Jett spent the rest of that day moving like smoke through the Voss estate. He helped Damien with a half-hearted attempt at fixing the pool pump—mostly holding tools while Damien complained about his coach—then vanished again before anyone could ask him to stay for lunch. He needed distance. Not from Seraphina. From himself.
Because every time he closed his eyes he saw her: robe slipping, thighs trembling, fingers disappearing between her legs while she watched his door close. The image burned behind his eyelids like a brand. His cock stayed half-hard for hours, aching every time he shifted in his chair or bent to tie his shoes. He didn't touch himself. Not again. He wanted the edge. Wanted to feel the hunger sharpen until it hurt.
By late afternoon the house had settled into its usual rhythm. Damien disappeared to meet friends at the club. The staff retreated to their quarters. Jett slipped into the main house through the side entrance no one ever locked—the one that led straight to the long hallway lined with Seraphina's private art collection. He wasn't looking for her. Not exactly. He was just… observing.
He found her in the downstairs study. Door half-open. Late sunlight slanting through the blinds in golden bars across the mahogany desk that dominated the room. Seraphina sat behind it in a charcoal pencil skirt and cream blouse, top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Papers spread in front of her. A fresh glass of rosé sweating beside her laptop. She looked every inch the CEO—except for the way her foot tapped restlessly under the desk, the way her free hand kept drifting to the base of her throat like she was trying to steady her own pulse.
Jett stayed in the hallway shadow. Watched.
She sighed. Pushed back from the desk. Stood. Stretched. The motion pulled the blouse tight across her breasts—full, heavy, nipples faintly visible through the thin fabric when the light hit just right. No bra. She'd come home from the office and changed, but not all the way. Still wearing the power, still shedding pieces of it.
She walked to the window. Leaned one hip against the sill. Stared out at the rose garden without really seeing it. Her hand slid down her side, fingers brushing the hem of her skirt, then higher—slow, absent, like she didn't even realize what she was doing. The fabric rode up an inch. Another. Exposing the lace edge of black thigh-highs and a sliver of smooth thigh.
Jett's breath caught. His cock surged, thickening painfully against his jeans. He pressed the heel of his hand against it once—hard—just to take the edge off. Didn't help.
Seraphina turned slightly. Caught her own reflection in the glass. Paused. Then—almost in slow motion—her fingers traced higher. Slid under the skirt. Found the damp patch at the center of her panties. She bit her lower lip. Pressed. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her throat.
Jett stepped forward before he could think better of it. One foot into the doorway.
She froze.
Didn't turn. Didn't scream. Just went rigid, hand still between her thighs.
"Seraphina," he said quietly. Not a question. Not an apology.
She exhaled shakily. Slowly withdrew her hand. Let the skirt fall back into place. Only then did she face him.
Her cheeks were flushed. Eyes glassy. Lips parted.
"You shouldn't be here," she whispered.
"I know."
Silence stretched. Thick. Electric.
She took one step toward him. Then another. Stopped just out of reach.
"You think you can just walk in and watch me fall apart?" Her voice cracked on the last word.
"I'm not here to watch you fall apart." Jett held her gaze. "I'm here because you're already falling apart. And I see it. Every piece."
Her laugh was broken. "Get out, Jett."
He didn't move.
Instead he closed the distance—slow, deliberate—until only inches separated them. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. Close enough to smell the rosé on her breath and the faint musk of her arousal.
She didn't back away.
Her hand lifted—hesitant—then settled against his chest. Palm flat over his heartbeat. She could feel how fast it was. How hard.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"So are you."
True. His hands hovered at her waist. Not touching. Not yet.
She looked up at him—really looked. Hazel eyes searching his face like she was trying to find the boy she used to ignore and couldn't.
Then—sudden, reckless—she surged forward and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle.
Her mouth crashed into his. Hungry. Desperate. Teeth clacking, tongues sliding, a soft whimper vibrating between them. Jett groaned low in his throat, hands finally landing on her hips, pulling her flush against him so she could feel exactly how hard he was. How thick. How ready.
She gasped into his mouth when the ridge of his cock pressed against her belly.
"Fuck," she breathed against his lips. "You're… big."
He kissed her harder. Deeper. One hand sliding up her back, fingers tangling in her hair to tilt her head exactly how he wanted. The other slipped lower—cupped her ass through the skirt, squeezed, then slid under the hem. Found bare skin above the thigh-highs. Higher. Lace panties soaked through.
She moaned when his fingers brushed the wet fabric. Arched into him.
"Jett—"
He pulled back just enough to look at her. Cheeks flushed. Lips swollen. Eyes wild.
"Tell me to stop," he said, voice rough. "Say it and I walk out right now."
She stared at him for a long heartbeat.
Then she grabbed his wrist—guided his hand between her thighs.
"Don't you fucking dare stop."
His fingers slipped under the lace. Found her slick, swollen folds. Circled her clit once—slow—then pressed. She bucked against his hand, a choked cry escaping.
"Quiet," he whispered against her ear. "Damien could come back any minute."
The reminder only made her wetter. She clenched around nothing, hips rocking shamelessly against his palm.
He slid two fingers inside her—slow, stretching her open. She was tight. Hot. Dripping. Her walls fluttered around him like they'd been waiting years for this.
"God," she gasped, forehead dropping to his shoulder. "Deeper."
He obeyed. Curled his fingers. Found that spot that made her thighs tremble. Rubbed it in slow, firm circles while his thumb worked her clit.
She came fast—too fast—like a dam breaking. Body locking up, mouth open in a silent scream, pussy spasming around his fingers in hard, rhythmic pulses. Wetness coated his hand, dripped down his wrist.
When the aftershocks faded she sagged against him, breathing ragged.
He withdrew his fingers slowly. Brought them to his mouth. Sucked them clean while she watched—eyes dark, pupils blown.
"You taste like you've been starving," he said quietly.
She shivered.
Then—before he could say anything else—she dropped to her knees.
Right there on the study carpet.
Hands fumbling at his belt. Zipper down. Jeans shoved to mid-thigh. His cock sprang free—heavy, veined, flushed dark, pre-cum glistening at the tip.
Seraphina stared for a second like she couldn't believe it was real.
Then she leaned forward and took him into her mouth.
No teasing. No slow licks. Just deep, hungry suction—lips stretching wide around his girth, tongue swirling under the head, throat relaxing to take more. More. Until her nose brushed his pubic hair and she moaned around him.
Jett's head fell back. Hand fisting in her hair—not forcing, just holding. Guiding the rhythm as she bobbed—fast, sloppy, desperate. Spit slicked her chin. Her free hand cupped his balls, rolled them gently while the other stroked what her mouth couldn't reach.
"Fuck—Seraphina—"
She pulled off with a wet pop. Looked up at him with mascara-smudged eyes.
"Come in my mouth," she rasped. "I want to taste you."
He didn't last long after that.
A dozen more strokes—her cheeks hollowing, throat working—and he came hard. Hot spurts hitting the back of her tongue. She swallowed every drop. Kept sucking gently until he was spent, oversensitive, twitching.
When she finally released him she sat back on her heels. Lips swollen. Chin wet. A small, satisfied smile curving her mouth.
Jett hauled her up. Kissed her again—tasting himself on her tongue. Slow this time. Tender.
She melted into it.
When they broke apart she whispered, "This doesn't mean anything."
He smiled against her lips. "It means everything."
She didn't argue.
Just rested her forehead against his chest and let him hold her while her heartbeat slowed.
Outside, the rose garden waited in silence.
The first crack had widened.
And Jett Harlan—the overlooked boy—was already inside.