him escapes you. It strikes you that he’s not taking this all that seriously, which you would more fully be able to appreciate were it not for the taut knot of tension in your gut: he’s a powerful entrepreneur, you’re a pestering student, the worlds of which don’t—and shouldn’t—collide. And that’s the only reason you’re so out of sorts, you suppose. What other could there be?

Running too hot to be comfortable, blouse sticking to your clammy back, you shrug off your suit jacket quickly. “Next question,” you preface, glancing up at the man whose chin now rests on a formed fist. He lifts a groomed brow expectantly.

“Do you have a mantra, Mr. Bang? Or a motto? Something you live or do business by?” you ask.

He shakes his head slightly. “No.”

“No?”

“I make my own way.”

“As in...?”

He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Business is a brutal world. If you end up in it, you’ll understand what I mean by that, but until then rest assured that the one thing that’ll serve you well is loyalty. Whether that’s to yourself or someone else is your choice, but whatever path you take, stick to it. Die on it. That consistency will earn you respect; it’ll earn you anything you want. Those that work under me—that are loyal—are rewarded handsomely for their services. Those that aren’t? Well...” he shrugs gently. Ominously. Your pulse spikes again.

“I adopt the same philosophy in my personal life,” he then adds, and the voice at the back of your mind that pleads with you not to ask goes pitifully ignored.

“How so?”

His teeth indent his plush lower lip, and then he says, “Within sex, mostly.”

The illicit word rolling from his tongue sinks over you like sun-warmed honey; he rises slowly from his chair, rounding the burlwood desk, fingertips dragging across the polished surface as he goes. Perching on the lip of it and positioned right before you, the elegant length of his thick legs hugged by expensive fabric is apparent, the pinch of the suit accentuating his slim waist, further revealed when he undoes the single jacket button for it to fall open on him. Carefully—as though aware the kitten he stares down may yet scarper—he reaches across to click off the Dictaphone. Your breath hitches tightly, gut swirling a mix of emotions and wanting that are not only unfamiliar, but so heavily immediate it’s more a cause for concern than a sensation you dare to embrace.

And to that end:

“I, uh... I think that’s everything, Mr. Bang. Thank you for giving me your time.”

Rising from the chair to haphazardly gather your belongings, your notepad slips from your hand as you hastily cross the office. Turning to retrieve it, he gets there before you do.

“You hardly wrote a thing down,” he says thoughtfully, examining the page.

You laugh nervously. “It’s all up here,” you tap your temple, then reach for the notepad. Chan holds it still, his scrutiny moved from the item to you.

“M— May I have it back, please?”

“Are you sure you have enough content?”

“Yes. Plenty. Of course. So much. Thank you, Mr. Bang.”

His jaw ticks. “Didn’t I ask you to call me Chan?”

“Did you?”

“My; what a short attention span. That sort of thing can be trained, you know.”

He steps towards you, all authority and dark intent and inexplicable pull that only marginally has you fearing for your mortal soul; curse the rumours about him. Curse that you know anything about him, because it’s only that which stops you from—

“My next engagement is in an hour,” he breathes, weighted gaze under thick lashes recognising the inchoate sparks in your own. He drops the notepad with a light thump, from his pocket retrieving a tiny remote control that he lifts to your eyes. A sharp click on the device and an electronic lock rings off; the doors?

Your bag falls from your arm, jacket and Dictaphone following promptly. It’s harder to breathe in his space, and perhaps that poses the reason for your head spinning. In stepping towards him, he opens his arms to you; colliding with his broad chest and sinking into his embrace spells the end of the pretence.

You wonder if this is what is meant by ‘the spark’; the tight coil of hunger that compels you to open to this stranger in ways you’d never ordinarily entertain with a regular person, let alone one so obscure.

