Chapter 931: Bedtime Rituals: Blank Check Negotiations (r-18 start)

The suite smelled faintly of expensive leather, citrus candle wax, and the sharp clean bite of hotel air-conditioning. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a glittering Los Angeles skyline that looked almost too perfect to be real.

I carried Rory through the doorway to the smaller bedroom like she was made of glass—her small head tucked under my chin, one arm looped loosely around my neck, the other dangling soft and trusting.

Every step was measured so her breathing stayed even, so the faint rise and fall of her chest against mine never faltered.

Didn’t want to wake her up.

Patt followed three steps behind. I could feel her gaze like heat on the back of my neck—not casual observation, not polite curiosity.

Hunger.

The kind that starts low in the belly and climbs slowly until it sits heavy in the throat.

There was no need to pretend, we both knew what we were here for.

Reaching her designated bed, I laid Rory down on the crisp white sheets. She stirred once—tiny murmur, tiny frown—then settled when I slipped her shoes off and drew the duvet up to her shoulders.

I brushed a strand of hair off her forehead with the pad of my thumb, slow, deliberate, letting the contact linger because even this small act felt like claiming territory.

This beautiful soul.

I had made up my mind about Rory, to keep her as my daughter which meant—

Patt leaned in the doorway, arms loosely crossed, hip cocked against the frame. Her silk blouse caught the low lamplight and shimmered every time she breathed.

"You actually know what you’re doing," she said. Her voice was quieter than it had been in the living room—almost reverent.

"Practice," I answered without looking up. My fingers smoothed the duvet one last time. "Lots of it."

"So, you didn’t need me in the first place, did you?" She smiled as I nodded.

She pushed off the doorframe and stepped inside. The carpet swallowed her footsteps but not the faint rustle of her skirt against her thighs. When she stopped beside me her perfume arrived first—jasmine, amber, something darker underneath like smoked vanilla—and then the heat of her body. Her bare shoulder brushed my arm.

The contact was barely anything.

It might as well have been lightning.

The

Lust Presence

I kept leashed at twenty percent still rolled off me in slow, syrupy waves. Her pupils flared instantly; her breath hitched on an almost inaudible gasp. I felt the sudden

quickening

of her pulse through that single point of skin-on-skin—racing, unsteady, like a bird trapped under her ribs.

She played unbothered and showed nothing.

Experienced woman.

"She trusts you completely," Patt whispered. Her voice had gone husky, the edges fraying. "That’s... rare."

"She’s mine now." I turned my head just enough that our faces were close—close enough I could see the tiny golden flecks in her irises, the way her lower lip trembled once before she caught it between her teeth. "That means she fully trusts me, yes. Always."

Patt’s gaze dropped to my mouth for half a second, then flicked back up as I talked probably wondering how they’d feel on her lips and hot skin.

Her throat moved on a hard swallow.

Patt was right there—inches away, looking up at me with an expression that had nothing to do with the sleeping child and everything to do with what came next.

Her pupils were already dilated. The Lust Presence was working perfectly—amplifying her natural attraction, making her body ready even though we hadn’t actually done anything yet.

"Wine?"

I offered, my voice lower than intended, easing her back to reality.

Her lips parted slightly, tongue darting out to wet them. "I thought you’d never ask."

****

I poured two glasses of the suite’s best Cabernet—deep ruby liquid catching the city lights through the crystal. I kept every ability dialed low, almost polite.

After twenty-plus women today— yes, I’ve fucked more than twenty women today—started with Margaret Thompson and Patricia this morning, then the orgy with my harem, cucked Dominic while destroying Eziel on her own desk, and now here was

Patt

thinking this would be some casual one-

night stand

.

She had no fucking idea what she’d walked into.

The thing was, I never got tired of women. Most men would be exhausted, bored, going through the motions by encounter number twenty. But each woman was special in her own way—different body, different personality, different sounds they made when I touched them exactly right.

The system had been right about me.

I was built different

. Each encounter felt new, exciting, like unwrapping a present I’d been waiting for. Patt would be—

I was going to give her something she’d never forget.

I wanted her to feel every second of the slide.

When I turned back with the wine glasses, Patt had already claimed one of the club chairs near the windows—and positioned the other one directly across, close enough that our knees would definitely touch.

She took the glass from me with careful fingers. Crossed her legs slowly, deliberately. The movement dragged the hem of her skirt of her suit higher;

smooth, tanned thigh

gleamed under the low light.

She was already shifting restlessly in the seat—small,

unconscious rolls of her hips

, like her body was trying to ease an ache she hadn’t named yet.

I sat. Our knees touched.

The contact was electric.

The warmth spreading through my every godly nerve ending, feeding me—her core temperature rising, her pulse thudding heavy between her thighs, the first faint, involuntary clench of her inner walls even though nothing had touched her there yet.

I could make out a sharp indrawn breath from her, almost a whimper. Her free hand gripped the armrest; the wine glass trembled once in the other.

"So," I said, voice pitched low enough that she had to lean forward to hear me clearly, "tell me about yourself."

Her tongue darted out—quick, nervous—wet her bottom lip. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

Her hand dropped to my knee—casual, confident, the way powerful women touch when they think they’re still steering.

This woman was bold and straightforward, she made her first move before I even did.

"That’s... broad," she managed. Her thumb started moving in small, unconscious circles against the fabric of my trousers. Each circle sent fresh feedback through me—

"I’ve got time

." I let my own hand rest on the arm of her chair—close enough that my knuckles brushed the outside of her shoulder.

She laughed—breathless, almost startled. "Most men don’t actually want to talk. They just want to get to the part where I’m not wearing this."

She gestured at her tailored power suit with the wine glass.

"I’m not most men." I leaned forward an inch. Her hand slid higher up my thigh without hiding how much she felt restless with us delaying the inevitable—bolder,

hungrier.

The heel of her palm grazed the

thick ridge of my cock

through the fabric.

She bit her lip hard enough to leave a white mark.

"Confident,"

she whispered.

"Honest."

My fingers drifted along the curve of her shoulder—light, barely there—and she gasped like I’d slipped a hand between her legs. The

Touch

surged through the contact point; pleasure radiated outward from that single brush until I could see her nipples peaked visibly against her silk blouse, twin hard points straining the fabric.