Chapter 412

I walked back over and slid into my seat across from her. The chair scraped quietly against the floor.

She looked up at me.

For a split second, I thought she might ask where I’d gone. Or why my face felt a little tighter than before. But she didn’t. She just looked... tired. Distant.

"So," I began, resting my elbows lightly on the table. "How’s life?"

"Good," she said simply, taking another bite. "How about you?"

"Good," I repeated, then shrugged. "Though it could’ve been better these last few days. The weather’s just... killing me."

She huffed a little. Not quite a laugh.

"Yeah, it’s cold," she said. "This New Year’s Eve is gonna suck."

I tilted my head. "You don’t like the cold?"

"Who likes the cold?" she shot back.

That earned a faint smile out of me. I picked up my fork again.

"Yeah," I said. "You’re right."

We ate in silence for a bit.

The place itself was small but cozy, the kind of restaurant you’d miss if you blinked while walking past it. Warm yellow lights hung low from the ceiling, reflecting off dark wooden tables polished smooth from years of use. The walls were cluttered with framed photos—old city shots, faded menus, handwritten notes in a language I didn’t understand. It felt lived-in. Familiar. Like the place had stories soaked into the walls.

A couple sat two tables over, murmuring quietly to each other. Somewhere behind the counter, a pan hissed.

I glanced toward the window without really meaning to.

The street outside was still there—cars passing, lights changing—but the man was gone.

Good.

Still, my chest felt a little tight. ’Father,’ he’d said. Just like that. Spat it out like it tasted bad.

I looked back down at my plate and forced myself to focus on the food. It was good. Way better than I’d expected. Rich, filling, the kind of meal that made you slow down without realizing it.

I was halfway through another bite when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I froze.

Then I sighed quietly and pulled it out.

A text Chase.

’Are You doing your homework, Mr. Marlowe?’

I stared at the screen for a second, then shook my head and slipped the phone back into my pocket without replying.

Yeah. I still needed to deal with him. If he was hiding something, I had to figure it out. For Ivy. For the reward. For everything tangled up in that mess.

"You look stressed," Amelia said suddenly.

I blinked and looked up at her. She was watching me now, head tilted slightly.

"Was it a bad text?"

"Oh—nah," I said quickly, waving it off. "Just tired, I guess. Don’t worry about it."

She studied me for a second longer than necessary.

"Mm," she murmured.

And just like that, she let it go.

Another pause settled between us, heavier this time. I could feel it—the unspoken thing hanging there. The guy outside. The way her shoulders had stiffened. The way she’d said no one like it was a locked door.

She was the one who broke the silence.

"So," she said, clearing her throat. "Work’s been kind of crazy lately."

I looked up, catching the shift immediately.

"Oh yeah?" I said, playing along. "How bad are we talking?"

She rolled her eyes. "You know how it is. End of the year. Everyone suddenly remembers they need everything done now."

I snorted. "Sounds about right."

"One of the managers nearly lost it yesterday," she continued. "Printer jammed, orders backed up, phones ringing nonstop. I thought she was going to throw the thing out the window."

"That I would’ve paid to see."

She smiled at that. A real one this time, small but genuine.

"Yeah," she said. "Me too."

I relaxed a bit, leaning back in my chair. "Honestly, I don’t know how you deal with that place. I’d last maybe a week."

"You say that," she replied, "but you’re more patient than you think."

I raised an eyebrow. "That’s debatable."

She laughed softly, shaking her head. The tension eased, little by little, like she was deliberately steering us somewhere safer.

We talked about work after that. Annoying coworkers. Stupid customers. The usual stuff. I complained about deadlines; she complained about schedules. It wasn’t deep, but it didn’t need to be.

By the time our plates were mostly empty, the awkwardness had faded into something comfortable.

I pushed my plate aside and exhaled. "Damn. That was good."

"Told you," she said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin.

I glanced toward the counter and stood. "I’ve got it."

She blinked. "What?"

"It’s my treat," I said.

She frowned, then sighed. "Fine. But next one’s on me."

I smirked. "Deal."

"And," she added, pointing at me, "the fuel for your car."

I chuckled. "Alright, alright."

I paid at the counter, exchanged a few words with the waiter—still smiling, still way too cheerful—and then headed back.

