The study still smelled of sex the next morning—faint musk, her perfume, the sharp tang of spilled rosé that had dried on the carpet overnight. Jett didn't go near the main house for two full days after that blowjob on his knees. He ran longer routes. Stayed in the guest house with the curtains drawn. Worked on assignments he didn't care about. Anything to keep his hands off himself and his mind off the memory of Seraphina's throat working around him, swallowing like she was starving.
But hunger doesn't vanish when you ignore it. It sharpens.
On the third morning he found the note slipped under his door. Plain white cardstock. Her elegant handwriting in black ink.
We need to talk.
Library. 10 a.m.
Come alone.
No signature. Didn't need one.
He showered. Dressed simply—fitted black T-shirt, dark jeans. No underwear. Let the denim rub against his half-hard cock the whole walk across the lawn. A reminder. A small act of control.
The library was on the second floor of the main house, a long room lined floor-to-ceiling with leather-bound books no one ever read. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the pool. Heavy drapes half-drawn. Dim. Private.
Seraphina was already there.
She stood at the far end near the rolling ladder, arms crossed under her breasts, pushing them up against the thin white silk of her blouse. Black tailored trousers today. Heels. Hair pulled into a severe chignon. Full armor. But her eyes—those were still glassy from whatever she'd been fighting since he left her on the study floor.
She didn't greet him.
"You can't come in here like that again," she said the second the door clicked shut behind him. Voice low. Controlled. "Ever."
Jett leaned back against the door. Arms loose at his sides. Let her see he wasn't rattled.
"You invited me."
"That was a mistake." She took one step forward. Stopped. "What happened… it was a lapse. A moment of weakness. I'm forty-two. You're nineteen. Damien's best friend. This—" She gestured between them. "—ends here. Now."
He studied her. The faint tremor in her fingers. The way she couldn't quite meet his eyes for more than a second.
"You came in my mouth three days ago," he said quietly. "Swallowed every drop. Then kissed me like you wanted to crawl inside my skin. That wasn't a lapse. That was you finally taking what you've needed for years."
Her cheeks flushed crimson.
"Don't," she snapped. "Don't talk about it like it means something. It was just… physical. A release. Nothing more."
Jett pushed off the door. Walked toward her slow. Deliberate. She didn't retreat, but every muscle in her body tightened.
"Then why are you shaking right now?" he asked when he was close enough to see the pulse hammering at her throat. "Why did you write that note instead of pretending I don't exist?"
"Because I needed to make it clear." Her voice cracked on the last word. "This can't happen again. I have a life. A reputation. A son. If anyone found out—"
"They won't." He stopped inches away. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look at him. "Not from me."
She laughed—short, bitter. "You think I trust you with that kind of secret? You're a boy playing at being a man."
The words stung. He let them. Didn't flinch.
"Maybe," he said softly. "But I'm the boy who made you come on my fingers in under two minutes. The boy who watched you drop to your knees like you'd die if you didn't taste me. The boy who's standing here right now, hard as fuck, because even when you're trying to push me away, your nipples are tight against that blouse and I can smell how wet you are."
Seraphina sucked in a breath. Her thighs pressed together—subtle, but he caught it.
"Stop," she whispered.
He didn't.
Instead he lifted one hand. Slow. Gave her every chance to slap it away.
She didn't.
His fingertips brushed the side of her neck. Traced down to her collarbone. Slid under the open V of her blouse until he found bare skin. Warm. Fever-hot.
"You can tell me to leave," he murmured. "I will. But you won't."
Her eyes fluttered shut for a second. When they opened again they were dark. Dilated.
"I hate you for this," she breathed.
"No you don't." His thumb stroked the hollow at the base of her throat. Felt her swallow. "You hate that you want it. That you've wanted it since the first time you caught me watching you in the rose garden."
She grabbed his wrist. Hard. But didn't pull his hand away.
"This is wrong," she said. Almost pleading.
"I know."
Silence. Heavy. Charged.
Then she surged up and kissed him again—fiercer than before. Teeth. Tongue. Hands fisting in his shirt like she wanted to tear it off. Jett groaned into her mouth, backed her against the nearest bookshelf. Books rattled. One fell with a soft thud.
He broke the kiss long enough to spin her around. Pressed her front to the shelves. Her palms slapped flat against leather spines. He kicked her feet wider. Ground his cock against her ass through their clothes—slow, deliberate rolls of his hips.
She whimpered.
"Feel that?" he rasped against her ear. "That's what you do to me. Every fucking day."
Her head fell back against his shoulder. "Jett…"
He slid one hand around to her front. Cupped her breast through the silk. Thumbed her nipple—hard little peak. Pinched lightly. She arched.
The other hand went lower. Popped the button on her trousers. Slid the zipper down. Dipped inside black lace panties. Found her drenched.
"Jesus," he muttered. "You're soaked."
"Shut up and touch me," she hissed.
He did.
Two fingers plunged inside her—deep, curling. Thumb on her clit. Firm circles. She bucked back against him, riding his hand shamelessly. Bookshelves creaked with every thrust of her hips.
"Quiet," he warned. "Staff could hear."
"Then make me come fast," she panted.
He sped up. Added a third finger. Stretched her. Rubbed that spot inside that made her thighs quake. His other hand slipped under her blouse, shoved her bra up, palmed her bare breast. Rolled the nipple between thumb and forefinger.
She shattered.
Body locking. Mouth open in a silent scream. Pussy clamping down on his fingers in violent spasms. Wetness coated his palm, dripped down his wrist.
He held her through it. Kissed the side of her neck. Soft now. Soothing.
When she stopped trembling he withdrew his hand slowly. Brought his fingers to her lips.
She sucked them clean without hesitation. Eyes locked on his over her shoulder.
Then she turned in his arms. Dropped to her knees again.
"Seraphina—"
"Shut up," she said, already working his belt. "My turn."
She freed his cock—thick, veined, leaking. Took him deep in one smooth motion. Throat relaxing. Nose to his pubic bone. Moaned around him like she'd been craving the taste.
Jett fisted her chignon. Not pulling. Just holding. Let her set the pace. Fast. Sloppy. Desperate. Spit slicked her chin. Her hands gripped his thighs. Nails digging in.
He didn't last.
"Gonna come," he warned, voice wrecked.
She pulled off just enough to speak. "In my mouth. All of it."
He did. Hard. Hot pulses down her throat. She swallowed greedily. Kept sucking until he was oversensitive, hips jerking.
When she finally released him she stayed on her knees a moment. Breathing hard. Lips swollen. Eyes glassy with something between satisfaction and shame.
Jett hauled her up. Kissed her slow. Tasted himself on her tongue.
She broke away first.
"This is the last time," she whispered. Voice trembling. "I mean it."
He smiled against her mouth. "You said that already."
She shoved him back—light, but firm.
"Get out."
He did.
But as he walked down the hallway he heard her slide down the bookshelf to the floor. Heard the soft, broken sound she tried to muffle.
Not tears.
Not quite.
But close.
The first approach had failed.
She was still fighting.
But every time she pushed, the cracks got wider.
And Jett was patient.
He had months.
Across the estate, Delilah Kane was running sprints on her private court—sweat-slicked, legs pumping, phone buzzing with another blackmail text she ignored.
Jett watched from the tree line.
Noticed the way her shorts rode up. The way her sports bra strained. The way her eyes flicked toward the Voss property like she knew someone was watching.
Another seed.
Planted.