Misc. Erotica The Art of Falling - the story of Sejal Sharma

[chickenpakoda]

Chapter 2: The Power Play

The rest of Sejal’s shift passed in a haze, the black card burning a hole in her apron pocket like a secret too hot to keep. Every time she moved, she felt the weight of it—the promise, the danger.

And then there were the eyes.

Always the eyes.

Marcus DuPont leaned against the bar, his massive frame taking up space like he owned it—which, of course, he did. A man built on charm, ego, and real estate, Marcus had a thing for women like Sejal. He watched her now with hooded eyes, sipping a bourbon he barely tasted. The sway of her hips was hypnotic. Her body moved with unconscious rhythm, each step a subtle performance. The sheen of her stockings caught the light with every shift of her legs, and he imagined peeling them down slowly, savoring the contrast between silk and skin.

Marcus didn’t miss the way her skirt rode up when she bent, or how the satin blouse hugged the swell of her breasts. She was sharp and clever, but tired—and he liked that too. Worn-down women were easier to mold.

When she passed him, his hand darted out, fingers curling around her wrist. Her skin was warm, pulsing beneath his thumb.

“You good, Sejal? You look… distracted.”

She smiled that waitress smile, the kind meant to pacify and disarm. “Just thinking about my student loans, Marcus.”

He chuckled, but his gaze didn’t leave her mouth. “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be stressing over money.” His voice dipped low. “You know I could help with that.”

He didn’t mean a raise.

He meant the kind of help that came with strings—silk ropes and locked doors.

When she pulled away, it was smooth, practiced. But the scent she left behind made him want more.

Behind the bar, Mateo watched her with his usual scowl, but tonight it wasn’t annoyance that tightened his jaw—it was want.

He’d never touched her. Never dared. But every time she reached over the bar, the hem of her skirt teasing up the back of her thighs, it tested him. She was soft where he was rough, fire where he was ice. And tonight, something about her was different—looser, bolder.

When she bent to grab a bottle from the fridge, the arch of her spine was deliberate. He could see the strap of her stocking where it disappeared beneath her skirt. His mouth went dry.

“You’re fucking up orders tonight,” he growled, because he had to say something. Because if he didn’t, he might say what he really wanted.

Sejal tilted her head, letting her dark hair fall like silk over one shoulder. Her voice was syrup. “Am I? Or are you just not paying attention to the right things?”

She licked her lips. Slow. Lazy.

His hand tightened on the shaker until the metal bit into his palm. He looked away, jaw clenched—but his mind was already somewhere else. A couch in the stockroom. Her legs wrapped around his waist. That mouth silencing every sound he wasn’t supposed to make.

In the far booth, the Wall Street boys were slouched like kings in a den, drunk on money and power. One of them—Cole, he’d said—had been watching Sejal from the moment she brought them their first round.

He liked brunettes. Especially the dangerous-looking ones.

Sejal was too smart for her uniform, too composed for someone walking around with bourbon sloshing on her tray. That made him want her more. She had the kind of face that would look even better messy—eyes wide, lips parted, hair tangled from fingers pulling too hard.

When she leaned over the table to serve their fourth round, he let his hand wrap around her wrist. Her skin was soft, cool from the tray.

“How much for an extra hour with you, sweetheart?”

His voice was slurred but confident. He thought money could buy everything.

Sejal didn’t flinch. Didn’t blush. Instead, she leaned down until the whisper of her blouse brushed his sleeve, and he swore he could see the outline of her nipple through the satin.

“How much you got?”

The whole table howled in delight—but not Cole. His smile flickered. Her voice had steel in it.

When she pulled back, her hand wiped clean on her apron, dismissing him like he was nothing. It stung more than he’d admit.

By the time her shift ended, Sejal’s skin hummed with something new—not fear, not desperation.

Power.

All night, men watched her, devoured her with their eyes, spoken to her like they owned her. But they didn’t.

She stepped into the alley behind Velvet, the city’s neon glow painting her in streaks of pink and gold. Her hands were steady as she pulled the Malhotras’ card from her pocket.

She dialed before she could second-guess herself.

It rang once. Twice.

Then, a voice—smooth, expectant. “Sejal.”

Not Hello. Not Who’s this?

They’d been waiting.

She exhaled, her breath curling in the cold air. “Tell me what I’d have to do.”

A pause. Then Nandini’s laugh, low and knowing, filtered through the line.

“Oh, darling. You already know.”