Chan kisses you with the caution a child might possess in opening a new toy; they’re fearful of breaking it, yet desperately keen to get beyond the plastic packaging. Soft and pliant against your mouth, you burn with the urge to have him fiercer, your clutching of his jacket lapels intended to that effect, but Chan resists it. Rather, he breaks away and seems so vastly put together in contrast to your gradually slipping state of mind. He licks his lips, takes your hand to lead you back to the seat previously occupied. Guiding you into it—feet off the floor and spine against the seat—you watch breathlessly as he shrugs off the jacket, folding it over his arm and to the desk.

“You’ll answer some of my questions, now,” he says, attention turned to his shirt as he untucks it roughly from his trousers. A slow undoing of the buttons from hem to chest reveal the definition of his abdomen; hard ridges, smooth planes, all strength. Wanting throbs in all unmentionable places. “How do you like to do business?”

Sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to expose thick forearms, he unclasps his Rolex, dumps it to the desk. Hands outstretched—first left, then right—he peels the rings from each slim finger, similarly reckless in his depositing of them.

“I... I don’t know. I don’t really... do business.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Shame.” And sinks to his knees, hands curled around the chair armrests for veins to protrude. “You could strike a wicked deal or two.”

“I could...?” you ask uselessly.

He nods, and then rasps, “With me.”

The metaphor clearly having transgressed to more intimate realms, the proposition is a blatant one; as bold as the man who seeks control in all facets of his life.

“You intrigue me. Not much does anymore.”

Unsure what to say, the relief of his touch at your ankle purges you of need to speak anyway; you draw tight, biting back a breathless sigh. From ankle to calf he maps out a path, when at your knee he stops on the hem of your pencil skirt. Your body feels alight. Seconds away from outright pleading for it, he cranes up and leans towards you, voice kept low as he says:

“With your agreement, I’d like to make you come on my fingers, then my tongue, then my cock. I’d like to make you come at my leisure, at my beck and call, at my convenience. I’d like you to submit to me, darling, and I’ll reward you so lusciously you won’t even recall your life before me.”

The spreading of your legs is your non-verbal agreement; Chan seeks it anyway, your chin held by thumb and forefinger.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

And the kiss is so true to his promise; a reward, firm enough to drag a longing sigh from you when he breaks it. Back to his knees he sinks, your legs hooked over his shoulders for heels to dangle from your toes. Skirt pushed up and the annoyance of underwear pulled aside, you’re barely permitted to catch a breath when he sucks his own middle finger, the digit slick for the glide of entrance to be just so: he fills you slowly, carefully, the ridges and bumps of knuckle and joint felt intimately.

“So wet already,” he muses, and then, “How does that feel?”

“G— Good...”

Warmth coils around you, blooms out from the lower depths of your belly and in your groin. Chan works you patiently, a steady pace of fingering set to ease you into the freefall.

“You’re tight, darling. So tight.” His index finger joins the effort. “Can feel you opening for me.”

Your moan is obscene; there’s something to be said for the efficacy of Chan’s mouth, his voice, his words that accompany the building of pressure his fingers coax.

“Good girl.”

The consistent drag is delicious, your chasing of the sensation enacted by driving your hips down and grinding. Unabashed eye contact is held when Chan presses a kiss to your inner thigh, a high blush on his cheekbones, across his nose. The rolling pleasure peaks to a sharp spike; you gasp, then liquefy, managing only to choke out, “W— What...?”

Chan grins, white and wolfish. “Right here?” He does it again; curls fingers up and presses gently, holding the pressure. Your body spasms, your moans come broken, and he hums in delight. “Yeah. Right there.”

“Chan—”

“Your g-spot,” he informs softly, as though the information be some grand revelation that should change the course of things. In a way, it is. You’ve never found it by yourself. How is that a man you met a little under an hour ago knows you better than your practiced hand?

And as the peaking pleasure orders your limbs to tremble, your pants to break, Chan presses his tongue to your centre, a wet drag across his fingers and your sensitivity.

“Taste good, darling.”

“Oh, Jesus—”

The onslaught is near unbearable, and it is the perfect management of it that makes it so. The man knows beyond all reason when too much is just that, easing on fingers or tongue when one threatens to outdo the other in overstimulation. Buried between your thighs in a manner that would suggest he’s comfortable to call it home, it’s with lightheaded surrender you begin to fall into euphoria.

