ACT ONE: Back In Monte-Carlo
warnings: legal drugs, betting games, smut, unprotected p in v, oral (m! and f! receiving), lots of dirty talk, dry humping, slight hair tugging, cowgirl, spooning position, idk lots of filth.
One hour in, and the humid air of Monaco is already making Steve want to crawl out of his Prada suit and make a dash for the gold double doors. Maybe if he’s quick enough, he can slip past his father, Marty, and the security guards by the coat check. Maybe he’d catch the first flight to New York, collect his things from the penthouse, and rent a small apartment — Brooklyn, maybe. He’d have to leave his credit cards behind; they’d be useless after his father blocked them anyway.
Would his mother cry? Unlikely. Maybe a few tears for the press. His father definitely wouldn’t. Arthur Harrington would publicly disinherit him, choose one of his cousins — probably freaking Robert — to take over the company, and forget Steve ever existed.
Marty would mourn him, though. That much Steve knew.
The sixty-year-old assistant–slash–right hand, occasional babysitter, cook, or driver when necessary, would shed real tears. Marty knew Steve better than anyone in his ridiculous excuse for a family ever had. He’d been there since Steve was in diapers, crawling backward across expensive carpets and knocking over things that made his mother shriek. Marty had been the one to pick up the screaming child who never received warmth from his parents.
Marty would visit him in his tiny studio, maybe even at his minimum-wage job—
Fuck, who was he kidding? Steve would never survive that life.
He hadn’t grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth, but a damn gold one. His first baby onesies had been custom Ralph Lauren. His stroller was Loro Piana, for fuck’s sake. He grew up watching horse races and Formula One, traveling on yachts. St. Barts, Turks and Caicos — name it, he’d been there.
When Steve was eight, his father had brought him into the office for a day. He remembered Arthur crouching slightly, looking at the small boy with the ridiculous hair, telling him that one day he’d sit in that chair. That he’d change the business like Arthur had, like his great-great-grandfathers before him.
And although Steve hated his job — hated the people, the culture, the rot at its core — he was, annoyingly, very good at it. Real estate was about selling. Convincing. Honestly? Manipulating. And if there was one thing Steve Harrington excelled at, it was being convincing.
He’d been charming his way into everything since he was ten years old, when he realized that big hair, a dazzling smile, and a few sweet words could get him almost anything he wanted. The same smile he was offering now to every woman even vaguely within his age range at this god-awful “charity” dinner.
He half-listened to his coworkers and business partners drone on about fishing, golf, and how unbearable their wives were. His attention was caught instead by a thin redhead giving him the eyes from across the room. Steve smiled and lifted his glass of whiskey slightly, gesturing for her to come over.
She did. They always did.
Steve wasn’t a misogynist — far from it. He loved women, and the way the men around him spoke about them daily made him sick. If he were a better man, he’d speak up. He’d stand his ground. He’d step up to his father.
But Steve did nothing. Ever. A coward as always.
Guilt was a feeling he’d grown up with, and by now he was used to its weight. Like the guilt that came with the thoughts he was having about the redhead now standing in front of him. She wore a pale pink dress, soft makeup, red lips. The same lips, cheekbones, brows, and thin, delicate frame as every woman his age who frequented these events. The same work done on her face. The same empty eyes, fake giggles, diamond earrings.
The same impossibly dull conversations. The same strange act of pretending to be stupid and fragile.
He tried to remember her name, but it refused to surface even after ten minutes of flirting. Still, he recognized those unnaturally white-blue eyes as belonging to the Spencer family. Real estate too. An up-and-coming business — fairly large, though not nearly large enough to please his parents.
He nodded and smiled at Lilah — or was it Lily? — as she spoke, just about to ask for his third glass of Yamazaki 55 when it happened.
The lowering of voices. The hushed whispers. The searching eyes.
His father’s shoulders tensed. His business partners’ eyes widened, pleading. Steve followed everyone’s gaze to the front doors.
Right on cue, three figures entered.
A tall, brown-skinned woman with a halo of dark curls, wearing a red dress intricately filigreed with rubies Steve knew better than to doubt were real. Beside her, a man with far too much blond hair and far too much mustache for his age, his Dormeuil tuxedo tailored perfectly to his slim frame, finished with a deep red bow tie and matching cufflinks.
And then there was you.
Shining like a rose everyone knew had far too many thorns.
A deep wine-colored, floor-length halter gown with a plunging neckline and a sculpted, fitted silhouette. Red-soled heels, thin and tall enough to stab someone with.
The three figures paused briefly at the entrance, as if basking in the attention — the curiosity, the fear. When they finally moved into the crowd, conversations resumed, eyes averted, as if everyone had been given permission to breathe again.
Steve dismissed Lillian with a smirk and waited.
Waited, like he always did.
