Boss's Dinner Seduction

The house sat back from the street behind a low wall of pale stone, its windows already warm against the early dark. Casimir, twenty-nine and still new enough at the firm to feel the weight of an invitation, killed the engine and sat a moment with both hands on the wheel. Beside him, Rania checked her lipstick in the visor mirror and smoothed the skirt of her dress over her thighs. She was twenty-seven, and the dress was the deep wine color she wore when she wanted to be looked at without admitting she wanted to be looked at.

“You’re sure this isn’t weird?” he said.

“It’s dinner,” she said. “Your boss likes you. Try not to make it into a tribunal.”

Alastair opened the door before they reached it. At thirty-eight he still carried himself the way he did in the boardroom: unhurried, certain, the kind of man who never raised his voice because he never had to. Charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled once, no tie. He took Casimir’s hand in a firm grip and then turned to Rania, and the look he gave her lasted half a second longer than courtesy required. She felt it land low in her stomach and hated how quickly her body answered.

“Rania. You look extraordinary.”

“Thank you.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt.

Inside, the house smelled of rosemary and browned butter. The kitchen was open to the dining room, all dark wood and copper, a marble island already crowded with a cutting board, a bowl of olives, a saucepan breathing steam. Alastair poured them each a glass of something pale and dry and raised his own.

“I had a bottle in mind for the main course,” he said, almost idly. “A twenty-one-year Highland, single cask. The only shop in the city that carries it is Hartley’s, across town on Mercer. I thought I’d sent for it this morning. I hadn’t.” He looked at Casimir with the easy authority of a man used to being obeyed and liked for it. “Would you mind? They close at eight. If you leave now you’ll make it. Take my car if you want; the keys are by the door. I’ll start the lamb.”

Casimir blinked. “Across town? I can call—”

“They won’t deliver a bottle like that on a Saturday.” Alastair’s smile was mild. “Twenty minutes each way if the lights are kind. Rania can keep me company. Unless you’d rather I abandon the sauce.”

Rania set her glass down. The glance that passed between her and Alastair was nothing Casimir could have named, only a brightness at the edge of her face, a stillness in Alastair’s hands. She had felt that brightness in the office lobby the first time Alastair had walked her husband out to the car and paused to tell her, quietly, that Casimir was lucky. She had felt it again at the holiday party when his palm had found the small of her back for the length of a sentence and then left her. Months of it. Never a word that could be held against either of them. Tonight the air in the kitchen seemed to know.

“I’ll help,” she said. “I don’t mind. Go on, Cas. We’ll be fine.”

He hesitated, keys already in his hand because he was the sort of man who did what his boss asked and called it loyalty. “You sure?”

“Positive.” She kissed his cheek. Her mouth was warm. “Drive safe.”

The door closed. The engine faded. The house settled around the two of them and the low tick of the sauce.

Alastair turned the burner down and looked at her properly for the first time all evening. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“I know.”

“Come here, then. The herbs need stripping.”

She came around the island. The space between them was narrower than it needed to be. He handed her a bunch of thyme and their fingers met, and neither of them pretended it was an accident. Rania felt the heat of his skin all the way up her arm. She had told herself, driving over, that she would be good. She had also worn the dress without a bra, and the knowledge of that sat against her ribs like a second pulse.

“You’ve been watching me,” he said. Not a question.

“You’ve been letting me.”

His mouth curved. “Fair.”

He stepped in behind her as if to show her how he wanted the leaves pulled, and his chest met her back. One hand covered hers on the stems. The other rested, light and unmistakable, at her waist. Rania’s breath caught. She did not move away.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, low, against her hair.

“I won’t.”

“Good.” His palm slid over the curve of her hip, slow, learning her. “I’ve wanted this since the first time you walked into that lobby in a coat the color of smoke and looked at me like you already knew what I’d do if I got you alone. You’re built to be looked at, Rania. That waist. Those hips. The way that dress sits on you tonight is an invitation you spent an hour deciding to accept.”

Color rose in her throat. She turned in the circle of his arm so she was facing him, close enough that her breasts brushed his shirt. “I like the way you look at me,” she said. The admission came out rough. “I like it too much. I’ve thought about your hands. In the car. In the shower. While my husband was in the next room talking about quarterly numbers.”

“And what did you do about it?”

“Nothing I should admit to a man who signs his paycheck.”

Alastair’s thumb traced the line of her jaw. “Admit it anyway.”

“I touched myself,” she said. “And I said your name into the tile so he wouldn’t hear it.”

Something in his face went hard and hungry. He kissed her then, not tentative, not testing. His mouth was warm and sure, and she opened for him at once, a small sound catching in her throat as his tongue found hers. Her hands fisted in his shirt. He walked her back until the edge of the island met her spine, and the kiss turned deeper, wetter, the kind of kiss that forgot there was a door and a husband and a clock. His palm cupped her breast through the dress and she arched into it, shameless, nipple already tight against his hand.

“Christ,” he muttered. “No bra.”

“I wanted you to find out.”

He groaned and kissed her again, harder, one hand sliding down to grip her ass and haul her against the thick ridge of his cock. She rolled her hips without thinking. The friction lit her up. His other hand shoved the neckline of the dress down far enough to bare one breast, and his mouth left hers to close over the nipple, sucking, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp his name.

“Alastair—”

“Say it again.”

