More from Ryder

• Dominant kinky phone sex

  August 23, 2026

  The annual corporate holiday gala was a sea of glittering gold tinsel, and desperate middle managers angling for promotions. Then, there was Ryder.

  Standing barely five-foot-two in towering Louboutin’s, she looked like a wrapped package of pure, concentrated trouble. With her sleek, straight dark brown hair catching the chandelier light and mesmerizing hazel eyes that missed absolutely nothing, Ryder was a study in dangerous contrasts. She possessed a petite build, yet she curved in all the right places, filling her emerald silk dress with a devastating confidence.

  Ryder didn’t just walk into a room; she conquered it.

  She wasn’t here to mingle; she was here to take over. Tonight was the night the Senior Partner slot was being unofficially decided, and Ryder’s eyes were locked firmly on the prize.

  Spotting the target—Vance, the aging executive whose vote carried the weight of a sledgehammer—she glided over, her hips swaying with a hypnotic rhythm. She didn’t wait for an invitation to invade his space. She stepped in close, close enough for him to catch the intoxicating scent of jasmine and honey suckle, pressing her small frame against his personal boundary until he visibly swallowed.

  “Vance, darling,” she purred, her voice a low, gravelly hum that demanded absolute attention. “You look positively bored. Let’s fix that.”

  “Ryder,” Vance stammered, his eyes dropping to her collarbone before snapping back up to her piercing hazel gaze. “I didn’t expect to see you playing the social butterfly.”

  “I don’t flutter, Vance. I hunt,” she murmured, a slow, predatory smile touching her glossed lips. She reached out, her manicured fingers trailing deliberately down the lapel of his expensive bespoke suit, smoothing the fabric with possessive familiarity. “And right now, I’m looking at a man who is going to recommend me for the VP position on Monday morning.”

  Vance chuckled nervously, trying to regain his footing. “Now, Ryder, corporate protocol dictates a rigorous review process—”

  Ryder cut him off with a soft, dismissive laugh. She tilted her head, her gaze turning sharp, dark, and utterly dominant. There was a delicious thrill in the air, a kinky little power dynamic she played effortlessly, reducing a man who ran billion-dollar accounts to a stammering schoolboy with just a look.

  “Protocol is for people who lack imagination,” Ryder whispered, leaning up on her tiptoes to ghost her lips against his ear. “And you, Vance, have always lacked imagination. But I’m more than willing to teach you. Monday morning. My office. You’re going to give me what I want. Am I clear?”

  Vance shivered, completely ensnared. “Crystal,” he choked out.

  Ryder pulled back, smoothing her emerald dress with ultimate satisfaction. She didn’t say goodbye. She just offered him a slow, scorching wink, turned on her heel, and walked away, leaving him breathless in her wake. The top was in sight, and Ryder always got her way.

• Dominance and kinks phone sex

  August 2, 2026

  They call me Ryder, a name that echoes with a jagged sort of promise, dominance and kink. At five-foot-nothing, I’m the smallest thing in any room, but I’ve learned early on that height is just a measurement, not a reflection of power. I carry my curves like a weapon—soft where they need to be, but structured with an unforgiving, dark-brunette intensity that draws eyes like moths to a flame.

  Tonight, the bar is thick with the smell of cheap choices and pheromones. My friends are huddled in a corner booth, swirling their drinks and giggling, but I’m standing at the edge of the velvet rope, surveying the landscape. I don’t just walk into a space; I inhabit it. I move with a predator’s grace, my shoulders back, my presence suffocating the ambient noise until the room bends to my gravity. People don’t just notice me; they recalibrate their night around me.

  Then, I see him. Eric.

  He’s leaning against the far mahogany pillar, nursing a whiskey, looking entirely too composed for a place this chaotic. He’s tall, sharp-jawed, and utterly unaware that he’s already been claimed. He’s the new meat—fresh, uninitiated, and pulsing with that kind of nervous energy I love to dismantle.

  My friends try to pull me back into their orbit, but I wave them off with a flick of my wrist. I don’t ask for permission; I simply arrive. I weave through the crowd, the air parting for me as if by command. When I reach him, I don’t bother with the pleasantries of a polite introduction. I slide into his personal space, my hand resting firmly on the lapel of his jacket. I can feel his heart stutter—a frantic, rhythmic betrayal of his cool exterior.

  “You look like you’re waiting for something,” I murmur, my voice dropping low enough to bypass his ears and settle straight into his chest.

  He blinks, looking down at me, his gaze tracing the curve of my silhouette. The realization hits him in waves: he isn’t the hunter tonight. He’s the prize.

  “I was,” he whispers, his voice betraying a hint of surrender.

  I offer him a slow, serrated smile. I’ve already won, and he hasn’t even taken his first sip of the night. I loop my arm through his, pulling him toward the door. Tonight, Eric belongs to me, and the best part? He’s going to love every second of it.