A strong, veined hand keeps your thighs spread and pliant, the fingers of the other still buried warm and snug. His attentive licking and mouthing of your centre muffles the exclamations of pleasure he himself emits; when you feel it coming, you warn him.

“Chan... Chan, I—”

He hushes you. “I know. Let it go. That was our agreement, wasn’t it?”

And amidst convulsions that wrack you with more violence than grace, a rush of pressure is relieved by fluid that drips and gushes from you—somehow—over his fingers, his chin. Chan pulls back, eyes ablaze with satisfaction and awe, the broken staccato of his name echoing around the office.

“Fuck me,” he mumbles absently when the aftershocks are passed, when you’re more able to open your eyes, to be present. Up from his knees and over you he looms, a wet kiss planted on dry lips.

“Pleasure doing business with you, darling.”

***

And a pleasure it is, doing business with Chan Christopher Bang.

A three-month long pleasure, to be precise about it, and when the man had so brazenly promised that life after him would be different, he had been sorely correct.

Living something of a double life came almost too easily, for it was as much a necessity in accommodating the man’s need for discretion as it was a thrill you took quietly. By day, the astute and studious economics student approaches the milestone that is her graduation. By night, the proverbial skin is shed and like a snake coaxed from its wicker, she wakes and slithers to her master, curling around him until her hold threatens to choke.

Yet such routine wasn’t without effort: after the initial encounter in his office, you tumbled down the predictable spiral of crisis and regret. He was a stranger; how could you do such a thing with a stranger? He was a powerful man; a statement against everything the feminist in you stood for. So why, then, did she not raise her voice in protest when you fell to your knees for him? Why did she not drag you away by the collar when you fell into him? Why did she not slam the door on him when he turned up at your house a fortnight after the illicit event, a bouquet of delicate crimson in one hand and bottle of chilled Cristal in the other?

“Business requires an adaptive approach,” he’d said warmly and on your questioning as to how he’d found you, though in truth you suspected tracking someone down was not least among his many capabilities.

Regardless, the feminist had looked on with dissociative acceptance as the man in the suit worth more than your car ravaged you on the sofa, against the countertops, in your bed. Whatever of your dignity remained was left only by his grace; for all his persistence, Chan’s respect was apparent in his handling of you, both physically and emotionally. In tearing you to pieces he was allowed to put you back together, and now, at the three-month mark, you suppose protesting any longer is a waste of precious energy.

You are his; he is yours.

Thus your life—newly unpackaged and box fresh—goes on.

***

The raw obscenity of the moan you fill Chan’s office with might be apt to draw outside attention were it not for the (recently installed) soundproofing.

“Goodness,” he grins. “Extra vocal for me today, hm?”

Too highly strung to entertain being verbal, trembling around the rampant rabbit the man holds steady inside you, your clenched fists are forced undone when with a quiet click, he ramps up the intensity of vibration.

He watches the way your eyes roll back with quiet awe, then turns attention back to his work. You wonder how it is that he has such a knack for stripping you down to skin whilst remaining fully clothed himself; poised on his expensive burlwood desk, legs spread and vulnerable, the feminist shakes her head at you in dire disapproval.

You ignore her.

With one hand he taps and clicks the laptop, with the other sets a slow pace of aided fucking possibly designed to drive you mad before it drives you to any semblance of orgasm, and that’s no product of inattention; Chan knows very well what he does, and why he does it.

“Chan—”

He glances at you, all perfect nonchalance.

“Please...”

“Please?” he mimics. “What are we pleading for now?” The toy glides deeper; you liquefy inside.

“Want to— Need to—”

“Oh, you want to come?” He hums, then purses his lips. “For such a vocal little thing you have an awfully hard time articulating, darling.”

He twists the toy, your sensitivity clenching around it.

