Kimberly Smith handed the suitcase to T.B., then turned and leaped into her father's arms, her perfume wafting between them, a delicate blend of jasmine, amber, and something darker, richer—something sinful. The scent clung to her skin, her hair, the very air around her, lingering in a way that made men breathe deeper, made them want.
T.B. carried the suitcase to the trunk of the Range Rover, then lingered behind the vehicle, not wanting to intrude on their goodbye—but more than that, not wanting to watch. Because watching Kimberly in another man's arms—even her father's—felt wrong, felt unnatural, felt like something inside him twisted and rebelled against the sight.
Meetings. Farewells. Airports were full of them. Full of people saying words that didn't matter, holding onto moments that wouldn't last.
Only when he heard William Smith call his name did he return, shaking the older man's hand—firm, steady, impassive—before stepping back into the car, gripping the wheel with the tight, controlled strength of a man who had learned how to suppress every dangerous emotion.
Kimberly slid into the back seat, sighing as she stretched out, her silk blouse clinging to the soft swell of her breasts, the subtle shift of her thighs beneath her short skirt deliberate, an invitation wrapped in indifference.
She rolled down the window, waving one last time. Her father was already walking toward the American Delta Airlines check-in gate, his back straight, his pace unhurried—power in every step.
The moment the window slid shut, she reached forward, her hand moving with languid, practiced ease, slipping between T.B.'s legs, fingers pressing, kneading, teasing.
T.B. inhaled sharply but did not flinch. He had been through this before—this game, this dance, this unbearable, inescapable torment.
His knuckles tightened against the steering wheel, his breathing slower, deeper, heavier, his entire body coiled in rigid restraint.
"Mrs. Kimberly Smith," he murmured, his voice low, rough, taut with something unspoken, something dangerous. "Please allow me to concentrate on driving."
She let out a slow, sultry laugh, her nails dragging lightly over the fabric of his pants, feeling him, testing him, savoring his reaction.
"What's the matter?" she purred, tilting her head, her voice silken, knowing.
"Sir William Smith already knows."
She scoffed, withdrawing her hand with agonizing slowness, her nails trailing upward, over his stomach, his ribs, before retreating completely.
"Oh well. Let the old man know," she said, voice indifferent. "He never cared much about us anyway."
T.B. said nothing.
Kimberly Smith let out an exaggerated sigh and leaned back, crossing her legs again, one foot dangling just close enough to brush against his armrest, a silent, taunting reminder of her presence.
"You're such a coward," she murmured, her lips curving—not into a smile, but into something lazier, more dangerous, more knowing.
She tilted her head, watching him.
Waiting.
And when T.B. didn't respond, she opened her long leg then put her hand in the mysterious space between them. Her mouth opened, but her eyes shut.
T.B. remained still. He didn't look at her through the rearview mirror. He didn't pay any attention.
Kimberly Smith knew. She always knew how hard it was to control this tough guy. But she loved to seduce him, to see how long he could hold out. Command and control. This was what her father always did.
And when they finally arrived, when the car stopped, and Kimberly Smith stepped out, she didn't look back.
But her voice floated over her shoulder like silk and smoke.
"Bring my suitcase upstairs."
T.B. forced himself to take his time climbing the stairs, carrying her suitcase like it might anchor him, like it might keep him from making a mistake.
But the moment he knocked—
The moment he stepped inside—
She was waiting.
And she was barely wearing anything at all.
Victoria's Secret.
Thin black lace, delicate and teasing, clinging to the full swell of her breasts, dipping low between her thighs, sheer enough that it left nothing to the imagination.
Her nipples, hard and perfect, strained against the delicate fabric, barely concealed by the whisper of lace.
And lower—
A hint of heat, of wetness, of invitation.
She didn't move at first.
Didn't speak.
Just stood there, watching him, letting him drink her in, letting the hunger settle deep, letting the need burn hotter.
Then, in a single, fluid movement, she stepped forward, pressed her body against him, and dragged her lips over his throat.
T.B. inhaled sharply, his muscles locking, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
She felt it.
Felt the restraint.
Felt the battle raging inside him.
And she smiled.
Her fingers worked quickly, undoing buttons, tugging fabric, stripping him down with the kind of urgency that made every motion feel desperate, necessary.
In seconds, he was bare.
Every inch of him.
And still, he didn't move.
Still, he resisted.
Kimberly stepped back, her gaze trailing down, down, lower, drinking him in, lingering, admiring, savoring.
Then she looked up, eyes heavy-lidded, voice low, teasing.
"What's wrong, T.B.?" she whispered. "Are you afraid of me?"
He clenched his jaw.
She smiled.
"My father raised you to do everything for us," she continued, taking slow, measured steps backward, her voice a lazy, seductive drawl. "And now you refuse?"
His pulse thundered.
"You're taking too much," he bit out, his voice rough, strained. "Damn it."
Then, in a sudden, violent motion, his fist slammed into her bare stomach.
Kimberly gasped, her body jerking, the impact stealing the breath from her lungs. Her back arched in raw, startled pleasure.
She clutched her abdomen, doubling over, but when she looked up, her eyes were glazed—not with pain, but with something darker, something bottomless, something starving.
Her lips parted. She took a shaky breath. And then—
"Again," she whispered.
T.B. exhaled sharply. His fingers found his belt, curling around the leather.
Kimberly took a step back, then another.
The backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed, and she tumbled onto the mattress, her body sinking into the soft sheets, her breath coming in short, trembling gasps.
Her voice was barely audible when she spoke again.
"Harder this time. But not my face. Not where people can see."
She arched her back, her skin glowing in the dim light, her pulse fluttering beneath his hands like a trapped bird, trembling, waiting, wanting.
Her breath hitched, her fingers gripping the sheets.
"Then," she whispered, eyes locking onto his, a challenge, a surrender, a demand not a command—
"Make love with me."