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You always made him wait. That was the ritual, the unspoken rule between you two. But tonight it was already past midnight, the hour when even the most polished champagne flutes started to look sticky, and you still hadn’t spared him so much as a glance—though your parents had. Felipe Rodrigues could walk into any room and make Arthur Harrington’s jaw clench like clockwork; no one else possessed quite that same talent for crawling under his skin and staying there.
The Harringtons and the Rodrigues had been tangled in business since Steve was about four, back when he still wore tiny tailored blazers and thought boardrooms were just big rooms with cookies. Truth was, the Rodrigues empire had long since outgrown the Harrington one—especially after the meteoric rise of publishing and media. Casa Rodrigues now owned the narrative itself: venerable paper news like La Gazette, glossy pop-and-film culture bibles like The Ledger, and the crown jewel—RBC, the single largest entertainment conglomerate by revenue in America. News anchors with million-dollar smiles, late-night talk shows that shaped public opinion, music channels that decided what the world danced to. Real estate lived and died by press, by marketing, by the stories people told themselves about luxury and status. And something Arthur Harrington absolutely despised was needing anything. Or anyone.
Yet the partnership endured. Six casinos and a luxury hotel bore both family names: three gleaming monstrosities in the States, one sprawling property in Brasil (your family’s homeland), two casinos and one hotel right here in Monaco. One of the casinos pulsed directly beneath their feet at this very moment, hidden Monte Carlo floors below the charity gala, where roulette wheels spun and fortunes vanished in the time it took to finish a martini.
Steve watched your parents hold court across the room. Felipe’s deep laugh rolled out like distant thunder; Antônia’s voice, velvet-sharp, sliced through the chatter. The crowd around them—men in midnight tuxedos, women in gowns that cost more than most people’s cars—leaned in too eagerly, laughing too loudly, offering compliments that tasted like desperation. Steve scanned the glittering sea of sequins and diamonds for you, but you’d vanished into the throng like smoke.
He gave up and turned to the petite brunette who’d latched onto him twenty minutes earlier. She was all wide doe eyes and glossy lips parted in perpetual awe, hanging on his every word as though he were reciting scripture. Those eyes—enormous, unnaturally bright, fake-innocent—were almost unsettling, like a doll’s, but she was stroking his ego with surgical precision, so he let her stay. He was mid-sentence, about to describe the matte-black Bentley he’d taken delivery of last month (the way the doors closed with that satisfying, expensive thunk), when a voice he’d know in his sleep cut through the din—higher-pitched than usual, squeaky with mock delight.
“Oh my god! Stevie?!”
He nearly dropped the glass of Yamazaki in his hand. A whirlwind of burgundy silk and highlights crashed into him, arms looping tight around his neck, the scent of expensive jasmine and trouble hitting him like a drug. Your body pressed flush against his for one heartbeat—warm, deliberate—before you pulled back just enough to flash that wicked, satisfied grin.
“I didn’t think you’d be here! I thought you were still getting your hemorrhoids treated?”
The brunette made a small, horrified noise—half gag, half scoff—and spun away, heels striking the marble like gunfire as she fled. A few nearby heads turned, eyebrows lifting in disgust or amusement, but Steve couldn’t tear his eyes from you. That grin. God, that grin.
“Seriously? Hemorrhoids, Rodrigues?”
You tilted your head, lips curving higher. “What? Have you gotten cured already?”
He scoffed, lifted the glass to hide the heat crawling up his neck and ears—useless, because you were already raking your gaze over him, shameless, slow, cataloging every inch. The way your eyes lingered on the too-loose fall of his trousers made his pulse kick.
“Did you even try to get ya' Daddy’s tailor to do something about this?” you murmured, voice dropping to that low, teasing register that always unraveled him. “You’re drowning in those pants, sweetie.”
He opened his mouth for a sharp comeback—something about your plunging neckline or the way you’d clearly chosen heels sharp enough to draw blood—but three older men closed in before he could speak.
He recognized them instantly; he’d been drilled on their names, their empires, their weaknesses since he was sixteen. Rathbone—old-money real estate, conservative as a funeral parlor. Lincoln Motors—reseller of luxury cars for people who collected them like stamps. And the devil himself, Elton Hargreaves—oil baron, seventy years of arrogance distilled into one leering, yellow-toothed smile, one of the largest private fortunes on earth.
Hargreaves shook Steve’s hand with a grip that lingered too long, then lifted yours to his lips for a kiss that dragged out obscenely. Steve watched the transformation happen in real time: the playful spark in your eyes, the easy mischief you’d worn talking to him, snuffed out. Replaced by the ice-cold business mask—the one you wore for everyone else in this room. Not to him though. Never for him.
“Mr. Hargreaves,” you said, voice polite steel, withdrawing your hand with practiced speed, disgust flickering behind your lashes before you locked it away.
A hot, blinding surge ripped through Steve’s chest. He straightened up to his full height instinctively, shoulders rolling back, chest expanding as though his body wanted to shield you without asking permission. He fought the urge to step between you and the old man.
