The penthouse shower steamed with jasmine-scented water when Sylvie pinned Ivy against the rainfall tiles, her thighs bracketing Ivy's hips under the scalding spray. "Second rule," she murmured, biting down on Ivy's lip hard enough to taste copper as security footage of Jax fleeing the burning garage played on the waterproof screen beside them. Ivy's fingers found the fresh stitches along Sylvie's ribs—the ones holding in the bullet she'd taken for Ivy last night—and pressed until the CEO's moan echoed off the marble. Sylvie's hand tangled in Ivy's hair, yanking her head back to watch their reflections warp in the fogged glass. "You bleed when I say," she panted, dragging Ivy's hand between her own legs, "not when some garage rat snaps his fingers."
The boardroom smelled like silicone and cordite when Ivy knelt under the conference table during Monday's merger talks, her tongue tracing the seam of Sylvie's stockings while the CFO droned about quarterly losses. Sylvie's stiletto pressed warningly against Ivy's thigh as she countered the offer—"Add two mil and the shipyard"—her voice barely hitching when Ivy's teeth found the lace edge of her underwear. The opposing CEO never noticed the wet stain darkening Sylvie's chair when she stood abruptly, nor the way Ivy emerged from beneath the table with smudged lipstick to pass out amended contracts. But he flinched when Sylvie smiled, flicking Ivy's discarded hair tie onto the dotted line where it left a faint bloodstain from the garage explosion. "Sign," she purred, "before my assistant gets... restless."
By Thursday, Ivy's desk drawer contained more than office supplies—a velvet-lined case held Sylvie's collection of restraints, each monogrammed with dates corresponding to eliminated rivals. The CEO preferred Ivy bound with the mauve silk cords on anniversaries of River's disappearance, whispering how Jax had screamed when the gasoline fumes reached the welding torches. Ivy arched into the pain of the too-tight knots, her thighs sticking to Sylvie's leather chair as the older woman worked her over with a silver letter opener, the engraved blade catching on Ivy's clit with every thrust. "Such a good secretary," Sylvie crooned, smearing Ivy's come across the keyboard where she'd later type termination notices for Cole's remaining crew. The scent of their coupling clung to corporate memos that left papercuts on trembling interns' fingers.
Ivy's morning routine now included prepping Sylvie's espresso—two sugars, a splash of bourbon, and a drop of blood pricked from Ivy's fingertip with the CEO's pearl-handled syringe. She knelt beside the executive desk during shareholder calls, Sylvie's toes flexing against her tongue as the board voted unanimously to approve the hostile takeover of Black Dog Holdings. The vibration of Ivy's phone in her garter belt—Jax's final text before his car plunged off the docks—matched the buzz of Sylvie's designer vibrator beneath the conference table. Ivy swallowed around Sylvie's sudden grip in her hair, her moans muffled against the CEO's thigh as quarterly profits were announced to thunderous applause.
The scent of bergamot and gunpowder preceded him—Alexander Vaughn, all marble cheekbones and shark-tooth smiles, his Rolex glinting where it rested on Sylvie's lower back during their waltz at the charity gala. Ivy's nails bit crescents into her palms as Vaughn's thumb traced Sylvie's spine through the slit in her emerald gown, his other hand palming the CEO's ass with proprietary ease. Sylvie's laughter glittered like broken chandelier glass when Vaughn whispered against her neck, his teeth grazing the scar Jax's belt had left—the one Ivy used to lick when Sylvie came undone above her. The champagne flute shattered in Ivy's grip, garnet droplets staining the ivory carpet as Vaughn's smirk deepened. "Charming pet," he murmured, flicking a speck of glass from Sylvie's shoulder, "but you really should train them not to interrupt."
Three floors up in the executive suite, Vaughn's shadow stretched across Ivy's naked back as Sylvie pinned her to the mahogany desk, his Italian loafers stepping over Ivy's discarded switchblade with deliberate care. Ivy felt the heat of his gaze tracing the serpent tattoo writhing down her spine—the ink still tender where Sylvie's initials had been inked between its fangs last week—as his fingers worked Sylvie's zipper down with practiced ease. "Shall we?" Vaughn purred, peeling Sylvie's blouse from her shoulders like unwrapping a lethal gift, his tongue darting out to catch the diamond necklace sliding between her breasts. Ivy bucked against Sylvie's grip, her teeth sinking into the CEO's wrist hard enough to taste blood, but Sylvie merely chuckled, twisting Ivy's hair around her fist to force her head up. "Watch," she commanded, guiding Vaughn's hand between her thighs with Ivy's own fingers still slick from prepping her earlier.
Vaughn's cufflinks gleamed like predator's eyes as he bent Sylvie over the desk beside Ivy, his tailored slacks straining where Ivy's knife had nicked them moments before. The CEO's moan when he entered her was filthier than Ivy had ever heard—raw and throaty, nothing like the controlled sighs Sylvie granted her—and Ivy's vision tunneled at the sight of Vaughn's Rolex glinting against Sylvie's bare ass with every thrust. Sylvie's fingers tangled in Ivy's hair, yanking her close enough to smell Vaughn's cologne mingling with Sylvie's arousal, her breath hitching when Ivy's teeth found her earlobe. "Jealous?" Sylvie taunted, her hips meeting Vaughn's with a wet slap that made Ivy's stomach clench. Vaughn's grin was all teeth as he palmed Ivy's throat without breaking rhythm, his thumb pressing against her pulse like a trigger. "She barks so prettily," he mused, smearing Sylvie's slick across Ivy's collarbone with his free hand. "Does she bite?"
The boardroom smelled like expensive leather and Vaughn's aftershave when Sylvie made Ivy kneel beneath the conference table during their merger negotiation, her stiletto digging into Ivy's thigh while Vaughn outlined his terms. Ivy's nails bit crescents into her palms as Vaughn's fingers traced Sylvie's knee beneath the table—higher, always higher—his Montblanc pen tapping against the contract where it listed Ivy's position as "transferable asset." Sylvie's gasp when Vaughn's hand disappeared under her skirt was barely audible over the PowerPoint presentation, but Ivy heard it like a gunshot, her teeth sinking into Vaughn's calf hard enough to taste blood through his sock. Vaughn merely chuckled, twisting Ivy's hair around his Rolex as he continued speaking—"Section 12.3 stipulates shared custody"—while Sylvie's thighs trembled against Ivy's shoulders, her orgasm smearing Ivy's cheek with ruined mascara.