This Isn't Professional
The message hit me like a bullet straight to the chest.
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought it might break through. For a second, I genuinely forgot how to breathe. The screen glowed in my hand, and I could feel every beat of my pulse hammering in my throat as the images loaded one after another, sliding into my vision like a goddamn trap I never saw coming.
Five pictures.
Every single one worse than the last.
Not dresses this time. Not elegant silk meant for dinners and family appearances. No. This was temptation weaponized. This was her in lingerie—thin, sheer, delicate fabrics that left nothing to the imagination. Lace stretched over curves I had no business staring at. Satin hugging her breasts in ways that made my jaw clench. Straps framing her hips, teasing skin that begged to be touched.
And her nipples. Christ. The camera didn’t shy away from them. Didn’t leave me even the mercy of pretense. They were there, hard and perfect, taunting me through the screen.
I cursed low under my breath, the sound guttural, rough, the kind of sound that came from deep in my chest when I couldn’t hold it back. My hand tightened around the phone so hard I thought I might crack it.
“Fuck…”
I tried to look away, but I couldn’t. My eyes dragged over every photo, greedy despite my brain screaming at me to stop. My cock hardened instantly, painfully, straining against the thin material of my shorts. There was no controlling it, no hiding it. It was just there—hot, heavy, demanding.
And then the message.
‘Which one do you want me to wear under the dress?’
My whole body went still. My throat worked as I swallowed, but it didn’t help. I was parched, dry, like all the air in the room had been sucked out at once.
This wasn’t professional.
It wasn’t even close to professional.
I forced my shaking fingers to type, each letter deliberate, my jaw locked as I fought for restraint.
‘This isn’t professional.’
It looked pathetic on the screen. Weak. Like a man trying to convince himself of a line that had already been crossed the second those pictures landed in my inbox.
Her reply came fast. Too fast.
‘It’s nothing serious. You’re my boyfriend after all.’
Boyfriend.
The word lit a fuse inside me. Fake, yes. Pretend, sure. But seeing it typed out like that, after this? My cock twitched in response, as if my body wanted to believe it more than my brain did.
I stared at the photos again. Every rational thought I had told me to delete them, to toss the phone across the room, to scrub the images from my memory before they consumed me.
But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
Liliana.
The woman who had bulldozed her way into my life, who argued with me, pushed me, got under my skin in ways no one else ever had. And now she was doing this. Sending me pictures meant to undo me, to drag me under and leave me drowning in want.
And it was working.
My cock throbbed, hard as a rock, my shorts doing nothing to hide the proof of what she’d done to me. My breath came harsh, uneven, my chest rising and falling like I’d just finished a fight.
I swore again, dragging a hand down my face.
This was insane.
I didn’t get involved with clients. Not ever. That was rule number one. The only rule that mattered in this line of work. Professional meant survival. Professional meant control.
But there was no control here. Not anymore.
Another buzz.
‘Good night. Sleep well.’
Sleep?
Sleep wasn’t even on the same planet as me right now.
My body was wound tight, vibrating with need I couldn’t shake. The heat pooled low in my stomach, insistent, aching. Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was her. That curve of her waist framed by lace. That swell of her breasts, nipples straining against thin fabric. The way her lips looked in those pictures—like she knew exactly what she was doing to me.
I shoved off the bed with a growl, storming into the bathroom. The cold water hit my skin like knives, sharp, biting, punishing. I braced my hands against the tile and let it crash over me, trying to drown out the fire she’d lit.
But it wasn’t enough.
Not even close.
My cock stayed hard, thick and unyielding, pressing against me with every movement. My mind refused to let go, shoving image after image into my head until it felt like torture.
Liliana spread out in those tiny scraps of lingerie.
Liliana biting her lip, tilting her head like she was waiting for me to choose.
Liliana whispering my name while I tore the fabric off her.
I cursed again, loud, the sound echoing off the walls. My fist slammed against the tile, water splashing in every direction.
This wasn’t funny. This wasn’t some harmless game.
She was pushing me to the edge, and I was losing.
When I finally stepped out of the shower, dripping and half-frozen, nothing had changed. My cock was still hard. My chest still heaved with uneven breaths. My head still spun with images I couldn’t erase.
I toweled off roughly, almost angrily, as if punishing myself for even reacting this way. My reflection in the mirror stared back at me—jaw tight, eyes dark, veins standing out in my neck like I’d just gone twelve rounds in the ring.
“Control yourself,” I muttered, voice sharp, commanding.
But my reflection didn’t listen. My body didn’t listen.
Because all I could think about was her.
What it would feel like to grab her by the waist and drag her against me. To rip that lingerie apart with my teeth. To pin her down and fuck her until she couldn’t even stand the next morning.
The thought alone made me groan, low and rough, my hand gripping the edge of the sink until my knuckles went white.
I stumbled back into the bedroom, pacing like a caged animal. Every step I took only wound me tighter. The phone on the nightstand glowed faintly, mocking me, taunting me with the reminder of what she’d sent.
I wanted to throw it against the wall.
I wanted to open it again and stare until I couldn’t see straight.
I wanted to call her. To demand what the hell she thought she was doing.
But most of all—most dangerously of all—I wanted to go to her.
Right now.
To march into her room, shove her against the wall, and kiss her until she was gasping for air. To touch her, taste her, claim her in ways that would burn every boundary.
My cock pulsed at the thought, thick and angry, and I cursed again, dragging a hand through my wet hair.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t.
This was business. This was the job. This was supposed to be fake.
But nothing about the way I felt right now was fake.
Not the hunger. Not the ache. Not the raw, desperate need clawing through me.
I collapsed back onto the bed, lying flat, staring up at the ceiling as if it could hold me together. But the moment I closed my eyes, she was there again.
Liliana in black lace, whispering my name.
Liliana in red satin, straddling me.
Liliana in silver silk, moaning into my mouth.
“Fuck…”
I breathed hard, chest heaving, my hand clenching in the sheets to keep from giving in to the one thing my body was screaming at me to do.
But I couldn’t.
I wouldn’t.
I never crossed that line.
And yet…
I knew sleep wouldn’t come tonight. Not after this. Not with her burned into my mind like sin itself.
Not when every part of me wanted to break my own rules and take her.
My cock throbbed again, insistent, and I shut my eyes tight, groaning through clenched teeth.
“Fuck, Liliana…”
The curse tore from me raw, guttural, as I dragged a hand over my face.
I didn’t know what game she was playing, but it wasn’t funny. Not when it left me like this. Not when it left me on the edge of something I couldn’t afford to want.
Because the truth was simple.
I wanted her.
And that terrified me more than anything.
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