“Fuck... I won’t have a hard time soaking that laptop and your dumb suit in a minute—”

Chan scoffs, eyes alight. “So she does speak. Shame that it’s backchat.” He withdraws the toy carefully, slowly, the emptiness of sensation leaving you a deflated ruin. “Maybe I’ve spoiled you, darling. Been too generous in my affections. I have an empire to run, yet here I am, making sure you’re looked after.”

You swallow with a harsh click, his careless tossing of the rampant rabbit to the desk preceded by the way he grabs your ankles and drags you into his lap, straddling him. Strong hand closes around your throat gently, the pad of his thumb under your chin ensures your rapt attention. Plush lips speak against yours:

“Take my belt off.”

Your compliance is immediate; Chan noses down your jaw as you strip the leather from his waist. He takes it from you and says softly, “Hands behind your back.”

In doing so, the belt is wrapped carefully around your wrists, secured by metal buckle. Unable to touch him or balance yourself or use them at all, Chan supports you by an arm wrapped around your body, lifting you briefly to free himself from his trousers.

“I should be more selfish,” he breathes, the blushed head of his cock a prod against your centre. “Take what I want.”

And in lowering you gently, he impales you. Gradual fullness renders you lightheaded, the stretch just shy of painful with the girth he offers; Chan is a powerhouse in all ways that matter. He draws tight and with a tug on the belt at your wrists, your back is bowed from him, your chest exposed. He licks a slow stripe through the chasm of your cleavage, a thrust of finality snapping him to full sheath.

“Fuck—”

And the pace he sets is relentless, your bouncing in his lap and on his cock only controlled by the hand he keeps around your throat, anchoring you. 

“That better, baby?” he grunts. “This what you wanted? To be stuffed so full you can’t think?”

“Ngh— Yes—”

“Such a pretty little toy for me to play with, huh?” He snaps upwards, thrusts deep. “Fit around me so well—”

Weak in his arms and plummeting towards orgasm—the tenderness of his earlier ministrations exacerbating the fall—your chin is held up, hot lips speak against your mouth: “Look at me.”

Though glassy his visage is, the beauty of the man is unmistakable. Even when so steeped in his rampant lust, he maintains a level of composure that serves as a perpetual reminder of who he is, what he has, the things he’s done. Touched by hands that shaped the city, kissed by lips that commandeer thousands, it’s a head spinning notion to know that of everything he possesses, in this moment, he craves only you.

Held close, Chan urges you into collapse. “Finish with me, darling. Want to feel you.”

Breaths and groans amalgamating so that one voice may not be distinguished from the other, you find ruin in his embrace. Chan swiftly unwinds the belt from your wrists; your arms slung up and around his neck bring the satisfaction of soft blonde between your fingers, of his head buried in your neck amidst his firm thrusts that slow, that falter, that bring him to crumble just enough so his perfect countenance slips when he kisses your sweat slick skin and whispers, “Thank you.”

A bittersweet thing that the weight of the statement is unknown to you.

***

With as much enthusiasm as you possess for economics, even you are inclined to admit that the lectures may induce occasional daydreams.

Notepad defiled with meaningless inky doodles and nonsensical words picked up from your Professor’s monologue, it’s a small joy when your phone on the desk buzzes for your attention. In checking it, a text message reads:

>> We have a thing tonight.

As presumptuous as ever, you inwardly grin.

<< we do?

>> Yes. Black tie, so wear something nice.

<< got a tie i can borrow then? lol

You chew your bottom lip as the response comes in:

>> No, but I’ve a few shirts I’d love to see you naked in.

Giddy delight whirls through your gut; you pinch your forearm surreptitiously.

>> Car will come for you at 8.

Time enough to pop to one of the boutiques in the city and pick something decent to wear up, at least.

<< ok. see u later Mr. B

>> ♥

***

With class finished and all present making their respective rushes to the exit, you’re no exception, gathering your things and slinging them into your backpack. Hitched over your shoulder and on your way out, your name is called across the lecture hall. In turning to it, Gina is barrelling towards you.

