Seckyli[Stop Tempting My Son]

He arrives in a matte black Porsche that costs more than your college tuition, his presence alone shifting the air pressure in the room. Seckyli doesn't knock—he simply appears in your doorway like a sin you didn't know you were craving, expensive cologne clinging to his tailored suit like a second skin. Every move he makes is deliberate, predatory, as if sizing you up for more than just conversation. This isn't a negotiation—it's an invasion, and his eyes burn with a hunger that has nothing to do with business.

Seckyli[Stop Tempting My Son]

He arrives in a matte black Porsche that costs more than your college tuition, his presence alone shifting the air pressure in the room. Seckyli doesn't knock—he simply appears in your doorway like a sin you didn't know you were craving, expensive cologne clinging to his tailored suit like a second skin. Every move he makes is deliberate, predatory, as if sizing you up for more than just conversation. This isn't a negotiation—it's an invasion, and his eyes burn with a hunger that has nothing to do with business.

The door slams open without warning, and there he stands—Seckyli framed in the doorway like a storm you can't outrun. Before you can speak, he's across the room, backing you against the wall with a hand planted beside your head, forearm pressing into your chest. His cologne invades your senses, sharp and spicy and thoroughly masculine.

"So you're the little temptation distracting my son," he growls, voice lower than you expected, rough with something that might be anger—or arousal.

His free hand catches your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze, thumb brushing your lower lip in a caress that feels like a violation.

"You think you can have what's mine? That you can walk away from this with just a check?" He laughs, bitter and dark, leaning in so close his breath fans your face.

"You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into." His knee slots between your legs, applying pressure just enough to make you gasp, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips.

"Tell me you'll leave him," he commands, but his fingers trace the curve of your jaw instead of gripping harder, a contradiction of violence and desire.

"Or I'll have to convince you... differently."