“Fuck me,” I say underneath my breath, leaning against the back wall of the elevator.

My dick strains against my pants, feeling as if it’s about to burst, and I grab it, adjusting it to hopefully ease the ache.

It was fucking hard to watch Tess squirm underneath my gaze, see her cheeks blossom into a color more alluring than her body itself, especially as I grilled her about her furniture and teased her about mine. Fuck. It was fun, and it’d make any man explode right then and there.

Luckily, I know how to control myself, even if I’m not used to a woman like her. A woman who knows exactly what she’s doing and who knows how to walk away. From me.

But before I get distracted by her slick tongue and delectable curves, I need to do some work.

We’ve established that we’re the only two people in this competition that really matter. No one has a shot against us, so I need to make it worth her while. Although I know I have this competition in the bag.

Yeah, she might be the fucking Domina Designs, but she isn’t at the level of Oakmont. As she admitted herself, she’s barely had big clients like the Clarendon before, whereas that’s my specialty.

Size doesn’t matter, huh? What woman has said that before and actually believed it? Baby, you can’t tell me you believe in that ‘motion in the ocean’ or ‘all about the experience’ bullshit? We all know it’s not true. Sorry to burst that fairytale bubble for you.

The elevator bell dings as I reach my floor and I walk out towards my door, unlocking it and throwing my keys on the marble counter. I head straight to my bar, needing to dull some of the after-effects of Tess Armstrong.

She might be the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen, with a mouth that makes my dick throb, but she’s also my competition. And, I need to get my head in the game.

I pour a few finger lengths of the whisky into a crystal glass and take a swig before I head to my office. I don’t even switch the light on I’m so focused on getting intel on Tess. More than I already have.

First, I send a few emails to my staff, letting them know what we’re up against and detailing the competition and the stakes of it. Once my team is behind it, I know I’ll be golden.

I might’ve done most of Oakmont’s heavy lifting, but I’m man enough to admit that you don’t get anywhere in life without a team supporting you. And, I have some of the best damn people in the business working for me. That’s the thing, you have to know who you’re working with and what they’re skills are. For instance, if they’re trustworthy, hardworking and actually capable of doing what you tell them to do. Knowing who that is and how to manage them is the work of the best damn CEO in the tri-state area, one with the most successful furniture company in the country. Yep, that’s me, baby. Don’t forget that.

So, maybe it is all because of me.

I am Austin Randall after all.

Once the emails are written and sent out, I settle in on researching Tess Armstrong, taking a sip of my whisky in preparation.

I type in “Domina Designs” on Google, her website being the first to pop up in the search results. I click on it and like I imagined, the site reflects her designs—feminine, soft, fragile. Each border of the box is colored in gold while the background gives off a pink-ish hue.

A color resembling the tone of her face when she’s turned on.

My cock throbs at the memory of her hands twirling her hair off her neck and shoulder, exposing her bare, flush skin to me. I sigh, loudly, and briefly close my eyes.

Fuck me. Calm down, Austin.

I move on, pressing on the menu item labeled, “clients.”

A see a few recognizable businesses: Cosmopolitan, MAC Cosmetics, Tiffany’s. All of which makes sense seeing as her pieces align with the business model and clientele they cater to.

Ok, so she’s niche but she’s also smart. She’s working her angle and with the clients that both seek out and fit her aesthetic. And I’ll hand it to her, these clients aren’t too shabby.

I press on Tiffany’s link to peruse the images and pieces she designed for them.

Holy shit.

I didn’t expect that.

Not only are her pieces shown in impeccable lighting, but they capture her working with the materials from start to finish. That’s fucking impressive. She’s gorgeous, smart, and knows how to use a toolbox.

A fucking dream woman.

In one picture, she’s bent over assembling a pink chaise lounge chair, stitching the hem of the velvet fabric together.

I zoom in, admiring the way her body is positioned. The simple jeans and t-shirt she’s wearing hugs her curves in a way I didn’t know was possible. I thought the dress she was wearing tonight captured my attention, but even in this simple attire, I find myself aching to touch her.

My dick pulsates, adopting its own rhythmic heartbeat. And I take a hardy gulp of my whisky, needing to distract myself from her and that impeccable body.

I press on another file of hers, a showcase of some sort, and a slideshow pops up. I hit the next arrow to move through the pictures and because I can’t help myself, I’m glued to how her body floats through a room, positioning herself from one piece to the next.

Each of the designs are similar but the architecture differs slightly, the curves of each piece are either soft and delicate or sharp and pointed. It’s fitting, really, it matches her personality to a tee. She has a softness to her that’s only detectable when you push hard enough. I’m learning that’s all you have to do with her, you have to work around the hard-edged persona she puts on—that is, if she allows you to.

But come one, it’s me. It’ll only be a matter of time before I get her permission.

I continue to study her designs, but I keep finding my eyes lingering over her frame and not the furniture.

I admit, I’m impressed with her pieces. She has a flair about her that I know is desirable to many clients, like the bigger clients she’s worked with. But I can’t keep looking away from her and remembering how she adjusted her ass in the seat across from me.

Fuck it.

I’m not going to be able to sleep if I don’t get rid of this fucking aching rod in my pants. I’m surprised it hasn’t shot off into space already given the torture I’ve put it through tonight.

I find myself staring at a picture of her smiling, shaking hands with some nobody, and I grab my dick, envisioning her hand wrapped around me.

“Oh fuck,” the sudden grip of my hand jerks my hips up and the images of her kneeling over her furniture motivates my wrist.

I stroke my length up and down, replaying the way she talked about furniture, about leather and my raw pieces.

“Yes…” I squeeze harder, wanting it to be her pussy swallowing my dick.

I squeeze my eyes shut, producing a highlight reel of her and that hemline, the tight blue dress, and that smooth, quick tongue.

It travels down the side of my cock, licking up the droplets of pre-cum dripping down my shaft.

“Fuck…” I stroke faster, my muscles starting to tense from the friction and my speed. I’m going to fucking explode. After everything I’ve put my cock through tonight, it is not going to take any prisoners. I’m almost thankful no one is here to take the load, who knows what I’m capable of after Tess. Almost. But, I’ve already blinded a woman with my cum already, I can’t imagine what it could do now.

I open my eyes and they fall on the image of her in a tight white dress, kneeling down to highlight a small trinket molded onto a side table. She’s smiling and it’s her eyes that do me in.

My body tenses and I start to quiver, feeling my orgasm rush through me.

“Holy fuck,” I groan. “Ahhh!”

Cum jets out of me, showering the square footage of my office floor. It creates a milky-white mess that I’m sure the housekeeper is going to have a field day with.

I lean my head back on the chair and sigh heavily, feeling a wave of relief mixed with dread washing over me.

This woman could be my undoing, but I have to do everything in my power to stop her.

She might be gorgeous, and she might able to rile me up like no other woman has before, but she’s my competitor and that’s something I don’t take lightly.

I slam my laptop shut and finish my whisky, the liquid burning my throat and numbing my nerves.

I get an email just then from my assistant, Miranda. “Domina Designs” it’s titled. She's started doing opposition research.

I open the attachment in curiosity.

And, of course, the first thing I see is a picture of fucking Tess in that fucking gorgeous white dress.

Shit.

She is going down.

But first, I need to take a fucking cold shower.