Hargreaves gave Steve a lazy, amused once-over—like he was sizing up a colt that hadn’t yet proven itself—then turned back to you with oily charm. “Harrington. And Miss Rodrigues—as stunning as ever, darling! This dress… exquisite. You look like you stepped straight out of old Hollywood with those gorgeous curls.”
He reached out, thick fingers brushing toward a loose strand of your golden hair. Steve’s muscles coiled, ready to lunge—before you moved first. One smooth step back. No flinch. No fear. Just a boundary drawn with surgical calm, face utterly still.
Hargreaves didn’t blink. “Your mother has the same ones. Your father always seemed so fascinated by them—now I understand why.” He flashed that shark-toothed grin at Steve’s glare, then back to you. “You look like a dream. Maybe you could share some o'your secret beauty tips with my wife. She could certainly use them.”
He glanced at his two companions, cueing their laughter. They obliged on beat, hollow and rehearsed.
You clicked your tongue once—soft, deliberate. Your eyes sharpened to razor points; Steve knew that look. You were about to bite.
“How’s your daughter Eileen doing, sir?” you asked, voice honeyed poison. “I heard she’s giving Stanford a real run for its money.”
Hargreaves’s smile dimmed, disinterest in his face. He cleared his throat, recovered. “Yes, she certainly is. Top of her class. Every subject.”
Your grin widened—the one that meant blood. “Oh, wonderful. Could you give me her number? I’d love for us to go out together—you know, since we’re basically the same age.”
Steve’s snort was swallowed by the stunned silence that dropped over the cluster of men. No one moved. No one breathed. Your gaze never wavered, locked on Hargreaves like a predator waiting for the kill shot.
The old man swallowed audibly. “Yes… of course. I’ll—uhm—let her know. Excuse me.”
They retreated in a clumsy knot, disappearing into the crowd.
Steve turned to you, eyes alight, smirk spreading slow and wide. You rolled your eyes fondly, scoffing under your breath.
“Come on.” You tipped your head toward the bank of elevators and started walking—long, confident strides that made the burgundy silk ripple like liquid wine.
Steve hurried after you—like always—half laughing, half breathless. “Where are we going?”
You slapped the down arrow with a decisive palm. The doors slid open almost instantly. You turned to him then, that wild, knee-weakening smirk curling your red lips.
“You still any good at poker, Harrington?” you asked, voice low and challenging. “Or did you lose your rhythm this past year?”
Steve just smirked back, stepping into the elevator beside you as the doors whispered shut.
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The elevator doors slid open onto the private lower level of the Monte Carlo casino, where the air was cooler, thicker with cigar smoke and the low hum of serious money changing hands. Crystal chandeliers cast golden pools over green felt tables; the high-stakes poker room was half-full of men in their seventies and eighties, the kind who’d been playing these tables since before Steve was born. They all knew exactly who was walking in.
You led the way, heels clicking with purpose, burgundy gown catching the light like spilled wine. Steve followed close behind, sleeves rolled to his elbows now, the earlier flush from your teasing replaced by something sharper—anticipation. Oh how he anticipated this, every year, yearning, counting the days for when he'd get to come here, to feel alive, to you to Monte-Carlo.
They dealt Texas Hold’em, no-limit. Simple enough rules for outsiders: each player gets two private cards, then five community cards are laid face-up in stages—flop (three), turn (one), river (one). You bet, raise, fold, or call based on what you think you can make with your two hole cards plus the five shared ones. The goal? Best five-card hand wins the pot—or force everyone else to fold before the river. Bluffing, reading opponents, and knowing when to push or pull back was where the real game lived.
You and Steve didn’t sit together at first. You took opposite sides of the oval table, a deliberate choice that made the older men exchange glances. But within three hands it was obvious: you were playing as a unit without ever saying a word.
Steve caught your eye across the felt—brief, deliberate—and knew exactly what you were thinking. You raised pre-flop with nothing but a suited connector; he re-raised from the button, forcing folds. On the flop you checked; he bet big. The others hesitated, then folded, convinced one of you had the nuts. You didn’t. You just knew the other would back the play. Every glance was a conversation: I’m weak here—push them off. I’ve got the flush draw—bet for value. Bluff now; they’re always scared of us together.
And of course- that electricity was there, as always. When you leaned forward to count your chips, the neckline of your gown dipped just enough to make Steve’s jaw tighten. When he pushed a tall stack toward the center with that slow, cocky smirk, your foot brushed his ankle under the table—once, deliberate, gone before anyone noticed. When he accidentally dropped a few of his chips and went to get them under the table, you felt his warm fingers run up your calf deliberately. Heat coiled low in both your stomachs every time your eyes locked and held a second too long.
The old men—oil barons, shipping magnates, faded European nobility—grew steadily more irritated. “Miss Rodrigues,” one growled after you rivered a straight to take down a six-figure pot, “you always did play like the devil himself.” Another muttered, “well, well, Mr. Harrington, have you always been this good?” Steve didn't miss the mischievous smirk on your face at the comment, making him shiver. They were pissed, yes, but they kept calling—because- to these men folding to you two felt like admitting defeat to the next generation they pretended not to fear.
