In The Rich Woman' World, Love Can Shared Not Stolen

03

Chapter 03

Third Person's POV

The late afternoon sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the executive office, casting long shadows across the mahogany desk where Paris Rivas sat slumped in her leather chair. Her manicured fingers worked in slow, deliberate circles against her temples, trying to ease the tension that had built up over the past three grueling hours of back-to-back meetings with department heads, investors, and board members.

At twenty-five now, Paris had been running the Rivas Corporation for seven years—ever since she was thrust into the role at the tender age of eighteen. The weight of responsibility had aged her beyond her years, carving sharp lines of determination into her once-soft features and hardening her emerald eyes into chips of cold jade.

The memories she tried so desperately to bury came flooding back as they always did during moments of exhaustion. Her father's lifeless body swaying from the ceiling fan in his study. The suicide note that contained only three words: "I'm sorry, Paris." The sound of her mother's heels clicking against the marble floor as she walked out of their lives forever, a suitcase in one hand and her new lover's arm in the other.

*"The company is bankrupt, Paris. There's nothing left. I won't stay and watch us become poor,"* her mother had said with cold indifference, not even bothering to look back at her daughters.

Elena Rivas had discovered the company's financial ruin just days before abandoning her family. The woman who had once hosted charity galas and society luncheons couldn't bear the thought of losing her status, her designer clothes, her luxurious lifestyle. So she chose money over her children, leaving eighteen-year-old Paris to pick up the pieces of their shattered world.

Paris leaned back in her chair, the Italian leather creaking softly under her weight. Her eyes drifted to the laptop screen displaying quarterly reports—numbers that would have made her father proud. She had not only saved the company from bankruptcy but had transformed it into an empire that dwarfed its former glory. Rivas Corporation now had international offices, partnerships with Fortune 500 companies, and a market value that exceeded even her wildest dreams.

Yet despite all her achievements, despite the respect she commanded in boardrooms and the fear she instilled in competitors, something fundamental was missing from her life. It was an emptiness that no amount of success could fill, a hunger that no business deal could satisfy. She had everything she thought she wanted, but felt more hollow than ever.

The sound of her office door bursting open interrupted her brooding thoughts.

"Paris! We brought street food!" Jackson's voice rang out cheerfully as he practically bounced into the room, his arms laden with plastic bags that smelled of fried garlic and savory sauces. "I found out you haven't eaten anything all day, so I bought some of everything from the vendors outside!"

Paris's head snapped up, her tired eyes immediately locking onto Jackson's face. There was something about his presence that always seemed to shift the energy in any room he entered—a warmth that cut through her perpetual coldness like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

Jackson Kim was twenty years old, with the kind of innocent enthusiasm that Paris had thought was extinct in adults. His dark hair was slightly tousled from the wind outside, and his brown eyes sparkled with genuine excitement over something as simple as street food. He wore a simple white button-down shirt and dark jeans that somehow managed to look both casual and refined on his lean frame.

"Sister, you have to try this! The food my husband bought is absolutely delicious!" Paige exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement as she followed Jackson into the office. At nineteen, she was the youngest of the Rivas sisters, with long auburn hair and bright hazel eyes that still held traces of the innocence that Paris had lost years ago.

Dahlia, the middle sister at twenty-two, remained sprawled across the leather sofa in the corner of the office, methodically chewing on blood-red gummy candy. Her platinum blonde hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and her ice-blue eyes held a calculating coldness that rivaled Paris's own. She didn't even glance up at the newcomers, too absorbed in whatever dark thoughts occupied her mind.

As Paris watched Jackson set the bags down on the glass coffee table with such care, arranging each container like he was preparing a feast for royalty, she felt something click into place inside her chest. The empty space that had been gnawing at her for years suddenly had a shape, a name, a face.

*Him. He's what I've been searching for.*

A slow, predatory smile spread across Paris's lips as the realization hit her. Jackson represented everything she had lost—innocence, hope, genuine kindness. He was untainted by the corruption and cynicism that had shaped her world. And now, he was hers.

"Jackson," she called out, her voice carrying the authority that made seasoned executives tremble. "Come here."

Jackson looked up from arranging the food, confusion flickering across his features. But he obediently abandoned his task and approached her desk, his movements slightly hesitant under the intensity of her gaze.

"What did I tell you to do whenever you see me?" Paris asked, her voice dropping to a lower, more intimate register.

