#simon foster

The only warning it offered was the dry, unmistakable rattle of its tail, a sound that froze the blood long before the creature ever struck. Your father had taught you then that the deadliest things in the world rarely lunged without reason.

They warned you first. They smiled at you, lulled you into believing you were safe, and only then sank their fangs into flesh.

Standing beside your father now, Simon Foster wore an easy smile and effortless charm that seemed to win over everyone fortunate or unfortunate, enough to meet him. His laugh was warm, his manners impeccable, and his voice carried the sort of confidence that invited trust without ever asking for it.

You found none of it convincing.

The smile never reached his eyes. Beneath the polished exterior lurked something cold, calculating, and quietly predatory. He reminded you not of a gentleman, but of that rattlesnake all those years ago, beautiful in the way dangerous things often were, patient in the way hunters had to be, and every bit as venomous.

You had learned long ago to heed the rattle before the bite.

Simon Foster, you decided within moments of meeting him, was nothing more than a snake wearing a man's skin.

Your father had scarcely finished the introductions before your opinion of Simon Foster settled like stone.

“There you are,” your father said warmly, a hand resting briefly against your shoulder. “I'd like you to meet Simon Foster.”

Simon stepped forward with effortless confidence, offering the sort of smile that had probably carried him through countless first impressions. He extended a hand.

“It's a pleasure to finally meet you.”

You didn't take it.

Instead, your lips curled in open displeasure as your gaze swept over him from head to toe, unhurried and entirely unimpressed. A quiet click of your tongue echoed in the brief silence before you sucked thoughtfully at your teeth, as though confirming something only you could see.

“No,” you said flatly.

Your father blinked. “No?”

“I don't like him.”

Simon's smile remained firmly in place, though something almost imperceptible flickered behind his blue eyes. “We've only just met.”

“I know.”

“And you've already decided?”

“I have.”

Your father let out a weary sigh. “Would you at least give the man a chance?”

You finally looked back at him, expression as unmoved as ever.

“I've seen rattlesnakes prettier than him.” Your eyes returned to Simon. “At least they warn you before they bite.

For the first time, the silence lingered.

Simon chuckled softly, amused rather than offended. “Well,” he said, lowering his hand, “that's certainly the most original introduction I've ever had.”

“I'm not trying to be original.”

“No?”

“I'm trying to leave.”

Without another glance, you turned on your heel and walked away before Simon could utter another word, leaving your father to apologize and Simon to watch you disappear with an expression that looked far too entertained for a man who had just been dismissed outright.

The feeling settled between your shoulder blades long before you ever confirmed it.

It was the unmistakable weight of someone's gaze, persistent, unwavering, patient enough to become unsettling. You ignored it at first, attributing it to the crowded room, to wandering eyes and idle curiosity, yet each time you glanced across the room, you found Simon Foster looking somewhere else entirely, his expression composed behind an effortless smile.

It should have been reassuring.

Instead, it only deepened your suspicion.

By the time dinner gave way to drinks, you found yourself making polite conversation with his young wife.

Kate was lovely in the sort of effortless way magazines tried to bottle and sell, golden hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, an easy smile that brightened every sentence, and a warmth that made it impossible to dislike her.

She laughed easily, spoke kindly, and carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who believed the world was, by and large, a decent place, but you knew enough that even the prettiest faces could easily hide deception.

Wasn't she the man's fucking mistress before she became his wife?

You almost envied her.

“You must come over sometime,” Kate said brightly. “Simon says my cooking is terrible, but I promise I make up for it with dessert.”

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “I'll keep that in mind.”

She laughed again, blissfully unaware.

You found it strangely amusing that she had no idea her husband hadn't truly looked away from you all evening. Even while nodding through conversations, shaking hands, or pretending to listen to someone else's story, his attention always drifted back, lingering just long enough to make your skin prickle.

Not with admiration.

Like a predator deciding whether its prey had finally noticed the hunt.

Your gaze lifted over the rim of your glass, meeting his across the room.

There it was.

No smile this time. No charming façade for anyone else's benefit. Just those pale, unreadable eyes fixed on you with unnerving intensity, as though he were trying to peel back every carefully guarded layer without ever needing to touch you.

You held his stare for a long moment before raising your glass ever so slightly in a mocking salute.

His mouth curved into the faintest hint of a smile.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to Kate, pointedly dismissing him from your attention.

If Simon Foster intended to intimidate you by staring, he was going to discover very quickly that you had never been afraid of snakes.

The rest of the evening stretched like a poorly tuned string, vibrating with an undercurrent you couldn't quite ignore. You drifted through the crowd with practiced indifference, exchanging pleasantries where required and nursing a single glass of whiskey as if it were a shield.

