Novel Full Chapter 928: Eziel’s FootJob
Chapter 928: Eziel’s FootJob
I let the Pheromones roll across the conference table toward her like an invisible tide. Slow. Warm... rewiring her afternoon — or her marriage, whichever collapses first... until every inhale carried me into her bloodstream like a bad decision she was too polite to reject.
By the fifteen-minute mark she’d uncrossed and recrossed her legs four times — each one a tiny rebellion against gravity and good sense. Her pen was tapping a rhythm that had nothing to do with note-taking and everything to do with Morse code for "help, I’m spontaneously combusting."
A faint sheen of moisture had appeared on her collarbones — barely visible, just enough for my Eyes to clock and file under "evidence of imminent poor choices." Her pupils were dilated. Her breathing had shifted from professional composure to something deeper.
Dominic was sitting six feet from his wife and had absolutely no clue that she was slowly drowning in the pheromones of the man sitting across far from her. Bless his heart. Or whatever’s left of it after years of boardroom mergers.
I’m a terrible person. I’m aware. Moving on.
So here’s how the meeting went. Gerald talked. Lawyers talked. Numbers got exchanged. IP details reviewed — full rights, all derivatives, sequel and adaptation rights across all media, merchandise, the whole package. Standard stuff. Their team had drawn up the rights purchase agreement expecting negotiation. ARIA had already reviewed every clause through me and approved.
I wasn’t negotiating. I was watching Eziel.
She sat through the first twenty minutes barely speaking. Professional. Contained. But her jaw tightened every time Gerald called the Celestial Widow "the property" instead of by name. Every time Dominic — her husband, mind you — chimed in with financial observations about depreciation of shelved IP.
Talking about his wife’s life’s work like a line item on a tax return.
And this man was wearing boat shoes. In a boardroom. In Hollywood. I’m sorry but I need you to understand — boat shoes. The man who killed his wife’s screenplay was sitting there in boat shoes talking about depreciation. I can’t.
Anyway.
I pulled out my phone. Typed didn’t care if they could see... I was the one in control here. Money does that despite the age.
Me: I’ve read all seven drafts. The third is the strongest. The ending from the sixth is better.
Sent to Eziel. Casual. Like a scheduling note.
She read it. Her pen stopped moving. She looked at me and for the first time in that meeting something real crossed her face.
The raw, unguarded shock of a creator being told someone actually engaged with their work.
I typed again.
Me: Your father doesn’t deserve this screenplay. I’m going to make it the biggest thing in Hollywood. And I want you involved in every step.
Her eyes went wet. She blinked it away — years of practice hiding what she felt in rooms full of men who never noticed. But her hand shook when she picked up the pen again.
She typed back on her phone: Who are you?
Me: The guy who’s about to pay $85 million for your genius. And take you to dinner after.
The flush started at her neck. Climbed to her cheeks. She pressed her lips together fighting a smile that would’ve been impossible to explain to the room.
Eziel: That’s presumptuous.
Me: That’s confident. There’s a difference. You know the difference.
Her legs uncrossed. Recrossed. Wave of perfume reaching me — warm, subtle, expensive. Something she’d put on this morning without knowing why she’d picked that bottle.
Eziel: You’re flirting with me in front of my husband.
Me: Sorry if I am too blunt but your husband is calculating the tax implications of selling your soul. I’m telling you your work (mind you not your soul) is worth $500 million. Which conversation would you rather be in?
She bit her lower lip. The pen in her hand hadn’t touched paper in two minutes.
While all along my auras and Pheromones were working numbers on her.
And then she’d moved and sat closer across me... and I had felt it.
Pressure against my shin. Light at first. The toe of her heel tracing up the inside of my calf through my pants. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of touch that could pass as accidental if anyone looked and absolutely was not.
Her shoe slipped off — faint sound of it hitting the carpet under the table — and then it was just her foot. Stockinged. Warm. Toes pressing against my inner thigh with pressure that went from exploratory to intentional real fast.
I kept my face on Gerald, who was explaining the Celestial Widow’s development history like I hadn’t already read every internal memo his company ever produced about it.
Looking back, the boardroom felt smaller the second her foot made contact— because the moment Eziel’s stockinged toes brushed the inside of my thigh, the whole forty-seventh floor shrank to the space between her sole and my zipper.