“Alastair. Please. I don’t want to be careful.”

“Then don’t be.” He straightened, breathing hard, eyes dark. “Turn around.”

She did. He gathered the skirt of the dress in both hands and pushed it up over her hips, baring a pair of black panties already damp at the center. His fingers hooked the waistband and dragged them down her thighs. Cool air hit her. Then his hand was between her legs, two fingers sliding through the slick heat of her, and she braced both palms on the marble and pushed back into the touch with a broken little moan.

“Soaked,” he said, almost wondering. “All that time at the table with your husband, and you were already like this for me.”

“Yes.”

He worked his belt open behind her. She heard the zipper. Felt the blunt, hot press of him against her, not entering yet, just there, thick and insistent, coating himself in her. Rania looked over her shoulder. He was flushed, intent, one hand spread wide on the small of her back.

“I want you inside me,” she said. “Now. Hard. I want to feel it tomorrow.”

“You’ll feel it.” He lined himself up and drove in with one long, possessive thrust that knocked a cry out of her and seated him to the hilt. The stretch was immediate, almost too much, perfect. He held there a second, buried deep, and she clenched around him on purpose, greedy for the way his breath fractured.

Then he started to fuck her.

Not gently. The pace he set was deep and relentless, hips snapping, the sound of skin on skin loud in the quiet kitchen under the tick of the sauce. Each stroke shoved her forward against the island. She met him anyway, pushing back, taking him, the words spilling out of her without shame.

“Yes—like that—don’t stop—God, you’re so deep—”

“That’s it,” he said, voice rough. “Take it. Let me hear you.”

His hand found her clit and rubbed in tight circles while he pounded into her, and the combination dragged her up fast. She came with her forehead against her forearm, shaking, pulsing around his cock, a high helpless sound she didn’t try to swallow. He didn’t slow. He fucked her through it, grip bruising on her hip, praising her in a low growl for how wet she was, how sweetly she squeezed him, how long he’d wanted to bend her over something solid and make her come on his cock while her husband was out running his errand.

When the aftershocks eased she reached back and caught his wrist. “Chair,” she managed. “I want to ride you. I want to see your face.”

He pulled out, both of them gasping at the loss, and dropped into the wooden chair at the end of the island, pants open, cock flushed and shining with her. Rania kicked the panties off one ankle, hiked the dress higher, and climbed into his lap facing him. She sank down in one slow glide that made them both curse. Full again. Better, somehow, with his eyes on hers and his hands already locking around her hips.

She rode him hard.

Up and down, then grinding, then a hungry bounce that made her breasts sway in his face. He caught one in his mouth and sucked while she worked herself on him, the chair creaking under them. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, guiding, urging, not letting her ease off when her thighs started to burn.

“Look at you,” he said against her skin. “Using me. So fucking pretty when you’re greedy.”

“I am greedy.” She braced on his shoulders and rolled her hips in a tight circle, feeling every inch. “I want you to come in me. I want to sit across from him with you still inside me.”

That undid him. He surged up to meet her, thrusts turning short and savage, and she chased the angle until pleasure cracked through her a second time, sharper, her nails biting his shoulders, her moan open and raw against his mouth. He followed her over with a rough shout, buried deep, spilling in thick pulses she felt as heat and pressure and a dizzy, filthy satisfaction. He held her down on him through it, hips jerking, forehead pressed to her collarbone, both of them shaking.

For a long moment the only sounds were their breathing and the quiet simmer on the stove.

Rania lifted her head. Her lipstick was gone. Her dress was bunched at her waist. She smiled, slow and wrecked and entirely pleased with herself, and kissed him once, softer than anything that had come before.

“We should plate,” she said.

“In a minute.” His thumb stroked her thigh. “You’re incredible.”

“So are you. And he’s going to be back.”

They moved. She found her panties, stepped into them, and felt the slick evidence of him immediately, warm against the cotton. The sensation made her bite her lip. She smoothed the dress down, checked her hair in the dark reflection of the oven door, and blotted her mouth with a paper towel until she looked like a woman who had only been chopping herbs. Alastair tucked himself away, washed his hands, and set out plates with the unhurried competence of a man who had never been caught at anything. Together they arranged the lamb, the potatoes, the glossy vegetables. Their shoulders touched. Neither of them stepped aside.

Headlights swept the drive.

Casimir came in with the bottle held carefully in both hands, cheeks flushed from the cold, proud of having made it before the shop closed. “Hartley’s had one left,” he said. “The guy wrapped it like it was a relic. I hope it’s the right one.”

“It’s perfect,” Alastair said. His voice was even. Only Rania heard the faint roughness still under it. “Thank you. Sit. You’ve earned the first pour.”

They ate. The lamb was excellent. Casimir talked about the drive, the traffic on the bridge, a joke the clerk had made. Rania laughed in the right places and passed the salt when he asked. Under the table her thighs pressed together around the slow, secret leak of another man’s come, and every time she shifted, the memory of the chair and the counter and Alastair’s hands flared bright behind her eyes.

Across the candles, Alastair met her gaze and held it. Not a smile, exactly. A look that said he could still feel her, that he would feel her again, that the evening was not finished simply because her husband had come home with a bottle. She let him see that she knew. She let him see that she was glad.

Casimir raised his glass, oblivious and warm, and toasted the man who had just finished inside his wife.