Jackson's cheeks flushed pink as he scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "I... I'm sorry. I got excited about the food and forgot." He looked genuinely remorseful, like a child who had disappointed a beloved teacher.

Without another word, Jackson walked around to the side of her chair. Paris swiveled to face him, her heart rate picking up slightly as he leaned down. Their height difference meant he had to bend considerably to reach her, and she could smell his cologne—something clean and masculine that made her want to bury her face in his neck.

When Jackson's lips met hers, it was soft and tentative at first, almost reverent. But Paris had no patience for gentle exploration. She needed more, needed to claim him completely. When they separated just barely, their breath mingling in the small space between them, she whispered against his lips.

"Open your mouth."

Jackson's eyes widened slightly, but he complied without question, parting his lips obediently. Paris immediately took advantage, her hand shooting up to grip the back of his head, fingers tangling in his soft hair. She pulled him closer, deeper, her tongue sliding past his lips to explore the warm cavern of his mouth.

Jackson's hands flew to the edge of her desk for support as the intensity of the kiss threatened to overwhelm him. He had never experienced anything like this—the way Paris's tongue moved against his own, the taste of her that was somehow both sweet and dangerous, like honey laced with poison.

The flavor of her was intoxicating. There was the lingering sweetness of the expensive coffee she favored, mixed with something sharper—the faint taste of the cigarettes she smoked when she thought no one was watching. It should have been unpleasant, but instead, it sent heat racing through Jackson's veins like liquid fire.

He found himself responding instinctively, his own tongue tentatively meeting hers, learning the rhythm she set. One of his hands left the desk to cup her face, his thumb tracing the sharp line of her cheekbone as he lost himself in the sensation of kissing Paris Rivas—the woman who terrified CEOs and commanded boardrooms, who was now melting against him like she was made of silk and starlight.

From across the room, Dahlia had finally looked up from her candy, her cold blue eyes widening with interest as she watched the passionate display. Paige was practically hyperventilating, fanning herself with her hands as she witnessed what was essentially a live performance of barely contained desire.

"Oh my God," Paige whispered, her voice breathless. "They're actually going to do it right here, aren't they?"

The spell was broken by a sharp knock on the office door. Paris and Jackson sprang apart like they'd been electrocuted, both breathing heavily. Jackson immediately turned away, his face burning with embarrassment as he pretended to study the abstract painting hanging on the wall behind Paris's chair.

"Those interrupting bastards," Dahlia muttered, her voice dripping with annoyance as she glared at the door. "Just when things were getting interesting."

Two men in expensive business suits entered the office, their confident expressions immediately faltering when they took in the scene before them. Paris's lipstick was slightly smudged, her usually perfect hair mussed. Jackson's back was turned to them, his shoulders tense. Dahlia was glaring at them like she wanted to commit murder, and Paige looked like she might spontaneously combust from secondhand arousal.

Paris discreetly touched her lips, feeling the lingering tingle of Jackson's kiss. The interruption had left her feeling unsatisfied, hungry for more. That hunger quickly transformed into rage as she turned her attention to the two men who had dared to interrupt her moment.

Her green eyes turned to ice as she fixed them with a stare that could have frozen hell itself. Both men visibly shrank under her gaze, suddenly remembering why Paris Rivas was feared throughout the business world.

"This better be the most important thing that has ever happened in the history of this company," Paris said, her voice deadly quiet. "Because if it's not, I suggest you start updating your résumés and looking into agricultural opportunities. I hear sweet potato farming is very profitable in remote mountain regions."

The threat was delivered with such calm precision that it was somehow more terrifying than if she had screamed. Jackson glanced over his shoulder, surprised by the venom in her voice. He had never seen this side of Paris before—the ruthless businesswoman who could destroy careers with a single word.

"W-we're sorry, Ms. Rivas," one of the men stammered, sweat beading on his forehead despite the air conditioning. "It's about the marketing department report you requested. The quarterly analysis and the projections for the next fiscal year."

"The one that was supposed to be on my desk three hours ago?" Paris asked, her tone suggesting that their answer would determine whether they lived or died.

"Yes, ma'am. There were some complications with the data compilation, but we have everything ready now."

Paris held out her hand expectantly. The man practically threw the thick folder at her, desperate to complete the transaction and escape her presence. She flipped through it briefly, her expression giving nothing away.

"Get out," she said simply. "And if you ever interrupt me again without a genuine emergency, you'll be explaining to security why you're trespassing."

