Clara sat rigid in her chair, menu trembling slightly in her hands, eyes locked on the elegant script as if the words could save her. She hadn't glanced at Mike once. Not when she entered. Not when she sat. Not even when Fin had introduced the "surprise guest" with that forced, hopeful smile.
Fin, meanwhile, couldn't stop the memory from replaying in his head.
Earlier that afternoon, Mike had walked straight into his office without knocking — same casual stride, same uninvited confidence that made Fin's skin crawl. He had wanted to cut him off right there, to stand up and say, Get the hell out and never come back. But the words had stuck. Mike had spoken first, voice low and smooth:
"I have a simple test, Fin. One dinner. One night. Let me be there. If Clara still loves you the way she says she does, she'll prove it. She won't even look at me. Won't flinch. Won't react. You'll see the truth with your own eyes."
Fin had hated the suggestion instantly. It felt dirty. Manipulative. Wrong on every level. He had opened his mouth to refuse — to threaten, to scream — but the doubt Mike had planted weeks ago had already taken root. The late nights. The distant eyes. The way Clara sometimes smelled faintly of someone else when she slipped into bed.
After twenty agonizing minutes of silence, Fin had whispered, "Fine."
Mike had smiled. "Call her now. Invite her to Le Ciel. Tell her it's just the two of you. Don't mention me."
Fin had been on the phone with Clara, about to say Mike might join us for a quick drink — anything to give her a warning — but Mike had leaned in, raised a single finger to his lips, and mouthed: Don't. Surprise is better.
And now here they were.
Fin forced himself to keep talking, voice steady for Clara's sake. "So, Mike… you never really told me about your early days. What was your childhood like?"
Mike's easy smile flickered — just for a split second — something darker flashing behind his eyes before he locked it down again. "Small town. Nothing worth remembering."
Fin caught it. The brief loss of composure. But before he could press, Mike had already recovered, leaning back with that same relaxed grin.
Under the table, no one noticed the real conversation happening.
Mike's foot had grown bolder.
His toes had slipped past Clara's knee, traveled slowly up the smooth skin of her inner thigh, pushing the hem of her sundress higher and higher. Clara had tried to clamp her legs shut, but he simply pressed firmer, using the ball of his foot to nudge them apart just enough.
She flinched hard when she felt it — the warm, insistent pressure of his toes sliding directly against the thin lace of her panties, right over the soft heat of her pussy.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Mike didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on Fin, answering some question about market trends with perfect calm, while his toes began to move — slow, deliberate circles rubbing against her covered slit.
Clara's hand shot under the table, fingers wrapping around his ankle, trying desperately to push him away without drawing Fin's attention. She squeezed hard, nails digging in, a silent, frantic stop.
Mike ignored it.
Instead, he curled his toes, pressing the ball of his foot more firmly against her clit, rubbing in tight, relentless circles through the dampening fabric. The pressure was perfect — too perfect — sending unwanted sparks of heat straight through her core.
Clara bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. Her thighs trembled. She could feel herself growing wet against his foot, the lace clinging, betraying her. Shame flooded her chest, hot and choking, but her body — the same body that had once melted only for Fin — was already responding.
Mike's voice remained perfectly even as he spoke to Fin about some upcoming deal, never once breaking rhythm beneath the table.
Clara kept her eyes down, fixed on the tablecloth, fighting the slow, building ache between her legs. She pushed at his ankle again — harder — but Mike simply hooked his toes under the edge of her panties and tugged the fabric aside.
Bare skin now.
His big toe slid directly along her slick folds, parting them, circling her swollen clit with slow, teasing strokes.
Clara's free hand clenched into a fist on top of the table. A tiny, involuntary whimper almost escaped before she swallowed it.
Fin was still talking — something about the foundation gala — completely unaware that only inches away, Mike was slowly, deliberately fingering his fiancée's pussy with his foot while carrying on the most casual conversation in the world.
Mike finally glanced at Clara — just once — his dark eyes gleaming with quiet triumph over the rim of his wine glass.
The private dining room at Le Ciel felt smaller now, the air thick with the scent of aged oak from the paneling, the faint citrus of lemon oil on the table, and the low hum of the city far below the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Candle flames danced in crystal holders, casting warm flickers across the white linen, the polished silverware, and the deep emerald of Clara's sundress—thin cotton that clung softly to her full breasts and flared gently at her rounded hips, the hem riding high enough on her crossed thighs to reveal smooth, sun-kissed skin. Her chestnut hair fell in loose waves over one shoulder, catching the light like burnished copper, strands occasionally brushing the swell of her cleavage where the dress dipped low in a modest but tempting V.
She sat rigid, hands folded too tightly in her lap, full lips pressed into a thin line, hazel eyes fixed downward on the napkin she had twisted into knots.
Fin's phone buzzed sharply on the table. He glanced at the screen—Marcus, the head of security—then stood quickly, forcing a small smile.
"I need to take this. Security thing. Won't be long."
He stepped out into the hallway, door clicking shut behind him, leaving Clara alone with Mike.
The silence stretched for one heartbeat. Then Clara's head snapped up, eyes blazing.
"Get your fucking foot off me," she hissed, voice low and venomous. Her cheeks flushed crimson—not just from anger, but from the humiliating heat still pulsing between her thighs where his toes had rubbed her through lace until she was shamefully slick.
Mike leaned back in his chair, arms draped casually over the armrests, dark shirt stretched across his broad chest, sleeves rolled to show corded forearms dusted with dark hair. The top two buttons were undone, revealing a glimpse of tanned skin and the hard line of his collarbone. He smiled—slow, lazy, utterly unrepentant.
Inside, the thought flashed bright and cruel: Says the bitch who sang my name while riding my dick in that bathroom stall.
But outside, the mask was perfect—soft eyes, slight tilt of the head, voice low and wounded.
"Clara… I really like you." He let the words hang, heavy with feigned sincerity. "I'm sorry if I've been too forward. I just… I can't help how I feel."
Clara gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached. Tears welled, hot and furious, spilling over her lower lashes and tracing shimmering paths down her flushed cheeks. She swiped at them angrily.
"Please," she whispered, voice cracking. "Leave me alone. It was a mistake. A horrible, stupid mistake. I don't have any feelings for you."
Mike's gaze never wavered. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice dropping to a velvet murmur.
"Then prove it."
***
To read ahead, go to my Patreon
patreon.com/DevilsWhisper