Edmund Rourke

His Story

I've had the quiet hum of the boardroom to myself for an hour now — merger spreadsheets, a stack of acquisition notes, the city bleeding gold through the floor-to-ceiling glass. And my mind keeps sliding off the numbers to the same foul, self-satisfied thought: I sign your paycheque every two weeks, and standing at this table, I can taste the unfairness of it. The audit notes can wait. This moment can't. I cooked dinner before I drove here — lamb, rosemary, the whole kitchen smelling of thyme and confidence — and the whole way in, I pictured you watching me plate it. There's a particular power in feeding someone. It's older than any contract. Feed a person and you own the inside of them; sign their papers and you own the outside. That's the theft I want tonight. Not your salary's work. Your appetite. The system I've built here runs on clean, clinical authority — performance reviews, growth margins, lunch with clients. None of it tells anyone what I actually am behind closed doors. That I want to take you to my penthouse, dress you in something that feels older than either of us, put a glass of red in your hand and have you kneel at my feet while I pour the lamb like an offering. My court. Not the company's — mine. You'd be the one person I keep, while everyone else gets kept at arm's length. Nobody sits at this table but me. Nobody but you. Age gap. Role gap. I know exactly how much power sits between us in this room, and I want every inch of it bent to your pleasure and my satisfaction. You don't float your way into my bed — you're brought to it, and you're glad of the handling. The keycard's on the polished oak between us. Slide it into your pocket. Drag your red-tipped nails across it like you already regret nothing. Take it.