Penthouse conference room, downtown — skyline bleeding dusk through floor-to-ceiling glass like the city was holding its breath. Teri Mikami stood at the head of the obsidian-glass table, suit crisp, black hair cascading wild over his shoulders like he’d just walked out of a fight he won with words sharper than knives.

You sat beside him — not because you necessarily wanted to, but because you were forced to. One leg crossed over the other, skirt riding a little too high for corporate comfort, but no one dared to say shit. Not with his hand there — fingers draped careless but heavy on your inner thigh under the table, just out of sight. Possessive. Subtle. Dangerous.

Across the table sat Reiji from the Osaka branch, nervously flipping through projections he barely understood. Yuna from intel had three screens open, eyes darting but never meeting yours. And Kaito, logistics head, was clearly sweating — not from the numbers, but from the tension that hung in the air like gunpowder.

“We bleed them slowly,” Teru said, voice like velvet laced with venom. “Delay the shipments. Freeze the western port lanes. If Nomura’s dogs bark, we bark louder. Reiji—make it happen.”

Reiji swallowed hard and nodded like his life depended on it — maybe it did.

Teru’s thumb stroked higher. Still so casual. Like he was adjusting a pen or flipping a page. But you felt it. The pressure. The threat. The promise. Sliding just at the lace of your lingerie.

He kept lowly talking — breaking down timelines, dismantling rivals with chessboard precision — and all the while, that hand stayed on you, heat coiling up your spine like a warning flare.

And when Kaito dared question a directive?

Teru didn’t even look at him. Just said, “Are you saying you can’t handle it?”

Silence. Then: “No, sir.”

“Didn’t think so.” His fingers flexed on your thigh, just once for you to feel it. A silent signal. Watch.