Page 9

TARAJI

M onday dawns cool and gray, the kind of morning that always makes Taraji want to burrow under the covers and snuggle her bear. But she can’t hide today.

She’s up early, steam rising off her coffee as she sits at her kitchen table, scrolling through emails she’s too distracted to process.

Her mind keeps circling back to the phone call last night: the way Nikolai’s voice had caressed her through the line, how easily she’d slipped and called him Daddy.

The word still makes her flush, as much from embarrassment as from a heat she can’t quite name.

She dresses carefully, choosing a red pencil skirt that hugs her hips, a silky red blouse, and her favorite heels.

She studies her reflection in the mirror, smoothing her curls and applying just enough lipstick to feel powerful. “You’ve got this,” she mutters to her reflection. “He doesn’t own you.” But the words sound hollow, even to her.

The office is buzzing when she arrives, everyone moving with a kind of nervous energy she’s never noticed before. Whispers follow her as she walks to her desk, but she holds her chin high and forces herself not to look for Nikolai .

She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the glass wall, shoulders back, stride confident, but her heart pounds so hard she’s sure it’s visible through her blouse.

Keisha appears at her elbow, coffee in hand. “You good?” she murmurs, eyes darting to the glass-walled conference room where Nikolai sits, already surrounded by department heads.

Taraji nods, faking nonchalance. “Just another Monday.”

“Mmmhmm,” Keisha hums, unconvinced. “He’s already looked over here twice. Girl, if those eyes got any hotter, we’d need a fire extinguisher.”

She bites her lip, a laugh almost escaping. She keeps her voice low. “Don’t start.”

Keisha grins, bumping Taraji’s shoulder. “I’m just saying, you wear that skirt to kill, and he’s the only one dying.”

The morning crawls. She tries to focus on the quarterly report spread across her screen, but her mind keeps drifting. She feels Nikolai’s presence like a magnetic field, tugging at her every time she hears his voice through the glass doors.

She glances up once, just in time to catch his gaze. Intense, steady, unreadable. He doesn’t look away, and neither does she, until the phone on her desk rings and she jumps, heart racing.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of meetings and half-finished tasks. At lunch, she sits with Jasmine and Keisha, picking at her salad while they gossip about Mary-Anne’s latest disaster at the copier.

“—she jammed it with three hundred pages and then tried to blame it on the intern,” Jasmine says, rolling her eyes.

Keisha snorts. “Mary-Anne couldn’t find her way out of a paper bag, and she wants to manage people?”

She laughs, the sound surprising her with its lightness. For a moment, she forgets the tension, the way her skin prickles every time she senses Nikolai nearby. But the moment doesn’t last.

She excuses herself early, claiming a deadline, and escapes to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her wrists .

She stares at herself in the mirror, trying to slow her breathing. “You’re fine,” she whispers. “It’s just a meeting. You’ve done this a hundred times.”

But her body betrays her, a flutter low in her belly, the memory of his hands on her skin, the way he’d murmured “good girl” into the phone last night. She presses her thighs together, trying to will the heat away.

The afternoon is worse. She catches him looking at her in the elevator, in the hall, across the conference table during a budget meeting. His eyes never linger too long. Just enough to make her wonder if she’s imagining it, if it’s all in her head.

But then, after a particularly tense exchange about a new client, she feels her phone vibrate in her lap.

No greeting, no explanation. Just the command, simple and direct. Her breath catches.

She glances up. Through the glass wall, he’s watching her, his face unreadable. She nods, almost imperceptibly, and he looks away, returning to his papers.

The rest of the day is torture. She tries to work, tries to focus, but her mind is a storm. What does he want?

Is it about Friday?

Am I in trouble?

Her pulse quickens.

Does he want me?

Really want her, the way he’d hinted at in his office, the way she’s dreamed about since that night?

She leaves the office at five, but doesn’t go home. Instead, she walks the nearby park, heels in hand, toes sinking into the soft grass as she circles the pond. She calls Keisha, voice trembling .

“Girl, he just texted me. Wants me in his office at six.”

Keisha whistles. “Damn. That’s either very good or very bad.”

Taraji laughed shakily. “It’s always both with him.”

Keisha’s voice softens. “You want me to hang out nearby? Text me if you need backup.”

“I’ll be fine.” her voice is steadier than she feels. “Thank you, though.”

She hangs up, then sits on a bench, watching the sun dip behind the buildings.