Amelia was already standing when I returned, shrugging her coat on. We stepped outside together, the cold air biting immediately.

The street looked normal again. Quiet. Ordinary. But I couldn’t shake the thought.

Father, huh?

Yeah. Maybe.

Or maybe not.

Either way, I knew one thing for sure—whatever that relationship was, it wasn’t simple.

And neither was anything else lately.

❤︎‬‪‪❤︎‬‪‪❤︎

I had Nala bent over her own desk, papers shoved carelessly to one side, her blouse ripped open down the front. The white cotton hung off her shoulders like a ruined flag; her heavy breasts spilled free, dark nipples already tight and pointing downward from the angle. Every thrust I gave her rocked those tits forward—pendulous, hypnotic—smacking softly against the polished wood each time my hips met her ass.

I reached around with one hand and caught her right breast, kneading the soft, warm flesh. My thumb brushed over the hard peak, rolling it slowly while I kept fucking her with long strokes. She was so wet the sound was obscene—wet slaps echoing in the quiet office, muffled only by the hum of the air conditioning and the distant murmur of people in the hallway beyond the frosted glass.

I leaned over her back, chest pressing against her spine, lips finding the side of her neck. I kissed there first—open-mouthed, tasting salt and the faint floral of her perfume—then dragged my tongue up to the spot just below her ear.

"You love getting fucked in your office, huh?" I murmured against her skin, voice low and rough. "Right here where anyone could walk by and hear how soaked you get for me."

Nala let out a shaky laugh that turned into a moan when I bottomed out again, grinding deep enough to make her toes lift off the floor.

"God yes," she breathed. "I love it... love feeling you stretch me open while I’m supposed to be working. Makes me so fucking wet thinking someone might hear us."

I squeezed her breast harder, pinching the nipple between thumb and finger just enough to pull a sharp gasp from her. My other hand gripped her hip, holding her steady while I picked up the pace—long, powerful strokes that dragged the head of my cock along every sensitive ridge inside her. Her pussy clenched greedily around me with every withdrawal, like it was trying to keep me buried.

"Feel that?" I growled softly into her ear. "How tight you squeeze me every time I pull back? Like your cunt doesn’t want to let me go. So fucking greedy for it."

She pushed back to meet me, ass jiggling with each impact. "I can’t help it... you feel so good... so thick... filling me up completely..."

I kissed her neck again—sucking lightly, leaving a faint mark she’d have to cover later—then straightened up just enough to watch myself disappear inside her over and over. Her dark lips were stretched wide around my shaft, glistening, creamy with her arousal. Every thrust pushed more wetness out, coating my balls, dripping down the insides of her thighs.

I couldn’t get enough of the sight.

After another dozen deep strokes I pulled out completely—slow, letting her feel the drag—then spun her around.

Nala’s back hit the desk; she braced both hands behind her, breasts heaving, eyes glassy and dark with want. I grabbed her under the knees, lifted her legs, and hoisted her ass right onto the edge of the table so her weight rested on her tailbone. Her thighs parted wide, pussy open and flushed, clit swollen and begging.

I stepped between her legs, lined up, and slid back inside in one smooth glide.

She gasped—head tipping back—then wrapped her arms around my neck as I started fucking her again, standing now, her legs hooked over my forearms. The new angle let me go even deeper; I could feel the mouth of her cervix with every thrust.

I walked us forward—three steps—until her back pressed against the frosted glass partition that separated her office from the hallway. The glass was cool against her skin; she shivered, nipples tightening further. Anyone passing by would see only blurred silhouettes, shadows moving rhythmically, but they’d hear... if they listened closely enough.

Her pussy was drenched—sopping, slippery, making every slide frictionless and loud. Wetness coated my shaft, my balls, ran in rivulets down to where our bodies joined. Each time I pulled back a thin string of her arousal stretched between us before snapping.

She was trembling now—close, so close.

"I’m... I’m gonna cum," she whispered, voice barely audible, terrified someone might hear. Her lips brushed my ear. "Evan... I’m so close... please..."

I sped up—short, hard thrusts that slapped wetly against her clit with every stroke.

"Do it, baby," I rasped. "Cum on my cock. Let me feel that tight pussy squeeze me while you come apart."