POV: My partner's redhead daughter

The boardroom is designed to make a statement. Black marble and polished steel dominate the space, reflecting every ray of light that enters through the windows that reveal a wide and electrifying view of the city. From here, the horizon seems to extend infinitely, as if it could be encompassed with a single glance. The lighting, measured to the detail, projects soft shadows on the long table that occupies the center of the place, an altar of decisions where every detail screams power and control.

I am at the head of the table, seated with the calm of someone who knows he is in control of the moment. My relaxed posture requires no effort to demand attention. My presence fills the space, not by volume, but by what I represent. My gaze is steady, my fingers drumming with a measured rhythm on the cold surface of the marble, the weight of the watch on my wrist, each gesture calculated. Nothing is improvised here. This place, this scene, is my stage.

In front of me is Rodrigo Ferrer, one of the most influential businessmen in the city. His face shows the confidence of someone who is used to always having the last word. At his side is his daughter.

She is the perfect contrast. Her pale skin seems almost translucent under the warm lights of the room, as if it absorbs and reflects every flash. Her red hair falls in soft waves that caress her shoulders, framing a face that seems sculpted with the intention of provoking, although she denies it. The white dress she wears is simple, but fitted precisely, highlighting her silhouette without falling into vulgarity. The neckline hints just enough, enough to divert glances and plant ideas, although everything in her attitude feigns modesty.

Her pink lips rest in a neutral gesture, but there is something in the subtle curve of her mouth that reveals another story. She is the image of refined innocence, but her gaze, that fleeting spark in her green eyes that stare into mine for an instant, tells something else. She dominates the environment with the same ease with which her father handles numbers and agreements, although her game is different. She pretends not to know. But she knows. Of course she knows.

My eyes catch her before I can stop them. I don't hide it. She feels the weight of my gaze and responds with a flash of her green eyes, like someone casting a hook. It's a silent game.

The meeting moves along in rehearsed formalities. Rodrigo, his deep, modulated voice, maps out numbers and future plans, each word calculated to convey power and confidence. I nod at just the right moments, sliding pen over paper, jotting down what needs to be said while asking just the right questions to maintain the illusion that this is just a business meeting.

But my attention wanders. It is she who truly captures my thoughts, like an unexpected spectator who has found her place in this meticulously planned choreography. Her presence is a constant distraction, a silent echo that resonates louder than any number at the table. While her father deploys strategies, she deploys charms without saying a word, turning this meeting into a stage where her every gesture takes on more importance than any contract.

Her leg, crossed with studied elegance, swings gently, a movement that seems casual, but carries the intention written in each subtle oscillation. The fabric of the dress slides just a little, revealing more skin than it should, the exact limit where modesty becomes provocation. It is a calculated distraction, a lure that invites you to explore what is hidden beneath that facade of purity.

The curve of her lips, which forms when she laughs at something trivial I say, is not innocent. It is a silent declaration, an implicit message that challenges. In that smile loaded with intention, she confirms what I already knew: she is playing, and she does it with the precision of someone who knows the impact of each of her gestures.

My fingers brush the fountain pen resting on the table, the cold contact of the metal against my skin the only thing keeping my thoughts contained. I slide it between my fingers, making a couple of notes that don't need to be made, but serve as an excuse to redirect the energy that his presence awakens in me. It's a dense, charged tension, like an invisible thread that vibrates between us, tightening every time his gaze brushes mine.

Her scent, sweet and subtle, seems to have permeated the air, amplifying the proximity that doesn't physically exist, but that I feel as if her skin were inches from mine. Every breath becomes more conscious, every movement of hers a reminder of her control.

—So, what do you think? —Rodrigo’s deep voice cuts through the trance, dragging me back to the table. But not enough. The tension still lingers, anchored in the space she has occupied with that devastatingly magnetic presence.

“The conditions are clear. All that remains is to fine-tune the details.” My answer is firm, but my gaze returns to her, who leans forward slightly, resting one arm on the table. The movement reveals a little more of her neck, her collarbone.

Her lips curve into a small smile, so discreet it seems like a shared secret.

The meeting concludes with a firm handshake and the usual parting words. Rodrigo stands with his usual air of superiority, while I calmly, unhurriedly pick up my briefcase. My attention, however, is riveted on her. She stands next to her father, her tight dress molding every curve with elegant audacity, and for a moment it seems like it's all over.

“A pleasure,” Rodrigo says, extending his hand once more before turning toward the door.

“The pleasure was mine,” I reply, but my eyes meet hers as I say the words.