She didn’t rush it. That was the cruel part. Her father was mid-sentence about "long-term brand equity" when she shifted in her chair, casual as hell, and let her shoe slip half off.
The arch of her foot pressed flat against the growing ridge in my trousers. Slow. Deliberate. She dragged the full length of her sole up my cock — base to swollen head — the nylon rasping faintly against the wool blend, creating just enough friction to make my balls tighten.
She held there, toes curling over the tip, squeezing gently, feeling me throb once, twice against the ball of her foot.
I kept my face neutral. Signed another page. Gerald droned on about "ancillary revenue streams." Eziel answered with a slow downward slide, her heel grinding along the underside of my shaft, pressing hard enough that I felt the vein pulse under her arch.
She circled back up, toes spreading wide so they could rake lightly over the head through the fabric — teasing the slit, coaxing a bead of pre-cum to soak through until the spot darkened and stuck to her sole when she pulled away.
Her breathing stayed even. Professional. Only the faint flush creeping up her neck betrayed her.
Mine stayed even too — mostly.
Reyna caught it, of course. She didn’t look under the table. Didn’t need to. She just picked up her pen, twirled it once, and muttered under her breath, "You’re unbelievable," so quiet only I heard.
Eziel wasn’t done being unbelievable either.
She planted her foot firmer, toes gripping the outline of my cock like she was trying to climb it. The nylon was starting to cling —and every slow pump dragged the fabric with it, creating a slick, obscene tunnel.
She twisted her ankle slightly, letting the ball of her foot mash against the head on every upstroke while her heel dug into the base, trapping me there, forcing the blood to pool until I was so hard the zipper teeth bit into the underside.
I felt her toes explore — spreading, then pinching the ridge just below the head, rolling it back and forth like she was testing how much I could take before I cracked. She did it again. Harder. My thigh muscle jumped.
Eziel’s other foot joined the party — subtle, sliding up my calf first, then hooking behind my ankle to pull my legs wider under the table.
Both feet worked me in tandem: one stroking long, firm passes from balls to tip, the other cupping and kneading, toes curling around the shaft like she was jerking me off with her arches.
The nylon whispered with every slide. Wet. Hot. The friction turned slippery as more pre-cum leaked, darkening the front of my pants in a telltale patch she could feel soaking into her skin.
She never broke eye contact with her father while she did it. Answered a question about "narrative integrity" with a calm "absolutely" while her toes flexed and pinched the head so hard I nearly grunted. Dominic laughed at something Gerald said. Six feet away. Clueless. His wife was edging me under the table like it was performance art.
By the time we got to the final signature page, she’d found the perfect rhythm — slow, punishing strokes that ended with her toes curling tight around the head, squeezing until I throbbed violently against her sole. She held it there, grinding in tiny circles, letting me feel every ridge of her foot while my pulse hammered in my ears.
I signed my name. Steady. Professional. While she milked one last thick pulse out of me, enough that the wet spot spread and she finally — finally — dragged her foot away, leaving me aching, leaking, zipper straining.
She slipped her shoe back on with the same casual grace she’d used to take it off. Stood when everyone else did. Smoothed her skirt.
Reached across the table to shake my hand.
Her palm was fever-hot. Fingers curled around mine, nails digging in just enough to sting. Thumb stroked once across my knuckles — the same slow circle she’d just used on my cock.
"Welcome to the entertainment industry," she said. Voice velvet. Eyes molten.
"Looking forward to it."
Reyna was already moving. Gathering papers. Heading for the door like she’d rather walk into traffic than watch the encore.
"We’ll be in the cafeteria," she said. Flat. Done.
"Take your time," Lila murmured, that ghost of a smile again.
"Don’t," Reyna snapped over her shoulder. "Don’t you dare encourage him."
They left. The board trickled out. Gerald and Dominic vanished upstairs to toast their "shrewd negotiation" with twenty-year scotch.
Eziel and I remained.
The boardroom echoed now — just our breathing and the hum of the HVAC.
"My office is on forty-one," she said quietly. "I want to discuss the character with you."
"Lead the way."
Upon there... she didn’t bother with words about the screenplay.
Neither did I.