Your father caught your eye once or twice, his expression a silent plea for civility, but you offered only a faint shrug in return. He had his world of deals and handshakes; you had learned long ago to trust the instincts that kept you alive in it.

Simon, for his part, played the room like a conductor. He moved with that same effortless grace, clapping shoulders, murmuring laughs that drew people in like moths.

Yet every so often, the pattern held: his gaze would find you again. Not often enough to be obvious to anyone else. Just enough to remind you he was there.

You were considering slipping out through the side terrace when Kate excused herself to refresh her drink, leaving you momentarily alone near the tall windows overlooking the garden. The night air pressed cool against the glass.

“Still planning your escape?”

His voice was low, close enough that you felt the words more than heard them. You didn't startle, years of dealing with men who thought surprise was an advantage had cured you of that, but you turned slowly, meeting Simon's eyes with the same flat disinterest you'd shown at the introduction.

“Escape implies I was trapped," you replied. “I was simply bored.”

Simon leaned one shoulder against the window frame, close but not crowding. The light from the chandeliers caught the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble he probably cultivated for that exact effect. “Most people at least pretend to be charmed for the first hour. You skipped straight to venom. I have to admire the efficiency.”

“I don't pretend.” You took a measured sip of your whiskey. “And I don't admire snakes. They shed their skin too often to be trustworthy.”

A soft chuckle escaped him, genuine this time, or at least convincingly so. “Your father warned me you had a sharp tongue. He failed to mention it was dipped in acid.”

“My father has a habit of underestimating things that might complicate his business.” You glanced toward the room where your father was deep in conversation with a cluster of suited men. “Is that what this is? Another complication he's dragging home?”

Simon studied you for a beat, those pale blue eyes narrowing just a fraction. Up close, the charm was still there, but so was the way he took in your posture, your tone, the way you held your glass like a weapon.

“Business, yes. But not the kind you're thinking. Your father and I have mutual interests. Investments. Opportunities that require... discretion.”

“Discretion.” You let the word curl with distaste. “That's what they call it when men like you don't want their fangs examined too closely.”

He didn't deny it. Instead, he smiled again, that small, private curve that didn't touch the rest of his face. “You really do see everything in black and white, don't you? Rattlesnake or not, some of us simply survive by being useful. Your father understands that. Kate understands that.” His gaze flicked briefly toward his wife, who was laughing with a group near the bar, oblivious. “Most people do.”

“Most people are fools.” You set your glass down on the nearest table with a deliberate click. “And I'm not most people.”

“No,” Simon murmured, almost to himself. “You're not.”

The silence between you stretched, charged. For a moment, the party noise faded, the clink of glasses, the low hum of conversation, leaving only the weight of his attention. It wasn't lust, exactly.

It was something hungrier, like one predator acknowledging another across a watering hole.

You broke it first, turning to leave. His hand caught your wrist, not hard, but firm enough to pause you. Warm skin against yours, a reminder that the snake had hands, a voice, a name.

“Careful,” you said quietly, eyes locked on his. “Some things bite back.”

Simon's thumb brushed once over the inside of your wrist, a ghost of pressure, before he released you. “I look forward to it.”

You walked away without another word, the ghost of his touch lingering like a warning.

Behind you, you could feel him watching again, that patient, unblinking stare. The rattle had been subtle tonight, disguised in charm and half-smiles, but you heard it all the same.

By the time you reached your father to make your excuses, the decision had hardened in your chest. Simon Foster was trouble of the exact kind your instincts screamed to avoid. And yet, as you stepped out into the cool night air, you couldn't shake the feeling that avoidance might no longer be an option.

He had already decided you were interesting.

And rattlesnakes, as your father once taught you, rarely let go once they struck.

The weeks that followed blurred into a series of calculated collisions. Simon Foster, it turned out, had a talent for becoming unavoidable. He appeared at your father’s charity galas, at the private club where deals were sealed over aged scotch, even at the family estate for what your father euphemistically called “informal strategy dinners.” Each time, he arrived with Kate on his arm, all golden smiles and effortless poise, while his eyes tracked you like a shadow that had learned to walk upright.

You never softened. If anything, your disdain sharpened.

At the first dinner, when Simon complimented the vintage of the wine your father had chosen, you cut in coolly, “Funny how some poisons improve with age. Others just stay venomous.”

Simon’s laugh was low and appreciative. He watched you across the candlelight with that same unblinking hunger, as though your barbs were strokes rather than slaps. Kate blushed and changed the subject. Your father sighed.

At the gala two weeks later, when Simon offered you a dance with that practiced charm, you looked him up and down like something stuck to your shoe. “I don’t dance with reptiles. They tend to coil too close.”

