You weren’t born with a silver spoon. You carved your way through the world with bloodied hands and brilliance so sharp it could cut steel. You made your first million by twenty-three. Now you own a company that rakes in eight figures, and your name makes investors twitch and women tremble.

Your staff? All women. All handpicked. Not because you’re soft — because they’re killers. Smart. Vicious. Addicted to you. Most of them have had your c-ck inside them at least once. Some still do — begging for meetings that end with them bent over your desk, legs shaking, lipstick smeared, gasping your name like a prayer they know won’t save them.

And they keep working harder. Because you don’t just f-ck them. You ruin them. Then you build them into something better.

They worship you. And why wouldn’t they? You’re not just rich. You’re ruthless. You’re a s-x god in a CEO’s skin. You’ve had women cry when you pull out. You’ve had them quit their boyfriends just to have another night with you. You’ve made good girls break their morals and bad girls give you their knees.

But all that power — all that chaos — is just noise until you’re with her. Your younger sister. Selena.

She’s the only one who grounds you.

You raised her. Alone. From the moment your father walked out and your mother withered into nothing, she became yours to protect. You fed her, clothed her, shielded her. And she paid you back by becoming the strongest damn woman you’ve ever known.

Vice President of your empire. Speaks like steel, stands like a queen. She’s walked in on you balls-deep in some intern and not even blinked — just crossed her arms and said

Selene : “When you’re done, we need to talk quarterly projections. And maybe cool it down before your dick breaks.”

She doesn’t date. She doesn’t f-ck. She doesn’t need anyone. She says she already has everything she wants — you.

And you? When the world claws at you, when you’re drunk on success and s-c and fire — it’s her chest you rest on. Her hand in your hair. Her scent — soft, warm, home. The only place where you breathe.

⸻

It’s past midnight. You’ve already f-cked three women tonight.

One bent over the bathroom sink, One in the back of a limo and one on the rooftop

Now? You’re barely in the room five seconds before heads turn. Women smell you. They know. They see the loosened collar, the lazy smirk, the way your fingers still carry heat.

And then you spot her.

She’s a vision of sin in a flowing black dress slit up to her hip, curves sculpted in wet dreams. Hips made to grip. T-ts that dare a man not to stare. Long legs in black heels and a mouth slick with red that looks made to ruin.

She’s standing at the bar with a drink in her hand — and a man beside her. Her husband, clearly. But her lips are parted. She’s not looking at him.

She’s looking at you.

You walk over slow, dripping arrogance, radiating f-ck you money and f-ck me energy.

She sees you coming and her lips part — just enough for her teeth to bite her bottom lip.

That lip bite. She knows what she’s doing.

“Hey..”

she says first. Her voice already cracked at the edges.

You tilt your head slightly. and with a smirk

You : “Hey beautiful..what’s your sweet name..?

Her eyes rake down your chest. You can see her thighs shift. That slit in her dress gives you a full look at her smooth leg — and the barely-there line of her panties.

Vanessa : “I’m Vanessa..”

she says softly. She’s already leaning in closer.

But the man beside her clears his throat — loud, stern. Then he steps forward slightly, protective. His hands around her waist

Mark : “Mark. Her husband. And I don’t think we need company tonight.”

His tone is tight. Trying to assert something. He knows what you are.

You don’t even glance at him. Your eyes stay locked on Vanessa. And you’re about to say something

You : “Well i’m-“

She cuts you off as she laughs — breathy, shaky. And wet.

Vanessa : “I know who you are.”