The gavel cracked like a gunshot.
On the massive screen behind the auctioneer, crimson letters flashed once, then burned steady.
SOLD – CROSS CAPITAL LLC
Final bid: $1.187 billion
Victoria Langford's manicured nails dug into the leather arms of her chair hard enough to leave crescents. Six months of poison-pen letters, emergency injunctions, and midnight war-room sessions, and it ended with a single word from a man she'd never even met in person.
Until now.
Alexander Cross stepped out from the shadows at the back of the room as though he owned the building (which, technically, he now did). Black suit, no tie, the top two buttons of his shirt open just enough to hint at the kind of body that made board members forget their own names. Twenty-eight years old and already a private-equity grim reaper. The kind of man who bought companies the way other people ordered coffee.
He didn't smile. He simply looked at the five women seated at the table and said, voice low and calm, "Forty-seventh floor. Twenty minutes. Anyone not there forfeits severance and gets escorted out by security. In handcuffs, if necessary."
Then he was gone.
Victoria was still staring at the empty doorway when her phone buzzed. A single text from an unknown number.
Don't make me come find you, Madam CEO.
She hated how her thighs pressed together at the threat.
Nineteen minutes later the private elevator opened directly into the executive suite of Langford Luxe. Floor-to-ceiling glass on three sides, Central Park glittering forty-seven floors below like a private garden. White marble floors, black glass conference table, mannequins draped in next season's barely-there lingerie watching like silent sentinels.
Alexander was already there, leaning against the table's edge, sleeves rolled up, forearms corded and inked. The other four executives stood in a loose semicircle, trying (and failing) to look composed.
Victoria stepped forward first. "You've made your point, Mr. Cross. We'll sign whatever transition documents you—"
He raised one hand, cutting her off, and tapped his phone.
Every pane of smart glass in the room switched from frosted to perfectly transparent. Manhattan stared in at them like a million voyeurs.
"Section Twelve," he said, flicking the contract up onto the 120-inch screen behind him. The clause glowed in red.
…executive personnel shall render any and all services, personal or otherwise, deemed necessary by the controlling entity to ensure smooth integration of assets…
Victoria felt the blood drain from her face. "That clause was written in 2008 as a tax shield. It's unenforceable."
"Court says otherwise." He pocketed the phone. "But let's not waste time on lawyers. You already lost that fight." His gaze swept the room, lingering on each woman like he was pricing livestock. "Translate it for the room, Ms. Langford. What does 'personal services' mean when the new owner wants his cock sucked under the table during earnings calls?"
Riley, the youngest, actually whimpered.
Victoria's pulse hammered so hard she felt it in her clit. "You're disgusting."
"No," he corrected, stepping close enough that she smelled cedar and gunpowder on his skin. "I'm thorough."
Then, casually, he unbuckled his belt.
The metallic clink echoed louder than the gavel ever had.
Victoria's knees hit the marble before her brain caught up. Thousand-dollar skirt pooling around her like surrender. The other women watched, frozen, as she reached for his zipper with shaking fingers.
He was already hard. Thick, heavy, a single vein running along the underside like a promise. When she freed him, the head brushed her lips, leaving a glistening streak of precum across her bottom lip like gloss.
Alexander threaded fingers through her platinum hair (not gentle) and pushed.
Her throat opened on pure instinct. One brutal slide and he was seated to the root, her nose crushed against his pelvis, the bulge of his cock visible beneath the pale skin of her neck. She gagged, wet and helpless, saliva already spilling over her chin onto the Louboutins she'd never wear again without remembering this moment.
He held her there until her vision blurred, then pulled back just enough for her to gasp a single desperate breath before slamming home again.
"Look at them," he ordered, twisting her head so her watering eyes met the stunned faces of her executive team. "Show them what a cock-drunk slut their CEO really is."
Victoria couldn't stop the moan that vibrated around his shaft.
He used her like that (slow withdrawal, punishing thrust) until mascara ran in perfect black rivers down her cheeks. When he came it was with her impaled, hips flush to her face, cock pulsing so deep she swallowed reflexively or choked. Rope after thick rope painted her throat white from the inside.
