Page 98 of Their Arrangement
He moved slowly, circling the table.
Not fast. Not stalking.
Measured.
Like a man who’d already decided what to do.
I felt him behind me before I saw him. The warmth of him. The weight.
Then—
A single fingertip.
Not on my skin.
On the twist of hair at the back of my neck.
The exact spot he’d told me to leave exposed.
He didn’t press. Didn’t stroke. Just touched. Barely.
“You wore your hair up.”
I didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
My pulse was too loud in my ears. My breath too shallow to trust.
His voice dropped. Low. Silken. Possessive.
“Good girl.”
I almost came apart at the spine.
It wasn’t what he said.
It was the way he said it.
Not soft.
Not sweet.
Like an acknowledgment. Like ownership. Like a man who had given an order and found it obeyed.
He stepped away a second later, already turning toward the door.
“Next meeting’s at three. Be early.”
That was it.
That was all.
He left me there in that chair with a soaked lace thong, a shaking ribcage, and the impossible knowledge that I would do anything to hear him say it again.
The air changed before she even spoke.
The kind of shift that doesn’t announce itself—but demands attention. It started with the sound of heels. Not rushed. Not timid. Measured.