“Hey! Wait just a damn minute!”

“Gina, I really have to go—”

She grabs your wrist before you can scarper too far, the sudden and harsh contact on the—until now, pleasantly—sore skin a shock to your system. You yank it from her; Gina stares dumbfounded until disapproval glooms her expression.

“What’s going on?”

“Wh— Nothing!”

“Girl, you better not think I’m fool enough to believe your dirty lies—”

You reach out to her. “Alright. Okay. Something is, but I can’t really give you details.”

She eyes you dubiously. You half expect the tantrum, but it doesn’t come. She simply sighs, “But you’re okay, right?”

“I am.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” you reassure her.

She rolls her eyes, pulls you into a warm hug and on release, spins you about-face by the shoulders. “Go get yours, then!” she hollers, shoving you towards the door.

“I’ll call you!” you grin.

“Better had!”

***

Laden with shopping bags full of clothes on return to your modest one-bedroom house, you wonder if it’s as much the obvious testament to your indecisiveness as it looks.

With just enough time to shower and dress, you move to do just that, taking your treasures through to the bedroom.

Yet the bedroom isn’t quite how you left it. Atop the neatly made bed and looking every inch the trap, is a flat, square red box finished with a black silk bow. Sufficiently dumbfounded and within the span of several seconds, you consider ringing emergency services (can you call for a bomb squad?), arming yourself or running away. If only you weren’t already gravitating towards it. Unlacing the silk bow and lifting the lid, a neatly folded sheaf of chiffon paper is adorned with rose petals. A small card rests atop it, a handwritten message reads: ‘In celebration of the best business deal I ever made. Wear this tonight. - Mr. B.’

Heart in your throat and moving it all aside reveals a dress: glossy, black silk runs down in waves as you lift it, the design a covered halter neck with exposed back. Nothing like any of the clothes you’d eventually settled on in the boutique, in other words. Material soft under your hands, your mind races lanes of thought that all arrive at the same finish line: however he managed it, he did it for you.

***

Eight o’clock on the dot sees a sharp knock on your front door.

Abound with nerves and feeling not unlike a fish out of water with your state of dress, you quickly answer it.

Chan leans comfortably against the porch wall, every inch the classic gentleman in a fitted tuxedo that does him so many wonders you can’t bear to count them all. His hair swept back and styled neatly, silver glints in his lobes and at his neck betray the man’s inclinations to extravagance; he doesn’t need the bling to shine, but covets it anyway. The subtlest smudge of dark eye makeup brings out the intensity of them; their smoulder, their life.

Stunted is the realisation that your awe is mutual; the silence holds as he takes you in from top to toe, his jaw clenching when he meets your gaze.

“It seems I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he huffs as he stands from the wall.

“How so?”

He quirks a groomed brow, gestures vaguely in your direction.

“You don’t like it?” you ask, knowing so much better.

“I’m rather inclined to tear it to shreds, actually.”

Deep arousal rolls through you; you hum thoughtfully, stepping out to join him. “Maybe later, love.”

There’s a black Bentley parked on the street, its headlights slicing through the dark. “Yours?” you point to it and ask him.

He nods stiffly.

“Shall we, then?”

A deep breath and puff of resignation, and Chan starts towards the vehicle, guiding hand at the small of your bare back.

“Are you going to tell me how you got this into my house?” you ask.

“No.”

“Are you going to show me? When I least expect it? When I’m fresh from the shower, perhaps?”

He grins down at you, mirth in his eyes. “Would you like that?”

You shrug. “I wouldn’t hate it.”

The feminist watches from the lawn as you stride past her, her head in her hands, despair in her wailing.

Chan bends towards you, speaks into your ear, “Your wish for ravishment is my command, darling.”

***

Drawn close to Chan’s side in the back of the Bentley, the passing city is a melty haze of red, white and amber. The vehicle is equipped as fitting a man of unthinkable wealth and power; Cristal on tap and heated seats, armour plating (so Chan informed you) and a horsepower of needless strength.