The two men fled the office like their lives depended on it, which, given Paris's reputation, they very well might have. The door slammed shut behind them, leaving the office in sudden silence.

Jackson turned around slowly, his expression troubled. "Are you angry because I'm a bad kisser?" he asked quietly, his voice filled with self-doubt. "I'm sorry if I disappointed you. I know I don't have much experience..."

Paris's poker face cracked slightly as she studied Jackson's earnest expression. Here was a man who had just witnessed her destroy two grown men with nothing but words, and his only concern was whether he had pleased her. The vulnerability in his voice, the way he automatically assumed he was at fault, made something twist in her chest.

"What makes you think you're to blame?" she asked, genuinely curious about his thought process.

Jackson shifted uncomfortably, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "Well, you seemed fine when we arrived. Happy, even. But after we... after I kissed you, you got angry. I thought maybe I did something wrong, or maybe I'm just not good at it."

The honesty in his voice was almost painful to hear. Paris realized that Jackson had no idea of his effect on her, no understanding of the power he wielded simply by existing in her space. He thought he was the problem when he was actually the solution to everything she hadn't even known she was missing.

A slow, wicked smile spread across Paris's face as an idea formed in her mind. She glanced over at Dahlia, who immediately understood the silent communication that passed between them. The blonde woman rose from the sofa with predatory grace and moved to the office door.

Dahlia flipped the deadbolt and hung a small sign on the outside handle that read "Do Not Disturb - Executive Meeting in Progress." The sound of the lock clicking into place seemed to echo through the room like a gunshot.

"What if you're right?" Paris asked, standing up from her chair and moving closer to Jackson. "What if you do need more practice? Would you like to keep trying until you get it perfect?"

Jackson's eyes widened, but he nodded eagerly, like a student offered extra credit by his favorite teacher. "Yes, please. I want to learn. I want to be good at this."

Paris closed the distance between them in two steps, her hands coming up to frame his face. This time, when their lips met, it was with the full force of her desire. She poured everything into the kiss—years of loneliness, months of watching him from afar, the desperate need to claim something pure in her corrupted world.

Jackson responded with growing confidence, his arms wrapping around her waist to pull her closer. The kiss deepened naturally, both of them learning the rhythm of the other, the give and take that made their mouths fit together like puzzle pieces.

Paris maneuvered them backward until she was leaning against her desk, Jackson's body pressed against hers. She could feel the heat radiating from him, could hear the slight catch in his breathing as the kiss grew more intense. Her hands roamed over his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt, the rapid beating of his heart.

When Paris's lips left his mouth to trail down his neck, Jackson's knees nearly buckled. The sensation of her warm breath against his skin, the gentle scrape of her teeth, the way she seemed to know exactly where to touch him—it was overwhelming in the best possible way.

"W-wait," Jackson gasped, his voice shaky. "I thought we were just going to practice kissing?"

He could feel Dahlia behind him now, her hands sliding under his shirt to explore the planes of his back. Her touch was different from Paris's—cooler, more calculating, but no less effective at making his skin burn with sensation.

"If you don't want what we're planning to do," Paris murmured against his throat, her lips brushing his pulse point with each word, "if you're not comfortable with this, all you have to do is push us away. We'll stop immediately."

She pulled back to look at him, her green eyes searching his face for any sign of reluctance or fear. "But if you want to learn, if you want to experience everything we can teach you, then trust us. Trust me."

Jackson's breath came in short pants as he processed her words. He could feel Dahlia's hands growing bolder, could see the heat in Paris's eyes, could sense Paige watching from the sofa with rapt attention. Every instinct told him this was moving too fast, that he was in over his head.

But when he looked at Paris—really looked at her—he saw something beneath the predatory desire. There was a vulnerability there, a need that went beyond physical attraction. She wasn't just seducing him; she was offering him a part of herself that she had never shared with anyone else.

Jackson's hands fell to his sides as he nodded, his decision made. "I trust you."

From her perch on the sofa, Paige giggled nervously. "This is like watching a nature documentary," she whispered to herself. "Except Jackson looks like the gazelle and they're the lions."

The comparison wasn't entirely inaccurate. Jackson, despite being the only man in the room, seemed completely at the mercy of the three women surrounding him. His inexperience was written all over his face, from the way his hands trembled slightly to the adorable flush that crept up his neck.

Paris found his nervousness endearing rather than off-putting. At twenty years old, Jackson should have had at least some experience with women. The fact that he was still so innocent, so eager to please and learn, made him even more precious to her.