His smile never wavered, but the hunger in his gaze deepened, dark, patient, almost affectionate in its intensity. He leaned in just enough for you to catch the faint trace of his cologne, something expensive and sharp. “You keep calling me that,” he murmured, voice velvet over steel. “One day I might decide to live up to the name.”

You turned away without answering, but you felt his stare burning into your back for the rest of the night.

He was always watching. In quiet moments between conversations, during toasts, even when he was mid-laughter with some influential investor, his attention would drift back to you, lik a man who had finally found a puzzle worth breaking.

It snapped on a humid Thursday evening at your father’s private study, after a long meeting had dissolved into drinks. Your father had stepped out to take a call on the terrace, leaving you alone with Simon in the dimly lit room lined with leather-bound books and the faint scent of cigar smoke. Kate had already gone home with a headache.

You stood by the window, swirling the last of your drink, when Simon approached from behind, close enough that you could feel the heat of him.

“Still pretending I don’t exist?” he asked softly.

You didn’t turn. “Hard to pretend when the stench of fraud follows you everywhere.”

A low chuckle. “You wound me.”

“You’re not wounded. You’re entertained.” You finally faced him, close enough now that the whisper would stay between you. Your voice dropped to a venomous thread, meant for his ears alone.

“You’re a fraud, Simon Foster. A cheating bastard who traded in his first wife like yesterday’s stock. Gemma Foster deserved better than watching you fuck your mistress—your current wife—behind her back. I wonder what my father will think when he learns exactly how you built your little empire of discretion.”

The words landed like a strike.

For the first time, something raw flickered across Simon’s face, surprise, yes, but also a flash of pure, unguarded heat. The hunger sharpened into something feral.

His jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened as he stared down at you, inches away now. The air between you crackled, thick and dangerous.

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he reached up slowly, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from your cheek with a gentleness that felt far more threatening than violence. His voice, when it came, was low and rough, almost reverent.

“You’ve been digging,” he said. “I knew you were sharp. I didn’t know you were vicious.” His thumb lingered near the corner of your mouth. “Do it again.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, but you held his gaze without flinching. “Touch me again and I’ll make sure my father hears every filthy detail. Every secret you think you’ve buried.”

Simon’s smile returned, slow, crooked, and utterly without warmth. The snake had finally been poked, and instead of recoiling, it looked ready to strike. “Careful what threats you make,” he whispered back, breath warm against your ear. “Some men like it when their prey bites first.”

The sound of the terrace door opening broke the moment. Your father’s voice carried in from outside.

Simon stepped back smoothly, composure sliding back into place like a second skin. But the look he gave you before turning away promised this was far from over.

The rattle had stopped.

Now came the strike.

The family dinner dragged on like a slow suffocation. Candlelight flickered over the long mahogany table, your father at the head discussing market projections with Simon as if the man were already part of the inner circle.

Kate sat beside her husband, laughing softly at the appropriate moments, her hand occasionally brushing Simon’s sleeve. You pushed food around your plate, nodding when required, but your mind kept betraying you.

Damn him.

You hated how often Simon invaded your thoughts now. Not just the cold calculation in his eyes or the way he moved like a predator in tailored suits but the memory of his thumb grazing your cheek, the low rasp in his voice when he’d said Do it again.

The way your skin had tightened at his nearness.

You would rather die than admit it, even to yourself, but the man you called a snake had begun to coil through your dreams, leaving heat and fury in equal measure.

You couldn’t sit there another second.

“Excuse me,” you said abruptly, setting your napkin down. “I need some air.”

Your father waved a distracted hand. Kate offered a sympathetic smile. Simon said nothing, but you felt the weight of his gaze follow you out of the dining room.

You didn’t head for the garden.

Instead, you slipped into your father’s study at the far end of the hall, the one room that still felt like sanctuary, lined with old books and the faint scent of aged leather and ink. The door clicked shut behind you. You leaned against the heavy oak desk, pressing your fingers to your temples, willing the unwanted thoughts away.

The door opened again moments later.

Of course it was him.

Simon stepped inside without invitation, closing the door with a soft, decisive click. The hallway light carved sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the intensity in those pale blue eyes. He didn’t speak at first. He simply watched you, that familiar hunger now edged with something darker, more possessive.

“You’ve been avoiding me all evening,” he said quietly.

You straightened, folding your arms across your chest like armor. “And yet here you are. Following me like the parasite you are. Don’t you have a wife to charm back at the table?”

Simon’s lips curved, slow and dangerous. He took a step closer. “Kate is perfectly content. Unlike you. I can see it in your eyes—you’ve been thinking about me.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. You hated him for being right. Hated yourself more for letting it show.