Only when he was finished did he pull out, letting the last spurt stripe her tongue. A single strand of cum stretched from her swollen bottom lip to the flushed head of his cock before breaking.
She stayed on her knees, mouth open, panting, utterly wrecked.
Alexander tucked himself away and glanced at his watch.
"Thirty-second countdown starts now," he said conversationally. "Panties on the table. First one to make me cum twice keeps her corner office."
Five lace scraps hit the polished mahogany before the echo of his words faded.
Amara's chocolate thong landed first, already soaked through. Riley's neon-pink anime print followed with a wet slap. Sofia's red silk was so drenched it left a visible puddle. Elise (prim, proper Elise) actually whimpered as she stepped out of pristine white cotton now translucent with arousal.
Alexander picked up Sofia's pair, brought them to his nose, and inhaled theatrically. The Colombian marketing director moaned out loud, thighs clenching.
"New uniform policy," he announced, dropping the panties like used tissues. "Crotchless lingerie under business attire. No exceptions. Charge it to the corporate card."
Then he crooked a finger at Amara. "CFO. Over the table. Skirt up."
Amara obeyed instantly, bending over the exact spot where she used to present quarterly earnings. Her dark skin looked obscene against the white marble as he flipped the pencil skirt to her waist. No panties (she'd planned ahead). Her pussy glistened, swollen, dripping onto last quarter's financial reports.
He dragged the head of his cock through her folds once, twice, coating himself.
"Q3 loss figure," he said.
"F-forty-two million," she stammered.
He thrust in to the hilt in one brutal stroke.
Amara screamed, back arching so violently her bra ripped at the seams. Her walls clamped down like heated silk, milking him on pure reflex.
"Wrong," he growled, pulling out until only the tip kissed her entrance. "Forty-seven. Try again."
Another savage thrust. The glass table groaned. Her nipples scraped across spreadsheets as he set a punishing rhythm (every incorrect number earning her another inch, another spank, another orgasm ripped from her body whether she was ready or not).
Victoria, still on her knees, was handed his phone.
"Film it," he ordered. "4K. For HR records."
She obeyed, zooming in on the exact moment his cock bottomed out, the thick cream ring at the base, the obscene bulge in Amara's lower belly every time he hilted. When he came it was with a guttural groan, flooding her so full that cum backflowed in thick streams down her trembling thighs.
He stayed buried, grinding deep.
"New policy," he said, still pulsing inside her. "All future budgets presented with a visible creampie. Understood?"
Amara could only nod, another orgasm ripping through her at the words.
Riley was next. The bratty designer tried one last act of defiance (sticking her tongue out as she crawled to him).
He answered by hauling her over his lap like a doll. Twenty-five bare-handed spanks later she was sobbing, grinding desperately against his thigh, ass cherry-red and dripping.
He flipped her around, impaled her in one motion. She was so petite he could see his cock pressing up against her stomach with every thrust. Forced her to ride reverse cowgirl facing the others (legs spread wide, hands locked behind her head so her perky tits bounced freely, every inch of his cock disappearing into her puffy, hairless slit on full display).
She came on the sixth bounce, squirting so hard it splashed across the marble and hit Elise's heels. He didn't let her stop. Jackhammered up into her until her eyes crossed, tongue lolling, babbling nonsense.
When he finally flooded her it was with her pinned to the root, belly distending slightly from the sheer volume. He lifted her off like a used toy and set her on the table. A thick river of cum immediately poured out of her gaping pussy, pooling beneath her.
He wiped his cock on Riley's tear-streaked cheek and straightened his cuffs.
"Meeting adjourned," he said. "Tomorrow we discuss anal clauses and who gets to keep their last name."
He dropped five new company Amex cards onto the table beside the ruined lingerie.
"Agent Provocateur. I want garter belts that snap when I rip them. Charge whatever you want. Just be wet when you walk in at 7 a.m."
Then he walked out, leaving them locked in the transparent boardroom overnight (half-naked, shaking, dripping, and already aching for tomorrow).