You and Steve cleaned up. Easily. Stacks grew in front of you both while theirs shrank. No one commented on how perfectly your rhythms synced; they didn’t have to. The table knew.
Then Mr. Rutherford—silver-haired, tech empire patriarch who’d made his first billion in silicon before most of these men knew what a microchip was—leaned back in his chair. Beside him sat his son Jéan, thirty-something, sharp suit, sharper eyes, the heir who actually understood algorithms as well as poker odds.
Rutherford chuckled, low and genuine. “Miss Rodrigues,” he said, raising his tumbler in a small toast, “you’re back in Monaco and already giving us all a run for our money. Some things never change.”
Jéan smirked, mirroring his father. “Always a pleasure watching you work the table, Miss Rodrigues.” His gaze flicked to Steve—brief, appraising. “And you too, Mr. Harrington. Solid play tonight.”
The congratulations were polite, amused, almost fond. The rest of the table glowered into their drinks.
You met Rutherford’s eyes with a slow smile, then glanced at Steve—something wicked and private flashing there.
Steve felt the pull in his chest again, stronger now with the win buzzing through his veins.
The wipeout was obvious now—your combined stacks towered while the others’ had dwindled to polite reminders of what they used to be. The game wasn’t over, not quite; a few stubborn holdouts still clutched their chips like lifelines, but the energy at the table had shifted irreversibly. You and Steve owned the rhythm.
Steve caught the eye of a passing waiter in the crisp black vest and raised two fingers in that effortless way he’d perfected over years of never needing to shout. The man appeared at his elbow in seconds.
“Me and these wonderful men—and lady,” Steve said, voice carrying just enough lazy charm to make it sound like a toast rather than a flex, “are having lots of fun tonight. Could you please bring us some whiskey for the table? Macallan Lalique, top shelf, aged fifty. On my tab, please.”
The table erupted. Roars of laughter, a few sharp claps and toasts, the kind that masked equal parts amusement and irritation. The old lions leaned back in their leather chairs, exchanging glances—some amused at the young Harrington’s audacity, others convinced he was peacocking, trying to prove he could still hang with the big boys. A couple even raised their empty tumblers in mock salute, grumbling good-naturedly about “kids these days” and “young heirs showing off.”
But Steve didn’t give a damn about their approval.
He only cared about the look on your face.
You were leaning forward slightly, elbows on the green felt, chin resting on the back of one manicured hand. That single arched brow lifted—slow, deliberate, amused. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip just enough to leave a faint indent, holding back the full grin that wanted to break free. Your pupils were blown wide in the low golden light, dark and hungry, and when you tilted your head at him—small, almost imperceptible—the burgundy silk of your gown shifted against your collarbones like liquid shadow.
God.
He’d buy every last bottle of stupidly expensive whiskey in the world if it meant seeing that look again.
The waiter nodded once, crisp and professional, and vanished toward the bar. The dealer burned a card and started the next deal, the soft rasp of shuffling cards cutting through the lingering chuckles. Steve’s gaze stayed locked on yours across the table for one beat longer than necessary—long enough for the heat between you to coil tighter, unspoken and electric.
One of the older men—Rathbone, probably—muttered something about “kids buying their way into the game,” but it lacked real venom. The cards were already sliding across the felt: two hole cards each.
You glanced down at yours, then back up at Steve.
That same wicked spark flashed in your eyes.
The game wasn’t done, not yet.
Legacy Monte-Carlo, by HxR was a five-star palace of excess: spectacular suites with panoramic views that made the Mediterranean look like it belonged to you, flawless service that anticipated your every whim. But no one came here for the rooms. They came for the legendary casino that sprawled across almost the entire ground and underground levels—four subterranean floors, 3,800 square meters of glittering gambling and entertainment paradise, flanked by two Michelin-starred restaurants and a spa that felt more like a private sanctuary than a hotel amenity.
The place had only been open five years, yet it already carried the weight of decades-old legend. Steve had spent at least fifteen nights each summer in its sprawling top-floor suite for the past four. The receptionists, waiters, doormen, cleaners—they never questioned him. He simply strolled through the marble lobby like he owned it (because, technically, half of it answered to his last name), and they greeted him with bright, practiced smiles and soft variations of “How wonderful to have you back, Mr. Harrington,” before quietly directing him to the private elevator.
Privilege had its perks.
The clock above the hotel bar read 3:28 a.m., but the night refused to feel late. People still hurried or sauntered past: men wearing wedding bands buying overpriced cocktails for women half their age, drunk gamblers who’d lost fortunes hours earlier now drowning the sting in neat whiskey, couples too wrapped up in each other to care about public decency. And Steve—slouched on a barstool, pretending to scroll emails on his phone, one AirPod in, the other forgotten on its case. He took another slow sip of lemon water, pointedly avoiding the entrance and the Patek Philippe ticking on his wrist.