“Get out,” you snapped. “Before I remind my father exactly what kind of fraud slithered into his house. A man who cheats on his first wife with his mistress and then has the audacity to sit at our table like he belongs here. You’re nothing but a pretty lie in expensive shoes, Simon. A rattlesnake pretending to be a man.”

He closed the distance in two strides. You opened your mouth to deliver another cutting insult—

His hand cupped the back of your neck, firm and unyielding, and his mouth crashed down on yours.

The kiss was not gentle. It was heat and hunger and weeks of restrained tension finally snapping. Simon kissed like he did everything else with absolute control and devastating intent.

His lips claimed yours, tongue sweeping in to silence every protest, tasting of the red wine from dinner and something darker, more addictive.

One arm banded around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his fingers tightened in your hair just enough to tilt your head exactly where he wanted it.

You should have pushed him away. Slapped him. Called for your father.

Instead, a traitorous sound escaped your throat, half fury, half surrender and your hands fisted in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer even as your mind screamed at the betrayal.

The kiss deepened, turning fiercer, teeth grazing, breaths mingling hot and ragged. For a moment, there was nothing but the solid heat of him, the scrape of stubble against your skin, the way he devoured every insult you’d ever thrown at him and gave it back as raw, undeniable want.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you were breathing hard. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with the same hunger that had been building for weeks.

“Still think I’m a fraud?” he rasped, voice rough against your lips.

You swallowed, lips tingling, body traitorously alive. “I think you’re worse.”

Simon smiled, that slow, satisfied curve that promised nothing but trouble and brushed his thumb across your swollen lower lip.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m nowhere near finished with you.”

Outside, the distant murmur of dinner conversation continued, oblivious. But in the study, the line had been crossed. The snake had struck.

And you weren’t sure you wanted the antidote.

Simon didn’t give you time to catch your breath.

His mouth claimed yours again, harder this time, as he backed you up against your father’s heavy oak desk. The edge dug into the back of your thighs, and with one fluid motion, he lifted you just enough to push you onto it. Papers scattered. A pen clattered to the floor. The sound barely registered over the roar of blood in your ears.

“Insult me again,” he growled against your lips, voice low and rough with need. His hands were already moving, sliding up your thighs, shoving the fabric of your skirt higher with impatient precision. “Tell me how much you hate me.”

You tried. “You arrogant, cheating—”

The words dissolved into a sharp gasp as he yanked your panties aside and plunged two thick fingers deep inside you without warning.

The stretch was sudden, overwhelming. A broken moan tore from your throat, but Simon swallowed it instantly, his mouth devouring yours in a filthy, demanding kiss.

His fingers curled inside you, stroking that devastating spot with ruthless accuracy while his thumb pressed firmly against your clit.

He fucked you with them in deep, deliberate thrusts, setting a pace that left no room for thought, only sensation.

Wet, obscene sounds filled the quiet study. You were already soaked, shamefully so, and Simon groaned into your mouth like he’d won some private victory.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your lips, barely pulling back enough to speak. “So fucking wet for a man you claim to despise. Your body doesn’t lie, even if that sharp tongue of yours does.”

You bit back another moan as he added a third stroke, deeper, harder. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into the fine fabric of his shirt. Part of you still wanted to shove him away. The rest, the traitorous, aching part, widened your thighs further, hips rolling helplessly to meet every thrust of his fingers.

Simon’s free hand gripped your hip, holding you in place as he worked you open. His mouth trailed down your jaw to your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear before returning to swallow every whimper and gasp that escaped you. He kissed you like he was starving for it, tongue stroking yours in time with his fingers, drinking down every sound as if they belonged to him.

“You’re going to come on my hand right here on your father’s desk,” he whispered hotly against your mouth, curling his fingers again with devastating precision. “And you’re going to stay quiet while you do it.”

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut. The coil of pleasure tightened fast and vicious in your belly. Simon’s thumb circled your clit relentlessly, his fingers plunging deeper, faster, until the tension snapped.

You came hard, clenching around him, a strangled cry muffled by his mouth as he kissed you through it. He didn’t stop, drawing it out, stroking you through every shudder until you were trembling, breathless, and dangerously close to something far more dangerous than hatred.

Only then did he slowly withdraw his fingers, bringing them to his lips. His eyes locked on yours, dark with satisfaction, as he licked them clean.

“Still think I’m a snake?” he asked, voice husky.

You stared at him, chest heaving, skirt bunched around your waist, lips kiss-swollen and body still pulsing with aftershocks.

“Worse,” you whispered.

Simon smiled, slow, predatory, and entirely too pleased.

“Good.”

He leaned in to kiss you again, softer this time, but no less claiming. Outside the study, the distant clink of silverware reminded you how close you were to discovery.

But the snake had already bitten.

And you weren’t sure you wanted him to stop.