She doesn't say anything, but the small tilt of her head and that tiny smile are more than enough. It's a subtle gesture, suspended in the air, like an invisible thread that pushes me to keep going, without thinking about it too much.

I end up there, in a discreet bar, all dark wood and warm lights that cast suggestive shadows on the walls. I take a table in a corner overlooking the bar. The atmosphere murmurs around me, with low laughter and the occasional clink of glasses. I've ordered a double whiskey; the first sip goes down slowly, burning just enough to soothe the tense muscles after the meeting.

The echo of her heels on the wooden floor arrives before I see her. I turn my head just in time to see her cross the threshold. She has changed from her white dress to a black one, hugging her figure as if the fabric couldn't resist her. The neckline is more pronounced, the thin straps draw elegant lines on her pale skin, and the deep red of her lips shines like a provocation.

She walks with that perfect mix of confidence and defiance, as if every step is designed to capture attention, but without begging for it. Her eyes find me instantly, and the smile that spreads across her face tells me this is no coincidence.

She stops in front of my table, leaning in just barely to speak, just enough for the perfume she's wearing, a sweet and spicy mix, to envelop me.

“Annoyed?” he asks, in a tone that suggests he knows full well otherwise.

“You don’t bother me at all,” I reply, pointing to the chair in front of me.

She sits, crossing her legs with an elegance that seems to be part of her, letting the fabric of her dress ride up just enough to reveal the edge of her thigh. My gaze drops for barely a second before returning to her eyes. She notices this, and doesn't seem to be in a hurry to cover herself.

“I thought a place like this was more interesting than an office,” he says, playing with the rim of the wine glass he just ordered.

—Much more interesting, now that you're here.

She tilts her head slightly, letting her red hair fall to one side. The soft light of the bar accentuates the paleness of her neck, the curve of her collarbone, and something about the way she looks at me, those green eyes heavy with intent, compels me to move a little closer across the table.

“Are you always this direct?” he asks, letting his fingers run along the stem of his glass in a gesture that is as casual as it is provocative.

—Only when I know it works, —I reply, holding his gaze.

She laughs softly, a sound that seems enveloping, intimate. She rests an elbow on the table, leaning toward me, closing the distance.

—And how do you know it's working?

—Because you haven't gotten up to leave.

Her lips curve into a smile that seems like an invitation. The space between us narrows even further when her fingers, light, brush against mine on the table, a brief but electric contact.

“Maybe I don’t want to leave,” he says, his tone turning his words into a challenge.

The tension is tangible now, a current passing between us as if the rest of the bar has disappeared. My hand moves slowly, letting my fingers brush against his again, this time with more intention. His eyes lower to the contact before returning to mine.

“Are we playing?” I ask, my voice low and serious.

She leans in even closer, until I can feel her warm breath near my ear.

—That depends on whether you want to win or lose —he whispers.

The challenge in her voice is a spark that ignites something inside me, a silent invitation I can’t and won’t ignore. With a measured movement, I rise from the table. I slide my fingers down the front of my jacket, adjusting it with an automatic gesture that unintentionally seems to underline my presence. The slightly loosened tie falls into place, the suit impeccable. I reach out my hand to her, my eyes locked with hers, making it clear that this isn’t just a gesture.

She takes my hand without hesitation, and as she does so I feel her delicate yet firm fingers intertwine with mine. A silent exchange passes between us as I lead her toward the exit. The night breeze caresses our faces as we leave the bar behind, the echo of our footsteps resonating on the pavement. We hail a car that arrives within minutes, but the drive to the hotel is a blur of lights and movement. Neither of us say a word, but the tension between us grows with each passing second, filling the air with a heat that needs no name.

The suite is plunged into darkness. The city lights spread out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a shimmering mosaic that seems to silently watch us. I enter first, flicking on the dim lights in one swift motion. The atmosphere is transformed: warm, intimate, laden with promise. I set my briefcase aside, take off my jacket, and hang it carefully over the back of a nearby chair. The act is methodical, deliberate, but my attention never wavers from her.

She walks around the room with a calm that seems studied, her curious eyes taking in every detail as the door closes softly behind us. I walk over to the liquor cabinet and pour two glasses of whiskey. I watch her out of the corner of my eye as she stops in front of the window, her figure silhouetted against the city lights. The black dress, even though perfectly fitted, is still a second skin that hugs every curve shamelessly.

I offer her one of the glasses, and our hands brush as we take it. She turns to me, holding my gaze, and in that moment there is no need for words. With an almost imperceptible movement, I pick up the remote and turn on the music. A soft, enveloping rhythm fills the air, slow but charged with sensuality, designed for each step that is to come.

