Page 81 of Ten Day Affair
She doesn’t flinch or look away.
“We’re out of time, Sam. If this deal doesn’t go through, the hospital won't make it to the end of the year. Any solution will be even harder, if not impossible, at that point.”
Her jaw tightens. Still, she doesn’t interrupt. She lets me dig my own grave, one slow word at a time. Her silence is worse than if she were to yell at me.
“This vote is the only path left to keep the doors open before the end of the fiscal year. That’s the reality. I’m not going to pretend there’s a magic fix.”
What I don’t say, what I’ll never say, is that I know exactly how this deal goes through. Because I orchestrated the whole thing. Only, the logistics were in place long before I ever knew Samantha Taylor.
She nods once, slow and deliberate. “Okay.”
I lean forward. “Sam?—”
“No.” Her voice is flat. Final. “Thank you for being honest.”
But it doesn’t sound like gratitude.
It sounds like goodbye.
The kitchen clockreads 11:38 p.m. I’ve been staring at the same prospectus for over an hour, but nothing sticks.
Sam’s voice from earlier keeps looping in my head. What a fucking way to end things.
I close the laptop and walk to the window. Palm Beach glows across the water, polished and powerful. I used to feel the same, but now all of this has me doubting everything.
A knock sounds at the door. I open it and find Samstanding there in worn jeans and a gray t-shirt, hair still damp from a shower. She doesn’t wait for an invitation.
“I don’t want to talk,” she says.
I step back and let her in. “Okay.”
The door closes behind us, and the air shifts.
She doesn’t waste a second. Her hands press flat against my chest, pushing me back until I hit the wall. Her mouth finds mine in a kiss that’s urgent, unfiltered, and completely unlike the ones we’ve shared before.
There’s no pretense or question of how far we’ll go. I kiss her back, just as hungry, but I don’t mistake this for tenderness. This is about reclaiming power.
Sam pulls away just enough to look me in the eye. “I don’t want gentle tonight.”
“You won’t get gentle,” I say.
She drops to her knees in front of me and unbuckles my belt, her hands steady.
I bury one hand in her damp hair, my fingers tightening as her mouth wraps around me. She’s slow at first, dragging her tongue along the underside of my shaft before pulling me deeper, inch by inch, until I feel the back of her throat.
I thrust into her, letting her gag tell me when I've pushed her to the limit. She doesn't want gentle, I'll give it to her.
She doesn’t flinch and holds there, eyes flicking up just once, then retreats with a soft, wet pop before sinking back down with more intent.
My breath stutters. I brace one hand against the wall behind me, fighting to stay upright.
She picks up the pace, each stroke firmer, wetter.
The suction is relentless. Her hand works what her mouth can’t reach, twisting at the base while her tongue flicks over the head with maddening precision.
My hips continue to move, helpless against the pull of her mouth. She moans, and the vibration nearly unravels me.
I don’t know if this is about control, about punishment, or just release. Maybe all of it. All I know is the way she’s devouring me feels less like giving and more like taking. Like she needs this. Like she’s reclaiming something.