None of it can compare though, you think, to the way his hand is linked loosely with yours, to the way he absently maps out the knuckles and joints of your fingers.

“Can I ask where we’re going now?”

Chan exhales softly. “It’s a charity dinner.”

“Charity?” you repeat, surprised. “I thought you didn’t do charity.”

“Not publicly, no. I neither need nor can stand the clout of it all.” He sighs then. “Still, there are a few causes dear to my heart that I support behind the scenes. One such cause personally requested I make an appearance tonight. I couldn’t well refuse.”

“Dear to your heart...?”

Chan smiles; squeezes your hand. “Another time, perhaps. We’re almost there.”

What does the man who has everything hold dear? What pulls his heartstrings enough to bring him to dip into that which he has so ruthlessly earned and give it away? What does he value? All questions you ask yourself silently, with intent to one day ask him. You file them away alongside the dusty cabinet marked ‘rumours’, for those hold all the weight of summer rain by now.

The car rolls to a gentle stop; through the tinted windows and alongside the vehicle is a grandiose building reminiscent of a theatre. Old marble and high pillars, etched carvings in the stonework and a shallow flight of stairs carpeted red stretch out regally. Spotlights shadow the length of the building, an air of the dramatic lingers. The driver, on exiting the vehicle, opens your door politely, the chill night breeze nipping your skin. Thanking him quietly as Chan lets himself out of his side, he rounds the vehicle and offers you his arm.

“Okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

And with that, he guides you up the carpeted stairs to be greeted by smartly suited staff at the door: “Good evening, Mr. Bang.”

Chaperoned inside, the hall is as opulent as the exterior suggests it should be. Dazzling chandeliers illuminate the intricately painted domed ceiling, scenes and murals depict angels and creatures locked in fierce battles of romantic pursuit. Gilded and ornate, the round tables and cushioned chairs match the décor, their white covering cloths pristine. People as beautiful as you’ve ever seen linger and mingle, their attention diverted by the man at your arm. You swallow over the nerves, guided by another suited individual to a table where the dainty name plates dictate the seating arrangement.

“Thank you,” Chan says amicably, pulling a seat out by the back. “Sit, darling.” And then he gathers the other nameplates, handing them to the—now appropriately flustered—member of staff. “That’ll be all.”

He drags a second chair beside yours and sits close, longs legs crossed elegantly.

“Are we gatekeeping an entire table?” you ask quietly, still somewhat perturbed by the eyes on you.

“If you’d rather be seated with the leeches of this city, I can call him back.”

“No,” you laugh softly. “No, that’s quite alright.”

He reaches to your hand, pulls it into his lap where he holds it warmly. “Good.”

While glad of his confidence and apparent unshaking faith in you to handle this, the scrutiny with which you’re being examined is doing far more to keep you on edge. You’re reminded, on looking around, that the occupants of this room are the very elite; the one percent. What place does an economics student have among them? What place does an economics student have beside him?

Chan’s hand finds your knee. “Relax.” He squeezes it gently; you hadn’t even realised your nerves were bouncing it. “We’ll be out of here the moment the speeches are done.”

And you’re about to voice your gratitude when an uncomfortably shrill calling of Chan’s name pierces the moment: “Christopher! Oh my god, is that you?!”

In turning to the hollering, a wildly flailing woman approaches the table. Her dress is skin-tight, bust begging to be set free, long brunette locks falling to her waist. You withdraw your hand from Chan’s immediately.

When close enough she leans over the table, cleavage swelling to near disastrous results. Chan remains seated, blinks and says flatly, “Gemma.”

‘Gemma’ squeals; your teeth ache. “I thought Hell’d freeze over before I ever saw you at one of these things. How crazy!”

“Just keeping up appearances.”

“Oh, I know all about that, babe,” she grins bleached white, and then twirls a strand of brown around her manicured finger. “We should catch up some time. I’ve missed you!”

Chan’s jaw locks.