He wasn’t excited. He was completely nonchalant. Totally indifferent.
At 3:34 a.m. the main doors parted.
The air shifted—thicker, electric. Staff straightened instantly: bartenders suddenly very interested in polishing already-spotless glasses, bellhops nodding heads in quiet submission, smiles blooming too wide, too bright. Steve’s lips curved into a private smirk. He slapped a crisp €50 onto the bar top just as the sharp clack of heels echoed across the marble.
“Oh, Miss! It’s such a pleasure to have you back!”
He stood, shrugging into his coat with deliberate nonchalance, and followed the trail of jasmine perfume and those unmistakable heels.
You didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you.
You stepped into the elevator first, long brown manzari fur coat draped from neck to ankles like a second skin, hair falling in bright, liquid waves—like morning light spilling through linen curtains. Steve slipped in after you. Both of you offered polite smiles and murmured “hello's” to the elderly couple who joined at the last second, then took up opposite corners of the mirrored box like it was a chessboard.
Steve pretended to check his watch. Instead, his gaze dropped to your shoes: black Louboutin pumps, red soles flashing with every impatient tap of your heel. He hid a smirk—his own black oxfords tonight were also red-soled Louboutins. Matching. Deliberate or coincidence, it didn’t matter; the symmetry sent a low thrill through him.
If you noticed, you gave no sign. You simply studied your manicured nails until the elevator dinged at the twenty-seventh floor. You turned then, offering the retreating couple one last warm smile and a soft “Have a good night.”
The doors began their slow, agonizing slide shut.
Your heel tapped once, twice—impatient, rhythmic. Steve was already grinning, low and knowing, when you moved.
You grabbed him by the shirt, yanked him forward, and crashed your lips into his.
He wrapped one arm around your waist, sliding beneath the heavy fur coat to find warm skin and the dip of your spine. A chuckle escaped against your mouth—half surprise, half triumph.
“Someone’s eager,” he murmured, voice rough.
You cut him off with a sharp tug on the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling just hard enough to make his breath hitch.
“Shut up,” you whispered back, shoving him against the mirrored wall.
The elevator doors finally clicked open.
The soft beep and the metodic robotic announcement—“Fortieth floor”—went completely unnoticed. You were still kissing ferociously, hands grabbing at each other with desperate urgency, mouths open and hungry, tongues sliding in messy, greedy strokes. When the doors started to slide shut again with a warning ding, you straightened just enough to jam your heeled foot between them, holding them apart.
You dragged Steve forward by his tie—playful, teasing—guiding him out into the private hallway. There was only one door on this floor: the sprawling top-suite penthouse. You stopped in front of it, fingers already flying over the keypad beside the doorbell, tapping in the weekly code.
But Steve wasn’t making it easy.
He pressed himself against your back, mouth hot on your neck—mouthing, nibbling, sucking lightly at the sensitive skin just below your ear. His hands slid around your waist under the fur coat, hips rolling forward so you could feel exactly how hard he was. You fumbled the code again; the keypad beeped red.
He chuckled low against your throat.
You grumbled, then pushed your hips back hard—grinding against him with deliberate force. Steve groaned, stumbling back a couple steps, momentarily distracted.
That was all the time you needed.
The lock clicked green. The door swung open.
You were about to let out a triumphant “ha!” when Steve spun you around and pounced again, kissing you slow and languid this time—deep, drugging, like he had all night. He kicked the door shut behind him with his foot and started walking you backward blindly toward the bedroom, hands roaming, never breaking the kiss.
By now you both could navigate this apartment blindfolded and never bump into a single thing. Except tonight you tripped over your own heels mid-stride, stumbling slightly. A breathy chuckle escaped against his mouth.
Steve wasn’t having it.
He gripped the bottom of your ass with both hands—firm, possessive—and hiked you up. You let out a small, surprised squeak and wrapped your legs around his narrow waist, ankles locking at the small of his back. His chuckle vibrated against your neck as he carried you the rest of the way.
He almost tripped over the heavy fur coat when it slipped a bit off your shoulders and the hem pooled on the floor just inside the bedroom doorway. You giggled at the near-miss; he grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “stupid furry thing—why are you still wearing it anyway?” which only made you laugh harder.
Steve dropped onto the edge of the king-sized bed, pulling you down to straddle him in one smooth motion. You pulled back from his lips just enough to watch him chase yours—eyes still closed, mouth parted, flushed and dazed. When his lashes finally lifted, the look on his face—hazel irises swallowed almost entirely by blown-out pupils—made you bite your lip.
His gaze dropped to the action, tracking it hungrily.
You stood slowly. Steve leaned back on his elbows, grinning lazy and wicked, already toeing off his Louboutins and loosening his tie. His coat was long gone—somewhere back in the living room, probably crumpled on the floor.
You held his eyes as you shrugged off the fur coat properly this time. It hit the ground with a heavy, expensive thud.