She thinks about the last five years, about all the moments she and Nikolai have shared, stolen glances, late nights in the office, the way he’s always seemed to know exactly what she needs before she can voice it herself.

She thinks about the way he made her feel safe, even when she was falling apart. The way her body responds to him, even now, just at the thought of his hands on her, his voice in her ear.

At 5:45, she walks back to the office. The building is nearly empty, the air humming with the quiet of after-hours. She stops in the bathroom one last time, smoothing her skirt, touching up her lipstick. Her hands shake as she zips her purse.

She takes the elevator up, watching her reflection in the mirrored doors. Her heart pounds so loudly she’s sure Nikolai will hear it before she even knocks.

At exactly 6:00, she stands outside his office, smoothing her skirt, steeling herself. She knocks, the sound echoing in the empty hallway.

“Come in,” his deep voice calls, sending shivers down her spine.

She inhales, squares her shoulders, and opens the door.

The low lighting in Nikolai’s office casts dramatic shadows across the mahogany, the city’s glow painting his suit in shards of gold. He doesn’t look up right away. She can see the tension in the set of his jaw, the way his knuckles whiten around the pen he holds .

“You wanted to see me?” she manages, her voice steadier than she feels.

He doesn’t answer immediately, just gestures to the door with a flick of his wrist. “Lock it.”

She hesitates, her fingers hovering over the latch, but that single word leaves no room for negotiation. She obeys, and the soft click sounds like a judge’s gavel, closing off the world.

Nikolai sets his pen down, eyes finally rising to meet hers. “I ordered dinner.” He nods toward the spread on the side table: pad Thai, green curry, spring rolls, all her favorites. “You’ve been skipping meals again.”

She flushes, embarrassed he’s noticed. “I’ve been busy.”

He stands, moving with that deliberate, predatory grace that always makes her skin tingle. “Sit.”

It’s not a request. She crosses the room, perching on the edge of the leather chair as he dishes food onto a plate for her. He places it in front of her, then sits across the table, watching her with an intensity that makes her hands tremble as she picks up her fork.

They eat in silence, every sound amplified, the clink of silverware, the soft hum of the city below. Each bite settles her nerves, but her mind is far from calm. Every time she glances up, Nikolai’s gaze is there, burning through her.

Finally, he speaks, voice low. “You’ve been avoiding me today.”

She focuses on her food, unwilling to meet his eyes. “I was… embarrassed. About the phone call.”

His fork clatters down. “What part exactly?”

She swallows hard, her throat suddenly dry. “You know what part.”

He stands, moving around the table in two strides. He turns her chair, forcing her to face him, his hands gripping the arms on either side, caging her in.

“Say it.” His voice is a command, pure and uncompromising.

She can barely breathe. “I called you… Daddy. ”

His eyes darken, pupils dilating. The air feels electric. “And how did it feel?”

She hesitates. “I don’t know.”

He kneels between her knees, taking her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. “Liar. Tell me how it felt.”

A shudder runs through her. “Good. It felt good.”

A slow, predatory smile curls his lips. “You’ve been hiding from yourself.”

She tries to look away, but his grip tightens. “What do you mean?”

He releases her chin, his hands sliding down to her knees, fingers tracing circles that make her shiver. “You crave control being taken from you. You crave care. You crave Daddy.”

Her breath hitches. “I don’t—”

He hushes her with a finger to her lips. “Shh. Daddy knows best.”

She melts at his touch, her thighs parting without conscious thought. He pushes her skirt higher, exposing her red lace panties. His gaze travels over her body, hot and hungry.

“That’s it. Let Daddy see.”

She’s already wet, the evidence staining the lace. Nikolai growls softly, his gaze devouring her.

“So pretty,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the edge of her panties. “Is this for me?”

“Yes,” she whispers, eyes fluttering closed.

“‘Yes’ what?” His pinch to her inner thigh is sharp, commanding.

“Y-yes, Daddy,” she gasps, the words tumbling out.

He rewards her with a kiss to each knee, lips lingering just long enough to make her ache. “Good girl.” His praise wraps around her, warm and possessive.

He hooks his fingers into her panties. “Lift up.”

She obeys instantly, hips rising as he slides the lace down her legs, over her heels, and pockets them with a wicked grin. “Mine now. ”

She can’t help but moan, the powerlessness both terrifying and thrilling.

“Spread wider,” he commands.

She obeys, opening herself fully to him. His exhale is rough, almost a growl.

“Fuck. So wet for Daddy.”