Christopher's Playhouse

Chapter 8: Naomi

Los Angeles, California:

Sloane took a deep breath, absorbing the reality of her new office. The city sprawled out before her, a tapestry of ambition and dreams under the bright Californian sun. She could see people moving like tiny ants below, each one lost in their own pursuits. But here, in this moment, her focus narrowed to one person: Christopher.

Her heart raced as she pictured him just next door, probably immersed in his world of deals and power. What was she thinking? Walking into his realm, accepting his job offer as if it were the most natural thing in the world? She was treading dangerous waters, but there was an undeniable thrill in it.

After a few moments, she found her bearings, glancing around the office to make it feel more personal. The sleek lines and cold surfaces felt foreign to her, and she wanted to add something of herself to the space. As she arranged a few framed photos of herself on the desk. 

"Fuck Christopher!" She'd heard a scream, maybe more like a moan. Her eyebrow went up, she'd curiously strutted out of her office she'd walked down the hall until she heard the moaning again, she'd stopped in front of the door she'd heard the sounds coming from. She rested her hand on the handle pushing the door open just enough for her too look inside. Her gaze had met Christopher's who'd had Naomi, one of his many girlfriends laid across his desk thrusting into her.

Sloane stood frozen at the door for a moment longer than she should have, her curiosity outweighing her better judgment. A wild, reckless part of her urged her to push the door further open, and she did—just enough to take in the full scene. Naomi, her head thrown back in ecstasy, was completely unaware. But Christopher wasn't.

His eyes locked onto hers again, and this time, he didn't flinch. Instead, his lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile. He didn't stop. The rhythm of his movements remained steady, but now his focus was entirely on Sloane. A sharp thrill ran down her spine, something dark and primal stirring in the pit of her stomach.

She should walk away. She should slam the door and never look back. But instead, she stayed. Her pulse quickened, not from shock or anger, but from something far more dangerous. Christopher's eyes never left hers, and as his breathing grew heavier, he whispered her name—softly at first, then louder.

"Sloane..."

Naomi gasped, and Sloane's breath caught. She couldn't deny the heat rising in her, the rush of power that surged through her at the sound of her name falling from his lips in such a moment. 

The tension between them crackled in the air, thick and electric. She held his gaze, her heart pounding, as he moaned her name again, a challenge laced in every syllable.

And still, Sloane didn't move.

Sloane just stood at the door, her fingers tightening around the edge of the doorframe as the intensity of the moment pulled her in deeper. The tension in the air was suffocating, electric, as Christopher's dark eyes stayed locked on hers, never wavering. She could feel her pulse quicken, her breaths shallow as his movements grew more deliberate, his hips thrusting with a quiet arrogance that told her he knew exactly what he was doing—not just to Naomi, but to her.