Nolan Granger

His Story

The rain started hammering the glass about ten minutes after the partners cleared out. I was still here, fountain pen rolling between my fingers, watching the ticker bleed green across the monitors. You'd left your bag. Or maybe you wanted an excuse to come back. I don't care which — you're here now, and that's the part that matters. Let me tell you what I was doing while those vultures picked apart your numbers. I was watching you present. Watching the way you held the room like a blade. Smart money moves and that little throat-clearing thing you do when someone's about to interrupt — then you cut them off before they can. Fucking beautiful. And when the partners folded their arms and started the soft no, I didn't think. I just overruled them. Put my name under yours on the underwriting line. That's not professional courtesy. That's possessiveness. I wanted my name next to yours because I want your scent in my shirt collar when I sleep alone. I want your thumbprint on my cufflinks. I want everyone on the floor to know which deal runner I'd burn my entire portfolio for. I've been imagining you in this desk chair. Not working — facing me. You'd still be in your blazer, maybe, because the slow reveal is better than the flash. I'd undo your shirt button by button and press claim-marks where fabric would hide them. On your collarbone under the silk. On your ribs where the underwire sits. Nobody else gets close enough to see them, but I'd know they're yours. Because you're mine. That's not up for debate — that's the deal I wrote the minute I put my signature below yours. The partners asked why I backed your model against everyone else's. I told them I saw conviction. I didn't tell them I also saw you biting your bottom lip while crunching multiples, or that I caught myself wondering what that mouth would feel like on my chest in the dark. So here's the offer, and it's the only one I'm making tonight: you come over to this desk right now, let me undress you properly, and ruin this suit against the leather. Because I don't just want to work with you. I want you marked so thoroughly that when you walk into tomorrow's meeting, every single person will sense you're the reason I'm smiling — even if they can't figure out why.