His chair

She shouldn’t have been in his apartment.

That was the first rule.

But rules, as Aleksandra well knew, were only fun when broken slowly.

She let herself in with the key he’d once left beneath the third planter. A test, perhaps. A trap, maybe. But tonight, she was in a mood to tempt fate. A soft flicker of candlelight from the kitchen met her first, along with the low hum of a jazz record left spinning in the background.

On the counter: a note.

“Back in 20. Make yourself comfortable.”

Oh, darling. She planned to do just that.

Her heels came off first—gently placed by the door like a polite guest. But there was nothing polite about where she went next.

His study.

The room he always disappeared into when she was asleep, or pretending to be.

It was dark except for a single lamp casting warm shadows across dark wood shelves and leather-bound books. And in the center of it all: his chair.

She stood in front of it for a moment, bare feet against the cool floor, the hem of her silk dress brushing her thighs. It was high-backed, commanding, worn in all the right places. It smelled like him—spice, smoke, the faintest trace of bourbon and power.

She sat.

Not gingerly.

She sank into it—spreading her legs, rolling her shoulders, letting the chair claim her like it had already memorized the shape of his body.

On the desk: a half-finished glass of bourbon. A pen. His wristwatch.

And under a book, almost hidden—a photo of her.

Candid. Off-guard. Her lips half-open in mid-laugh, wearing nothing but one of his shirts. He thought she hadn’t seen it. She had.

It made her wet.

Her hand trailed down her thigh, fingertips teasing the curve of her knee, sliding beneath the fabric. No panties tonight. Just silk and heat and the sound of her breath beginning to deepen.

She pictured him walking in.

Eyes narrowing.

Voice going dark.

"That’s my chair."

She smiled at the fantasy, lips parting.

"Then come make me move."

The sound of the lock clicking in the front door made her freeze.

He was home.

She didn’t shift. Didn’t fix her hair. She only crossed her legs—slowly—letting the slit in her dress fall open just enough to reveal the glossy inside of her thigh. Her fingers still glistened.

He walked in, jacket still on, keys half-raised. Then stopped.

Silence.

Aleksandra turned her head toward him. Gaze locked.

And smiled.

"You're late."

He didn’t speak.

Just stared.

The pulse in his throat beat once. Twice.

His gaze dragged from her face to her parted legs to the wetness on her fingers. His jaw clenched. He set his keys down, took off his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves—slowly, like a ritual.

Then stepped toward her.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said.

“I’m winning,” she replied.

He reached her. Towered over her.

And didn’t ask.

He grabbed her by the wrist, pulled her up from the chair, and bent her over the armrest.

“You want to sit in my chair?” he growled, hiking up her dress to reveal her bare ass.

“Only if I cum in it,” she whispered.

His hand cracked against her ass—once, then again.

She gasped. Moaned.

Then he dropped to his knees behind her, gripped her thighs, and buried his face between them.

She nearly screamed.

His tongue was relentless. Circling, teasing, then sucking her clit until she was trembling, slick, moaning his name into the wood grain of the chair. Her hands gripped the desk as she rocked against his mouth.

“Fuck—yes, don’t stop,” she begged.

And he didn’t.

Not until she came—hard, loud, shaking, her slick soaking the curve of the armrest.

Only then did he unzip.

He flipped her onto her back, lifted her hips, and slid into her in one deep, brutal thrust.

She cried out—nails digging into the leather.

He fucked her like he was reclaiming his space—fast, hard, deep. His hand on her throat. His other hand between her thighs. The slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls.

“You think this chair’s yours?” he growled.

“It is,” she moaned. “I came in it first.”

He laughed darkly—then fucked her harder.

She came again, screaming.

And when he followed—growling her name as he came deep inside her—she didn’t even blink.

Just smiled.

Afterward, they lay tangled across the chair, her back against his chest, his cock still softening inside her.

“Worth it?” he asked.

She turned her head and kissed his jaw.

“Next time,” she whispered, “I’ll be in your bed.”

He exhaled a laugh.

“And you think I’ll stop you?”

She broke the rule.

Now the chair belongs to both of them.

Don't hesitate to meet her.

And watch what happens when she takes your seat ;-)

I AM READY TO MEET ALEKS