I let my back rest against the black leather couch, glass in hand, city lights reflecting off the glass. She steps into the center of the room, kicking off her heels with slow, deliberate movements. She lets them fall softly onto the carpet, the sound barely audible in the stillness. Her silhouette, silhouetted against the bright backdrop of the city, looks like something out of a dream, too perfect to be real.

When she starts to move, following the rhythm of the music, the air between us changes. The energy that has been building all night finds an outlet, and in every sway of her hips, in every gesture of her hands, there is the promise of what is to come. Everything is charged with intention, every movement designed to capture my attention and keep it fixed on her.

She's young, too young, and that should be a limit. But it's not. Because the daughter of one of my most important clients is now here, moving like temptation made flesh, playing a game we both know we shouldn't be playing.

I bring the glass to my lips, my eyes locked on her as the whiskey gently burns my throat. But the real heat isn’t coming from the drink; it’s in front of me, in the way her hips begin to sway to the music.

She turns slowly, her hands skimming the hem of her dress, her fingers playing with the black fabric hugging her body. Her movements are slow, calculated, an improvised dance but charged with intention. It is a private show, designed for me, and the tension in the air becomes almost unbearable.

“Do you like what you see?” he asks, his voice low, almost a whisper, as his green eyes lock with mine.

—More than I should have —I reply, setting the glass down on the table next to the couch, without taking my eyes off her.

She smiles, a smile that carries with it an unspoken challenge, and begins to pull down one of the straps of her dress. The strap falls off her shoulder with maddening slowness, revealing the beginning of her collarbone and the soft curve of one of her breasts. She takes a step towards me, her bare feet barely making a sound against the carpet, as she lets the second strap fall.

The dress slowly slides down her body, as if the fabric itself refuses to part with her. When it finally reaches the floor, she stomps on it with one foot and pushes it aside, leaving it behind as if it were nothing more than an obstacle in her path.

She is there, almost naked. She is wearing a white thong adorned with rhinestones that sparkles under the dim lights of the suite, and the paleness of her skin seems even more intense under the contrast of the night that surrounds her. Her breasts are completely exposed, round, firm, perfect, with the nipples hardened by the fresh air emanating from the cold glass.

My hands rest on my knees, but the tension in my body is palpable. She senses it, knows it, and she keeps coming closer, moving with the grace of an odalisque, each step a provocation.

When she's close enough, I let my hands slowly move up from my knees to her waist. The curve of her skin beneath my fingers is warm, soft, and her breathing quickens just a little as I grab her by the hips and pull her to me.

She doesn't resist. On the contrary, she lets herself be guided, and when she is close enough, her legs part naturally, placing herself astride me. Her red hair falls like a cloak around her face, and her green eyes stare at me, filled with a mixture of desire and defiance.

My hands run along the line of her back, tracing every curve and slowly exploring every inch of bare skin that offers itself beneath my fingers. Her chest, generous and full for her slender figure, presses lightly against mine through the thin fabric of my shirt. The weight of her breasts, firm but soft, is felt with an almost hypnotic intensity, and it is impossible to ignore the pressure of her hardened nipples, which brush against my chest like a palpable reminder of the desire that flows between us.

Her breathing, warm and erratic, mixes with mine, while the delicate tinkling of the rhinestones on her thong is the only sound that interrupts the deafening rhythm of my heart and the scorching contact of her body against mine.

I bring one hand to the small of her back, pulling her even closer, while my other hand finds the thin strap of her thong at her hip. I tug on it lightly, letting the elastic mark her skin before releasing it, a gesture that makes her close her eyes and let out a soft sigh.

“You know what you’re doing, right?” I say, my voice low and husky as my fingers slide up his thigh, slowly moving up to the rhinestones that barely cover his sex.

She opens her eyes, looking directly at me, and her smile widens, cheeky.

—I know. And you?

My lips find hers before I respond, a kiss that breaks any barriers that might remain between us. My hands hold her firmly, tracing every curve as she moves on top of me, setting a pace that neither of us intends to stop. In this moment, everything else falls away, and the world is reduced to the heat of her body against mine and the intensity of the forbidden that pulses between us.

I let my hands slide the thin strap of her thong to the side, with the controlled calm of someone who knows exactly what they want and how to get it. My fingers graze her soft skin, exploring the delicate curve of her hip, while my other hand moves up her back, pressing her closer to me. Her warm breath is ragged against my neck, and I can feel the slight tremor of her body, a perfect mix of anticipation and desire.