Steve’s grin faded. His expression turned reverent, almost awed, as his gaze traced every inch of you—the dark red lace bra and matching panties hugging your curves like they’d been made for this exact moment. He licked his lips slowly.
“Were you wearing this at the event?” His voice came out gruff, raspy, edged with something possessive.
You smirked, stepping closer, hips swaying just enough to tease. “Yeah. Noticed how they match the dress, hm?”
You slid your hands around the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. He took his time—running his palms down your ribs, over the dip of your waist, settling wide and possessive over your ass, squeezing once.
“All that f’me, honey?” he murmured, looking up at you with that slow, dangerous smirk.
You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. “If you can handle it, Harrington.”
You toed off your heels. He pouted for half a second—then grinned again when you climbed back into his lap, straddling him properly.
You helped him yank the tie free; he started unbuttoning his dress shirt with deliberate, torturous slowness, eyes locked on yours.
Oh, hell no. You didn’t have time for that.
You shoved his hands away and ripped the shirt open. Buttons scattered across the hardwood with tiny, satisfying pings. Steve gasped out a surprised chuckle that melted into a low groan as you kissed him again—hard, messy—your hands roaming over the warm, bare skin of his chest and stomach.
He grabbed your hips and ground you down against him in one firm roll. You both gasped; the friction sent heat shooting through you.
“Shit,” he breathed.
You followed his lead, rocking back and forth, rubbing yourself against the hard length straining his trousers. He kissed down your jaw, your throat—breathless, open-mouthed—while his hands guided your movements.
You paused to play with the dark hair dusting his chest, tugging lightly. He grinned against your skin.
“Thought you despised that,” he teased.
You whined when he bit the junction of your neck and collarbone—sharp enough to sting, then soothed with his tongue.
“Yeah—oh god—they kinda grew on me,” you managed, voice hitching.
You leaned down and sucked hard at his throat, marking him deliberately. He groaned, hips jerking up into yours.
“Makes you kinda manly,” you murmured, biting down again, then licking over the spot. “All mature… and grown… and sexy.”
He let out a huffed laugh-moan, head tipping back, throat working under your mouth.
The room was quiet except for your shared breathing, the rustle of fabric, the distant hum of Monaco outside the windows. Your fingers were already drifting toward the waistband of his trousers when Steve caught your wrist—firm but gentle—stopping you mid-motion. Instead, he guided his own hand down your stomach, brushing feather-light circles with his thumb over the damp lace of your panties. He didn’t press harder. Didn’t speed up. Just kept the slow, grounding rhythm, letting the heat build on its own.
You whined, needy and impatient, hips bucking unconsciously toward his hand. Steve’s hips jerked up in response, but he held steady—those maddening circles never faltering.
“Please,” you whispered against his ear, voice trembling. “Need you to touch me, baby.”
His eyes darkened instantly. He hooked a finger under the lace, pushed it aside, and slid one long finger through your slick folds. You both sighed at the contact—he groaned low in his throat.
“Can you feel it?” he rasped. “How wet you are for me, pretty girl?”
You whimpered. “Yeah… just for you, Stevie.”
“Fuck,” he exhaled, the word punched out of him.
He slid his middle finger inside you in one smooth glide. Your head fell back on a moan; he took the opening and latched his mouth to your throat, sucking a mark while adding a second finger. He curled them in that perfect come-here motion, thumb finding your clit and circling with the same deliberate patience.
“shit—oh god—”
Steve hummed a grin against your neck. “Hmm. Just Steve is fine, honey.”
You gasped when he manhandled you effortlessly—flipping you onto your back, settling his weight over you, one elbow braced beside your head for support. His fingers never left you; he slid them right back in, deeper now, hips grinding against your thigh as you let out a high, broken whimper. He sped up just enough—wet sounds filling the room, obscene and loud.
You opened your eyes, trying to focus, but his gaze was locked between your thighs—fixated on where his fingers disappeared inside you, utterly enthralled. The sight made your stomach flip. Then he groaned—loud, raw—and pulled his fingers free.
You whined at the loss.
He grabbed your hips, dragged you higher up the bed, then crawled down your body like he was starving. “Lift your hips, baby.”
You obeyed. He shoved your lace panties down your legs in one impatient tug, tossing them aside. On his knees between your thighs, he simply stared—eyes dark, reverent.
You started to close your legs on instinct; he groaned before you could speak.
“Fuck. I missed this.”
He hooked both your legs over his shoulders and buried his face in you.
The first swipe of his tongue had you crying out, fingers tangling tight in his hair. You're imminent orgasm picked up right where it had stopped with his fingers. You tugged—hard. He growled against your cunt, the vibration shooting straight up your spine. When he slid those two fingers back inside and sucked hard on your clit, you screamed his name.
He looked up from between your thighs, eyes locking with yours. “Come on, baby,” he murmured against you, voice muffled and wrecked as he sped up his fingers harshly. “Let go f’me.”
