He swallowed hard, staring at her — the way her lips curved around his name, the way she sat there, robe half-open, defiant and daring.

"It’s not happening, Sharona. Now, do you want to discuss this or not?" His jaw flexed as he stared her down, refusing to let his gaze wander to the teasing slip of skin that her robe kept threatening to reveal.

"Fine," Sharona said, drawing out the word. "I’ll pour us some drinks then." Her hips swayed lazily as she made her way to the bar, the robe whispering around her legs.

The bar itself was a display of indulgence — rare scotch, and champagne older than some nations. Sharona’s fingers brushed over the bottles before she selected a vintage bourbon, pouring two generous glasses.

But her other hand— dropped two small white pills into one of them. They fizzed quietly, dissolving into the liquid as she watched with a faint smirk.

She turned back to him.

Winn distractedly flipped through pages. The sound of paper against glass filled the silence as he spread out the documents across the coffee table — detailed breakdowns of Orchard’s assets, mergers, and offshore accounts. Numbers steadied him.

Sharona handed him the spiked glass and sat across from him, crossing one leg over the other. "So," she began, taking a sip from her own glass, "how’s this going to work? I sign something?"

They spent the next hour poring over numbers. Sharona’s robe had slipped slightly off her shoulder. Winn noticed, despite himself. He shouldn’t have.

That was when he felt it — a sudden heat spreading through his veins. His pulse quickened, his body growing inexplicably heavy.

"Are you okay?"

Winn blinked, his vision blurring for a second. The edges of the room seemed to shimmer. He loosened his tie, breathing hard. "What... the hell..." His eyes darted to the glass on the table, empty.

Sharona tilted her head. "You should probably sit back. You look flushed."

He turned his gaze to her. His body reacted before his mind could process, a rush of desire so sudden it made him dizzy. He clenched his jaw, trying to fight it, to stay present.

His fingers trembled as he pulled out his phone, forcing himself to focus long enough to send a quick, coded 911 text to Reese, the only person on speed dial.

Sharona stood and slowly came around the table. "You should relax," she whispered near his ear.

He tried to haul himself up, muscles rebelling as if the world were a tar pit; the room tilted and the papers on the coffee table swam into smudged columns of ink. "You drugged me!"

Sharona moved toward him in a slow, carefully cultivated glide. Her smile was the knife’s polish. "Yes," she said, almost tenderly. "Yes, I did. You must admit — this is for the best, love."

"Don’t call me that!" Winn spat. She stroked his cock through the trousers, and heat flared in him.

Sharona’s fingers found his shirt buttons. "Relax," she murmured. "Just let it happen. We both get what we want."

He could see Sharona, her robe slipping open, dropping to her knees and undoing his belt buckle...

*****

Back at Winn’s house, the evening had been a different kind of torment. Reese was waiting on the porch for Winn to return so he could head home— and instead Sylvia had shown up to torment.

Reese missed his regular job — the quiet rhythm of driving Winn through the city. There was a certain comfort in that predictability. The engine, the road, the city lights — it all had order. Babysitting Sylvia Kane, however, was chaos.

At that moment, she was standing right in front of him on the porch, leaning slightly against the railing with her elbows propped and her hips tilted, wearing shorts so short they could be mistaken for indecision.

Telling her to move would be admitting he noticed. Pretending not to notice was torture. So, he did what he’d been doing for weeks — burying his reaction beneath a stoic calm.

He scrolled through his phone, pretending to read messages that didn’t exist.

"Reese?" Sylvia called.

"Yes, Miss Kane," he replied, eyes still on the screen.

"Something’s been bothering me," she said, shifting her weight. The faint scrape of her sandals against the floor drew his gaze for half a second — mistake number one.

He cleared his throat. "Is it something I can help with?"

She turned then, facing him fully. "Actually," she said, "it’s something you said."

Reese’s brow furrowed. "I’ve said a lot of things," he muttered, pocketing his phone.

"You said," she continued, mimicking his deep baritone, "’You have no idea what you’ll be in for.’" Her smirk widened. "So, tell me. What exactly did you mean by that?"

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "You really want me to answer that?"

"Mhmm," she hummed, crossing her arms, which only drew more attention to her bare midriff. "Enlighten me."

Reese leaned back against the porch chair.

"Alright," he said finally. "I’m going to be blunt here — because my sanity, and probably my job, depends on it."

Sylvia raised a brow.

"You’re horny," Reese said flatly. "You want to be fucked. It’s not working out with Joey, so you pick me — the guy who happens to be around most of the time."

"What do you mean it’s not working out with Joey?" she asked.

"You’ve been throwing yourself at him all week," he said. "I’m not going to be your rebound fuck, Miss Kane." Babysitting her had become torture.

"Oh my God! You are so stupid!" she exclaimed. "I am just meeting with him to convince Winn to do something. It’s business, you caveman."

"Is that it?" Reese asked quietly. "Because ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been obsessed with Mr. Winsford." He paused, watching her shoulders tense.

"The path is clear now—his wife is dead. You’re seizing the opportunity to get closer. I assume he’s ignoring your advances. And then you—" his eyes raked her from head to toe "—turn them toward me."