She began working on his belt, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency. Jackson's face turned an even deeper shade of red as he realized what was happening, his hands instinctively moving to cover his face in embarrassment.

"Don't hide from me," Paris commanded softly, gently pulling his hands away from his face. "I want to see every expression, every reaction. You're beautiful, Jackson. Don't be ashamed of that."

Behind him, Dahlia had successfully unbuttoned his shirt and was now exploring the expanse of his chest and shoulders. Her cold fingers traced patterns across his warm skin, making him shiver despite the heat building in the room.

When Paris finally freed him from the confines of his jeans, Dahlia let out a low whistle of appreciation. "Well, well," she purred, her voice filled with genuine admiration. "Looks like we hit the jackpot."

Paige craned her neck to get a better view, her eyes widening comically when she saw what her sisters were looking at. "Holy s**t," she breathed, forgetting to maintain any semblance of propriety.

Jackson's embarrassment reached new heights as he realized they were all staring at him. He moved to cover himself, but Paris caught his hands, intertwining their fingers.

"Don't," she said firmly. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. You're perfect."

Dahlia, meanwhile, had dropped to her knees behind Jackson, clearly intending to take him in her mouth the way she had with countless other men. It was her signature move, the thing that had made her popular with her previous boyfriends and casual encounters.

But before she could make contact, Jackson spun around and dropped to his own knees, bringing himself to her eye level. The sudden movement caught everyone off guard.

"What are you doing?" Jackson asked, his voice filled with genuine confusion.

Paris blinked in surprise, her arousal momentarily forgotten in the face of Jackson's unexpected behavior. This was not how these situations typically played out.

"Oh," Paige said faintly from the sofa, sensing that something significant was happening but not quite understanding what.

"A blow job?" Dahlia said, as if explaining something obvious to a child. "You know, oral s*x? Men absolutely love it when women—"

"No," Jackson interrupted, his voice firm despite his obvious embarrassment. "That's... that's not right."

The three sisters stared at him in stunned silence. In their combined experience with men, they had never encountered someone who would refuse oral s*x, especially not someone as inexperienced as Jackson.

Jackson took a deep breath, gathering his courage to explain. "Look, I know I don't have experience with this stuff, but I've thought about it. A lot. And the thing is... it's not hygienic. Women take care of themselves, you know? You shower, you use products, you maintain proper cleanliness. But men... we're not always as careful about that stuff."

He looked directly at Dahlia, his expression earnest and slightly pleading. "I would never ask you to put your mouth on something that might not be completely clean. That's not fair to you. It's not respectful."

Dahlia's mouth fell open in shock. In all her years of s****l experience, no man had ever expressed concern for her comfort or well-being during oral s*x. Most of them simply expected it as their due, never considering whether she actually wanted to do it or whether it was pleasant for her.

"Besides," Jackson continued, his cheeks burning but his voice steady, "I don't like the idea of you kneeling in front of me like that. It feels... wrong. Like you're serving me or something. We should be equals in this, shouldn't we?"

Paris felt something shift in her chest, something that had nothing to do with physical desire. She had been with men who demanded oral s*x as a matter of course, who saw it as their right rather than a gift. She had never been with someone who refused it out of concern for her dignity.

"I'm okay with having s*x," Jackson said, his voice growing stronger as he found his footing in the conversation. "I want to learn, and I want to experience this with you. But I want to be the one taking care of you, not the other way around. I don't know what I'm doing, but I want to figure it out together. I want to make sure you enjoy it too."

The silence that followed his declaration was deafening. Paige was gaping at him like he had just announced he was from another planet. Dahlia was still on her knees, staring at him with an expression of complete bewilderment. And Paris...

Paris was looking at Jackson like she was seeing him for the first time. This wasn't just innocence or inexperience talking. This was a fundamental difference in how he viewed relationships, intimacy, and respect between partners. He wasn't just different from other men she had known—he was different from other people entirely.

"You really are something else, aren't you?" Paris murmured, her voice softer than it had been all day. She reached out to touch his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw with something approaching reverence.

Jackson leaned into her touch, his eyes closing briefly at the gentle contact. "I just... I want to do this right. I want to make you happy. All of you. But I want to do it in a way that feels good for everyone."

The vulnerability in his voice, the genuine desire to please them while maintaining his own moral compass, made Paris's heart clench in her chest. She had been searching for something to fill the emptiness inside her, and she had thought it was just physical attraction to Jackson's innocence and beauty.