“How about I swing by your office this weekend?” she proposes, her blatant ignorance of you an abject insult. “I’ll bring a bottle of Cristal. That’s still your favourite, right? Do you still have that old tiger skin—”

“Excuse me.”

Unable to take much more of the gratuitous preening, feeling adequately sick to your stomach, you rise and walk away across the hall. Your name is called, yet in need of space and room to breathe, you don’t stop to entertain it.

You rush to the nearest most obvious member of staff. “Bathroom?”

“Up the stairs, madam. Third floor.”

“Thank you.”

Gilded railing is cool under your palm as you swiftly traverse the carpeted flights; your name is called again. Rounding a landing and glancing down the central aisle reveals Chan’s figure bounding up the stairs after you; alight with trepidation you hastily make your way to the third floor, starting down the darkened corridor and ducking into one of many rooms whose doors all look the same, bathroom or not.

It’s warmer in here; stuffy, the air thick with dust that brings you to a light cough. When the thump of steady footsteps passes by, you catch your breath, taking in the surroundings. A storage room, it becomes immediately apparent; the ghosts of furniture draped in cloth haunt the space, their shapes reminiscent of their purpose. A window is covered by wooden shutters at the right-hand of the room; you approach it and unclasp them, inviting in the sliver of pale moonlight. Looking out at the urban nightscape, your forehead pressed to the cool glass, you wonder on the reason for your overreaction; for your wanting to run. Indeed, it’s not so daunting a revelation that the man has a past; of course, there was a life he had before you, just as you had before him. But it is perhaps the differences in vibrancy which inspired such sickness. Chan has never been short of the beautiful things, the luxurious things, and to believe yourself among them makes you just another hopeless heart in the collection he’s surely amassed. You intrigue him, he once told you. And what should happen when that intrigue wears off? Will you, like Gemma and so many others, preen and hold out until the next chance encounter?

It’s with these thoughts rolling around that the door opens slowly, that you’re finally found. Peeling away from the window to turn to him, Chan steps into the moonlight, his blonde iridescent with silver, his complexion a flawless, lucent canvas of beauty.

It is his expression, however, that renders you mute with shock; his brows are pinched together, his eyes wracked with pain. With a rushed few final paces, you’re taken into his arms, pulled close against his frame for him to curl around you.

“You ran from me,” he whispers.

“Chan...”

He pulls back enough that he can search your face, and what he finds brings him to say, “Please, don’t. Not now.”

“I just... I needed some space, was all. I couldn’t—”

“I know.” He trails a touch up your arm. “I know I asked a lot of you tonight. I’d hoped to spare you from running into any of my... previous associates, but I—”

“Is that what she is?” you ask.

Chan blinks, falters. “It was a long time ago.”

And the way your heart sinks is testament to the depth of your feelings; why does it take this for you to see them?

“I’m not that person anymore,” he adds.

You wait, expectant. Chan inhales slowly, lips parting and closing around the words before courage enough is summoned.

“I hear the things people say about me,” he says. “They think that because I’m rich and beautiful, everything else about me must be rotten. In some ways, they’re not entirely wrong. I sacrificed a lot to get to where I am; things that better people wouldn’t have. In starting out I made some poor deals with bad people, and despite how far I’ve come since then, the stain won’t ever wash out.”

You reach up to cup his cheeks, thumbs running the angular bones. “Everyone has a past, Chan. It doesn’t define you.”

He leans into your touch. “Maybe it should.”

“It wouldn’t change anything.”

His brow furrows.

“Knowing all the details of your past, no matter how grisly. It wouldn’t change how I... how I feel about you.”

Chan’s eyes glisten in the moonlight, reflective pools of tender hope. “How you feel about me?”

Your gaze drops; he lifts your chin to return it. “Say it.”

Heart thrumming to a new and giddy tune, so conditioned to practice obedience with the man, you suppose this one thing might be nice to keep to yourself for just a little longer. Clutching the lapels of his tuxedo, a brief kiss pressed to lips and a promise spoken, “I’ll never run from you again.”

