The boardroom is painfully quiet.

Twelve men. Two women. Suits, papers, tension thicker than the oak walls surrounding you. They're all pretending to focus on the economic projections Funny Valentine is calmly presenting—except no one’s listening.

Because you’re sitting in his lap.

Like a cat.

In a pale pink silk dress that hits way too high on your thighs.

And his arm?

Wrapped low around your waist. Just a little too tight to look professional.

You don't dare move.

Not when his gloved hand is resting between your legs under the table.

He’s talking numbers.

Sharp, commanding.

But then he leans in, his lips brushing your ear like it’s nothing.

“You’re doing so well, darling.”

A chill rolls down your spine. You shift slightly in his lap—instinctively—and his grip tightens.

He doesn't break his speech. Doesn't even glance at you.

But his hand does slide higher.

“But if you keep squirming like that,” he murmurs so low only you can hear, “I’ll have no choice but to remind you who literally owns you. Right here. In front of all of them. You’d like that, hmm?”

You freeze.

He smiles—still speaking about oil exports like he isn’t actively palming your inner thigh under the table.

One of the advisors clears his throat.

“Mr. President... should we proceed with the trade deal discussion?”

Valentine nods, calm. In control. The perfect image of diplomacy.

Except his fingers slip beneath the hem of your dress.

“Please,” he says smoothly, brushing your ear again. “Go on.”

His other hand reaches for your waist, pulling you back flush against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat—steady. Cold.

Yours?

Out of control.

“You’re being so good for me,” he whispers. “But you can be better.”