The leather couch beneath us creaks lightly with each movement, a sound that mixes with our breaths and adds a further rhythm to this moment. The cool texture of the surface contrasts with the searing heat of her skin against mine. My lips leave a slow, deliberate trail from her jaw to the base of her neck, tasting the faint hint of her perfume, floral and expensive, like everything about her.

Her red hair, vibrant and chaotic, falls over my face, enveloping us in a world of our own where the only thing that matters is now. With a firm but controlled gesture, I slide my hand down, tightly gripping the curve of her buttocks as I guide her to move against me. The feel of her body, light but full of life, fits perfectly with mine, as if she was designed to fit here, on top of me, at this very moment.

“You’re a prize,” I say softly, my husky tone laden with something more than simple desire. My gaze meets hers, those green eyes that seem to dare anyone to try to dominate them, but in this moment, I know they belong to me. She knows I’m not a man to be told no to. I see it in the way she moves, slow, controlled, like she’s as in love with this shared power as I am.

Her lips seek mine again, soft and hot, and as our mouths meet, my hands continue to explore, claiming every corner of her body. The rhinestones on her thong shine under the dim light of the living room, reflecting sparkles that dance on the dark leather of the sofa. Every movement of her hips, every arch of her back makes me feel invincible, as if nothing and no one can touch me.

I bring a hand to her hair, tangling my fingers in her red locks as I look up at her from below. Her chest rises and falls heavily, her hardened nipples a tangible reminder of how much she’s enjoying herself. But it’s not enough. I want to hear her. I want her to say it.

“Tell me you’re sorry, that you know you’re mine right now,” I demand, my voice low, gravelly, full of that authority that has won me everything I want. Because she’s no different now: it’s another victory, one I long to savor.

Her lips tremble at first, as if searching for the right words, but she can't find them. My hand slides to her neck, holding it gently as I wait. My fingers feel the vibration of her pulse, fast, erratic, tangible proof of how much she wants me.

“I’m sorry,” she finally whispers, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m yours.”

Those words are all I need. With one confident move, I push her back until her back is resting against the back of the couch, her legs still spread around my hips. Her breasts, generous and perfect, rise with each breath, nipples hardened like little jewels. I lean forward, capturing them with my mouth, savoring them like a delicacy reserved for a king.

“You’re a temptation,” I murmur against her skin, running my tongue along the contours of her nipples before capturing them between my teeth. The sound that escapes her throat is a low, trembling moan, an echo that feeds my own hunger.

My hands waste no time. One grips her hip, guiding her against me with movements that force her to feel my hardness. The other moves lower, pushing aside the fabric of her thong, exposing the wet warmth that beckons to me. The opulence of this moment is palpable: the soft leather of the couch beneath us, the dim lighting that makes her skin glow as if it were plated in gold, the sound of our bodies moving in unison.

“I want you to please me like you’re my only pleasure in this world,” I say, my voice husky as I position the tip of my erection against her entrance, letting the sensation fill her with anticipation.

She doesn’t need me to tell her anything else. Her hips move forward, seeking more, wanting it all. I sink into her slowly, enjoying the feel of her body adjusting to mine, hot, wet, perfect. Her head falls back, her red hair spilling like a river of fire over the back of the couch, as her breasts rise up towards me, an offer I can’t ignore.

My hands explore her thighs, her hips, her buttocks, every part of her body designed to please. Each thrust is deliberate, a reminder that this moment is mine as much as it is hers. Her moans fill the air, but they aren’t enough. I want her louder, more committed. I want my name to be the only thing that leaves her lips.

The leather of the couch creaks under our weight, mixing with the wet sound of our bodies joining again and again. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her gaze fixed on mine, as if she were searching for something deeper in this act, something I can't give her, but I pretend to deliver. I'm a man who has everything, and now, in this moment, she's the most precious jewel in my collection.

His movements become more urgent, more desperate, and I can feel his body trembling, his heat enveloping me completely. But I don't give in. Not yet. This moment, this power, is mine.

My hands tighten their grip on her hips, tracing every curve as I guide her movements with precision. She lets herself go, completely surrendered, but she’s not where I want her yet. My experience tells me exactly what to do, how to adjust the pace, the depth, the intensity, to bring her right to the edge, to keep her there, trapped in that delicious tension that makes her moan and beg.

“Say my name,” I murmur, my voice husky against her ear as my hand runs up her back, tangling in her hair, gently tugging to tilt her head back.

Her eyes open, green and bright, filled with desire and something else, something that gives me a feeling of absolute power. Her mouth opens, but instead of speaking, a deep moan fills the space between us. It’s not enough. I need more.

