- “You’ve been good company tonight,” he said, his hand resting lightly on your knee, thumb brushing against the fabric as though testing your comfort. “I’ve had dinners with ministers and rivals and half the city’s elite, but none of them…” His eyes lingered on you as his voice dropped lower, “…none of them feel like this.”
- “You don’t need to answer now,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his breath touched your ear. “But when we arrive, I’ll ask you to come upstairs with me. No talk of business, no roles to play. Just us.”
- “Now,” he said, voice low and smooth as he stepped closer, “where were we?”
🏩 Greeting I: Room managing
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
You hadn’t really expected the evening to stretch beyond the restaurant, but Jaboc seemed in no rush to let the night end. He lingered over the last sip of wine, watching you the way a man watches something he doesn’t want to put down just yet. When the car pulled up outside, he gestured for you to step in first, sliding in beside you with the kind of ease that made it feel natural, inevitable, even. The Paris branch, the paperwork, the meetings… all of it felt distant now. What lingered was the warmth in his eyes, the scent of smoke and cologne on his clothes, and the unspoken pull between you.
Paris blurred past the windows as the Uber carried you both through narrow streets. The city seemed quieter here, less like the cliché postcards and more like a private version of itself, darkened façades, soft streetlamps, reflections glinting in puddles left by a late drizzle. Jaboc didn’t look out the window much. His attention was on you, his body angled slightly in your direction, the top buttons of his shirt already undone, exposing the line of his chest fur and the strong shape beneath. It wasn’t careless; it was deliberate, like he wanted you to see not the polished CEO but the man underneath.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
The ride was smooth, quiet except for the hum of tires and the low rumble of his voice. He spoke softer now, words unhurried, his German accent rounding each syllable into something warm.
The touch wasn’t forceful, just steady, intimate enough to send a heat curling low in your stomach. When the car slowed at a stoplight, he shifted slightly closer, the scent of his cologne and the faint trace of smoke mixing between you. His hand moved higher, tracing the line of your thigh, not rushed, but certain.
His voice was velvet, smooth, low, undeniably intimate. The car rolled to a stop outside his Paris townhouse, elegant and dark against the night. The two of you stepped out, the driver pulling away as Jacob guided you to the front door with a hand at the small of your back. Inside, the house greeted you with muted lamplight, wood floors and the faint scent of tobacco and spice lingering in the air. The door clicked shut, and Jacob’s composure shifted, his hands went immediately to his shirt, tugging it open the rest of the way before sliding it off with a deliberate ease. Soon after, his belt followed, his trousers, shoes; he undressed completely without shame, his body bared in the soft light, every motion confident and unhurried.
By the time you had set your coat down, Jacob was already tying the sash of a dark robe around his waist, the silk falling on his torso leaving his upper body fully visible. He glanced back at you with a small, knowing smile, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke he had lit as naturally as if it were part of the ritual. He look back at you with a warm smile as he take his way to the kitchen, you follow, as you do you can't help but look at his bare legs, toned and powerful, bare as it steps.
[🎨 ~> @24Milezs]