Your orgasm hit like a wave—crashing, unstoppable. “Steve—oh my god, fuuuuuck—”
He lapped at you through every pulse, every shudder, drinking you down like he’d been denied for years.
You were still floating when he kissed his way back up your body. He straddled you now, pausing at your chest—licking his lips before reaching for the clasp of your bra. “Can I take this off, angel?”
You nodded, dazed. He chuckled softly, unhooked the lace, and tossed it toward the bedside table without looking. He cupped both breasts, feeling their weight, squeezing once before groaning.
“Oh, I’ve missed these two so fuckin’ bad.”
You snorted, but the sound choked into a gasp when he took one nipple into his mouth—sucking hard.
“All I needed to get hard was thinking about these,” he murmured against your skin. “Thinking about you—”
He ground his hips down harshly. “God, you have absolutely no idea what you do to me.”
The words lit something smug and hungry in you. You flipped him in one quick move—straddling his lap again, kissing him messy and deep, as he kept his large hands on your breasts. You rolled your hips just to hear him whimper, then kissed down his throat, bruising the skin until you were satisfied. You mouthed at his collarbone, his chest, followed the dark trail of hair down his abdomen. His muscles jumped under your tongue.
He gathered your hair gently—never pushing, just holding—watching you with hooded eyes.
You palmed him through his trousers, licked a slow stripe right over the waistband. He groaned. “Fuuuck.”
You popped the button, dragged the zipper down with your teeth—eyes locked on his—then shoved the trousers off his legs. He helped, frantic and desperate, making you laugh. He didn’t care; he settled back on his forearms, staring down at you like you were a miracle.
You teased the band of his Dior boxers, mouthed at his length over the fabric. He whimpered. “O-oh shit, baby—”
You slid the now soaked-through pair down his legs and tossed them aside. Crawling back up, you kissed his lips with feather-light touches—tongue, lips, teasing—until he chased you. Then you pulled back, cupped your hand gently under his jaw, and arched a brow.
He looked up at you, wide-eyed, understanding. He spat into your palm without hesitation.
You grinned, bit his earlobe. “Good boy.”
He shivered.
You wrapped your slick hand around him, stroking slow and deliberate while mouthing at his jaw. He bucked up, moaning strangled. “Oh yeah—just like that—fuck—”
You didn’t speed up. You crawled back down, still stroking, and took one of his balls into your mouth.
“Oh fuck! Goddamnit, baby—”
He cut himself off with a hand in his own hair, tugging hard, staring down like he couldn’t believe you were real.
You licked up his shaft, then took him fully into your mouth. His grip tightened in your hair. "holy shit—”
Two deep sucks, a gentle squeeze to his balls, and he was pulling you off gently. “Okay, baby—that’s enough.”
You pouted playfully. He laughed—disbelieving—then tugged you back up to straddle him.
“M’sorry, baby, you’re just too good, hm? Didn’t want this to end so soon.”
He pulled you down for another slow, languid kiss. You positioned yourself above him; his hands clamped tight on your hips.
You sank down slowly—both of you moaning in sync as he bottomed out. You collapsed forward, forehead on his chest for a few shaky breaths, adjusting to the stretch, the fullness. The sheer size of him.
Then you braced your hands on his pecs and lifted—pulling off until only the tip remained—before sinking back down in one smooth roll.
“Oh my god,” you moaned, high and wrecked.
He whimpered beneath you.
You set a deep, steady pace—rolling your hips instead of bouncing, grinding forward and back, chasing that perfect angle. When you found it—the spot that made stars burst behind your eyes—you let out a pornographic moan, head thrown back.
Steve growled. He planted his feet on the mattress and started thrusting up to meet you—hard, precise.
“Oh, is that it, honey? You like that?”
You could only cry out, head lolling against his collarbone as he pounded that spot relentlessly.
He chuckled—half groan, half laugh—speeding up. “Oh baby, you crying about it? Dick that good, huh?”
You bit down hard on the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He moaned, hips stuttering for a second. You clenched around him deliberately—he shouted “Fuck!”
You laughed breathlessly. “What? Pussy got your tongue, Harrington?”
You slammed down onto him again and again. He recovered with a growl, matching your pace—ferocious, unrelenting.
“Goddamnit, it’s like you were made for me.”
Your highs were rushing closer. “I know, baby, I know,” you mumbled incoherently, legs starting to shake. “Fuck, Steve—I’m gonna come—”
“Yeah? Gonna come all over my cock, baby?” He groans and slides two fingers down your body to circle at your clit.
You moaned loudly, then gasped as the first wave crashed through you. “Oh my god!”
Your body tightened, convulsing around him. Steve moaned gruffly as he kept working you through your high. “Y’pussy’s fucking milking me dry, honey—shit—”
An aftershock fluttered through you; he whimpered. “Goddamnit, Rodrigues—please tell me you’re still on the pill.”
You chuckled weakly against his neck. “Yeah, Harrington. Go crazy.”