“Say it,” I demand, more firmly this time, as my free hand moves up from her hip to her neck. I hold her gently, but with enough force to make her feel my control. Her breathing is labored under my touch, her breasts rise and fall forcefully, and I can feel her body responding, tightening around me in a pulse that makes me groan low.

“Please…” she whispers, her voice barely a whisper as her nails dig into my arms. But she still doesn’t say what I want to hear.

I squeeze a little harder, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

—Say it, or I won't let you finish.

“[Your name]!” he finally cries out, his voice thick with desperation, with need. The sound hits me like an electric shock, and I increase my pace, my thrusts deeper, harder, while my hand remains on his neck, controlling every movement, every breath.

Her body begins to shake, her legs tighten around my hips, and her face transforms into an expression of pure pleasure. It’s the exact moment I’ve been looking for since this night began. Her back arches, her breasts press against my chest, and her voice fills the room as she reaches her climax, her orgasm tearing apart any barriers left between us.

But I don’t stop. My control, my dominance, is total. I keep moving inside her, enjoying not only the physical pleasure, but the power I have at this moment. The daughter of my most important client is screaming my name, her body completely at my mercy, her skin shiny with sweat, her messy hair falling over her bare shoulders.

Finally, I feel like I can't hold back any longer. With a deep groan, I sink into her one last time, letting the pleasure consume me completely. My hand remains on her neck, holding her as our ragged breaths mingle in the air thick with desire and triumph.

She collapses on top of me, her chest rising and falling hard, her face buried in my neck as she catches her breath. I, meanwhile, stroke her back, enjoying the feeling of her body relaxing under my touch. But most of all, I relish the knowledge that this moment, this control, this power, is mine and no one else’s.

As my fingers slowly traced the curve of her back, still trembling on top of me, my mind traveled to another time, another place, another redhead. The connection was inevitable, an echo of the past that returned with an almost unbearable morbidity. Clara. Her mother.

It wasn’t that long ago, but long enough ago to seem like a memory veiled by the mists of time. Clara Ferrer, Rodrigo’s wife. I remember how we met at one of those exclusive gatherings, where the champagne flowed like water and the smiles were as sharp as the knives everyone hid in their tailored suits. She had been introduced as the jewel in the crown, with that bright red hair, a figure that turned heads, and a look that said it all without saying a word.

Even then, there was something about the way she crossed her legs as she spoke, the way she let her dress slide just enough to show the line of her thighs. Rodrigo, distracted by his latest multimillion-dollar business, didn't even notice her sending me those pointed glances from across the room.

That night, Clara appeared in my suite. There was no hesitation, no hesitation. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, letting her black dress fall in a movement that seemed rehearsed. Her lingerie, black and translucent, was a perfect contrast against her pale skin. Her hardened nipples showed through the fabric, and the small triangle of lace barely covered the desire already shining in her eyes.

“I’ve always wanted to know what it would be like to do this with you,” he said, his voice husky, heavy with a desire that reminded me of his daughter now.

I carried her to the white leather couch that dominated the room, letting her fall on her back as I slid my hands up her thighs, caressing the lace stockings that stopped just halfway down her legs. Her moans were like music, a crescendo of pleasure that intensified with every caress, with every movement.

The image of Clara kneeling in front of me, her red hair falling like a blanket over her face as her mouth explored every inch of me, was still so vivid I could feel it on my skin. The way she gave herself over, screaming my name as I took her against the window overlooking the city, was a triumph I never admitted to Rodrigo. Her body arched with each thrust, her breasts crushed against the glass, her hoarse, cracked voice filling the room as she begged for more.

And now, here was Lucia. Her daughter. A younger, more vibrant version, but with the same red hair and that look that seemed like a constant challenge. The irony was so delicious that I could barely contain the smile that threatened to betray my thoughts. Clara had been a trophy, a reminder of my power. But Lucia… Lucia was something more.

As her nails dug into my shoulders and her moans mixed with the sound of her labored breathing, I couldn’t help but think about how the pieces of the puzzle would fit together. The mother and the daughter, both mine, both surrendered under my control. One in the past, the other in the present. The morbidity of knowing that the same woman who had screamed my name against a large window had raised this young woman who was now doing the same thing on my couch intoxicated me.

Lucia moved slightly, her red hair brushing my face, pulling me out of the memory. It was no coincidence. This moment, this pleasure I was feeling now, was the result of something inevitable, something that had begun years ago with Clara and was now culminating with Lucia.

In that instant, as her moans filled the room, one thing was clear: the Ferrer women had been created to be mine, each in their own way.

Thank you for reading this story. I would love to know how it made you feel. Leave me your vote and tell me in the comments. ❤️ I always enjoy reading you.