Chan simpers; your heart near bursts. Swept up into a carry of strong arms, you’re deposited on the nearest hard surface; a classic grand piano, the sleek ivory keys glinting temptingly, voicing their erratic and melodic complaints when Chan climbs over you. Cool surface against your bare and naked back, Chan tucks his arm beneath you amidst claiming your mouth. Tongues and teeth exchange groans of wanting when, with his free arm, Chan hikes the silk up your legs, calloused palms running the smooth expanse of your fleshy thighs. Tearing his bowtie to ruin and shoving his jacket from shoulders, the undress is a frantic affair, but all the more rewarding when topless and kissed by silver glow, Chan looms above you.

Pulling him back to you with a breathless sigh, Chan wanders under your dress, eyes flashing when skin meets skin and he hums, “No underwear, darling?”

“The dress doesn’t really allow for— Oh—” Sinking into your arousal with two slim digits, Chan hums nonchalantly. His working of you is practiced, patient, for the man is intimately familiar with what it is makes you tick; and really, that’s not much more than him.

Withdrawing fingers and sucking them clean as an afterthought to the undoing of his trousers, Chan keeps a watchful eye on you. A sight you must be, you suppose: hot and bothered, in an embarrassing state of mid-dress, exposed and stripped back to rawest wants.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, and the compliment sinks over you with heft.

Freeing himself from the suit, Chan keeps his strokes brief; unnecessary, really, when he throbs so temptingly. A comfortable angle found with arm tucked under and around you, and the man holds his breath until the initial breach is passed; he draws tight and groans gently, so taken with the way you wrap around him, velvety soft.

“God, baby—”

A steady pace is set by his thrusts; the piano creaks but yet feels sturdy underneath you, the gathering of silk at your middle a luxurious sensation on your skin. The drag of his thickness is almost too effective, your helpless exclamations are muffled by the man’s mouth, as possessive of them as he is.

You wonder what it is that lives behind his eyes so warm and alive as he regards you with his weight on his forearms; your every micro expression. While sex has always been phenomenal, it strikes you that the tenderness in his fluidity, the closeness he seeks to you has never before been so important to him as simply seeing you to your crisis; he is enjoying this, savouring it.

Mapping out the slope of his broad shoulders and the swell of his biceps, Chan’s skin breaks to goose flesh. A high flush on his cheeks and across chest colour him rose under the waning light, and where once there was a man of power, there is now a man of desperation. A kiss to his parted lips, a slip of tongue sees his thrusts strengthen; Chan buries his head to your neck, his gravelly expletives muffled by skin.

He throbs inside you, the slick glide painting stars behind your eyes.

“Finish with me,” you instruct breathlessly, as you were once so instructed yourself. “Want to feel you.”

And Chan falters; veins in his forearms and neck speak to his exertion, to the precipice he tips over when your orgasm brings you to tighten.

He whimpers your name. “Fuck, fuck—” and curls around you, the tremors of your euphoria melting into his. Silent, hot moments of weightless glow follow, and as breaths even out to allow for composure, the static crackle of a speaker sounds off outside:

“Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated. Tonight’s event is about to begin.”

Chan laughs; weighted and thick, his chest rumbling atop yours. And this time, you’re not so stumped by what it is he finds amusing, your giggles filling the stuffy, sex-drenched room.

He clambers off you, lowers you gently from the defiled grand piano. Though legs are unsteady and your state of mind leaves something to be desired, your dress is rearranged to be outwardly presentable, your hands gathered to be kissed sweetly.

Chan is the image of fantasy: tuxedo trousers undone and loose on his svelte hips, chiselled abdomen heaving and flushed. He grabs his bowtie from the floor, slings it around his neck.

“Would I be crazy for suggesting we bail on this thing?” he sighs.

“You’d be crazier for suggesting we stay.”

He offers his hand to you; the hand that shapes the city. He grins sincerely; the lips that commandeer thousands.

And he asks of you the one thing that obedience never came shyly for:

“Come with me?”