You licked his earlobe. He let out a loud, broken moan as he came—“Baby! Fuuuuck—”
You whined at the hot rush of him filling you.
You were both still trembling when you finally lifted off him, disconnecting with twin sighs. You collapsed onto his chest immediately, nuzzling into his neck. He wrapped his arms around you, fingers threading gently through your hair. Steve was thankful you couldn't see the dazed smile on his face.
You mumbled against his skin, “That might’ve been our best.”
He snorted a soft laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest, "We say that every time"
You both drifted toward sleep like that—tangled, warm, spent.
Steve knows his proposal is good. Great, even. If there’s one thing he’s always excelled at, it’s marketing—reading rooms, selling visions, turning numbers into inevitability. The Howards will accept it; Harrington & Co. will expand into New York, the undisputed business capital of the world right now, and it’s only going to get bigger. They’ve already cracked California successfully; Chicago is their strongest market. Why wouldn’t New York work?
They’d need someone on the ground to represent the company there. Steve would volunteer—immediately. It would mean distance from his father’s shadow, real independence to make decisions, to prove he could run things his way. Maybe, just maybe, it would finally make Arthur proud. And selfishly—god, so selfishly—he’d get to see you whenever schedules allowed. Your apartment you rave about, your dog, your friends. You outside the Monaco bubble, in daylight, in real life. He wanted that more than he’d admit out loud.
He just had to survive this meeting. Wait for the small talk to die, for the lesser players to file out, leaving only the big figures who actually mattered. Then he could present.
Steve tuned out the droning voices around the long mahogany table, a small, private smile tugging at his lips as his mind drifted back to the morning.
He’d woken up spooning you, sunlight spilling through the hotel curtains you’d both forgotten to close. Golden rays caught in your hair, turning it to molten light. He’d kissed you awake—slow, wet presses along your shoulder, up your neck—while his hand slipped between your thighs, hips pressing firm against your ass. You’d whimpered, instinctively arching back into him. The sex had been languid, deep: his chin hooked over your shoulder, your arm reaching behind to fist his hair as he rutted into you with steady, rolling thrusts. Afterward, both of you still breathless and sticky with release, you’d turned in his arms, smirked with that raspy “Mornin’,” pecked his jaw, then slipped out of bed to order breakfast and shower.
Watching you pad around the suite—completely bare, utterly comfortable—had done something irreversible to his chest. The two of you ate in easy silence, both still in nothing but underwear, the domestic quiet wrapping around him tighter than any suit ever could. It ached in the best and worst way.
Now here he sat—stiff in his tailored wool, listening to old men brag about their net worth—in a room that felt smaller by the minute.
His phone pinged softly.
He glanced down; your name lit the screen. His smile widened.
6:35 PM
- did you present them your offer yet?
He typed back quickly.
- nah not yet. having to wait for Larrain to finish his speech on the best steakhouses in vegas
- fuck i hate that old man
He could hear your voice saying it—dry, unimpressed—and chuckled under his breath.
- i know
He double-texted:
- you done with offices for the day?
- yeah, back at the hotel already.
- im picking up teo at the airport later today
- I cant believe you’re actually making Rafael fly your dog over here.
- yeah well, i missed him. and rafa was coming to help mom with the clothes for the ball anyways, so why not make him bring my son.
- maybe meeting him will cheer you up
- cant wait to meet him, and i really hope he can cheer me up, im this close to strangling myself in this stupid tie
- really shitty day, sorry
The bubbles appeared… disappeared… appeared again. His stomach twisted—he’d said too much, sounded too needy—then two messages landed.
- hope this is enough for cheering up
- [photo attachment]
Steve’s brain flatlined for a solid ten seconds.
The first photo: you in the penthouse bedroom’s full-length mirror. Arm raised, leaning against the wall; phone held high beside your face. Work hair—heat-made waves, half-up half-down, slightly mussed from the day—reading glasses perched on your nose. And nothing else but a simple black lace lingerie set: delicate, clinging perfectly to every curve.
Before he could recover, the second loaded: a selfie, phone angled above your face. The bra cups strained, your breasts spilling just enough to make his mouth dry.
He shrank lower in his chair, biting down hard on his knuckles to stifle the groan rising in his throat.
- fuck
- stop im getting hard at work
- rodrigues i swear to god you’re gonna regret this shit
He dragged a hand down his face, adjusted his crooked glasses, took a steadying breath. Then—against his better judgment—he peeked at your reply.
- lmaoo, not you getting hard on the clock!
- all bark no bite. hope they like your proposal harrington ;)
He was halfway through typing a retort when his father’s voice cut through the haze.
“Well, Steve seems to have something to show us, gentlemen.”
Steve’s head snapped up. Half the room had emptied; the remaining men—sharp-eyed, expectant—were staring straight at him.
He cleared his throat, shifted to ease the sudden tightness in his trousers, and stood.
𓆟 𓆜 𓆝 𓆞 𓆟 𓆜 𓆝 𓆞
