🔥 The Hamptons Weekend 🔥

An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from CEO’s Sweet Secret

Thank You for Reading! 💚
You made it to the bonus content — which means you’ve survived the boardroom, the conference table, the executive washroom, the hotel window in Chicago, the private jet, the couch, the kitchen counter, and a napkin signed in highlighter ink. Thank you for giving Victoria and Sam your time.

← Back to CEO’s Sweet Secret

⚠️ Content Warning: Extremely explicit FF sexual content including hot tub sex, oral sex, strap-on sex, praise kink, silk restraints, edging, body worship, champagne play, multiple orgasms, and emotional intensity. Set between Chapters 14 and 15. Victoria’s POV. Readers 18+ only.

The Hamptons Weekend

Set between Chapters 14 and 15. Victoria’s POV.

Victoria’s Hamptons house had been empty for three years.

She’d bought it during the divorce — not because she wanted it, but because Marcus wanted it, and Victoria Lang did not lose assets in a settlement. The house was a trophy she’d never displayed: five bedrooms, a private beach, a heated infinity pool that overlooked the Atlantic, and not a single photograph on any wall. She’d visited twice. Once to sign the deed. Once to confirm the property manager was doing his job. Both times she’d stood in the kitchen and felt the particular, accusatory silence of a house that knew it was unloved.

She was standing in that kitchen now, and the silence was gone.

Because Sam was in the shower. Singing. Off-key, at full volume, a Rosalía song that Sam had been playing on repeat for a week and that Victoria pretended to tolerate and secretly loved because Sam’s voice cracked on the chorus in a way that was objectively terrible and subjectively the best sound in the world.

This was the weekend after the holiday party. After Marcus. After the bar and the threat and the word complications delivered like a blade. Victoria had woken on Saturday morning with Sam beside her and the city grey through the penthouse windows and the specific, suffocating weight of a woman carrying a secret she couldn’t put down.

She’d said: “Let’s go somewhere.”

Sam had looked at her. Read the seismograph. “Where?”

“I have a house. In the Hamptons. I’ve never taken anyone there.”

“You have a house in the Hamptons and you’ve never mentioned it?”

“It didn’t seem relevant.”

“A beach house. In December. That you own. Didn’t seem relevant.”

“Pack a bag, Samantha.”

They’d driven out in Victoria’s car — the town car, the one with the driver, because Victoria did not drive on Long Island if she could help it. Two hours of highway, Sam’s feet on the dashboard (a violation of automotive etiquette that Victoria had stopped protesting after the third occurrence), the city falling away behind them until there was nothing but sky and scrub pine and the particular, expansive quiet of the East End in winter.

The house was cedar and glass. Modern, the way Victoria’s penthouse was modern — clean lines, open floor plan, the architecture of a person who valued control over comfort. But the Hamptons house had something the penthouse didn’t: the ocean. Visible from every room, audible through every wall, the permanent, rhythmic presence of something larger than ambition, larger than strategy, larger than the specific, tightening knot that had been forming in Victoria’s stomach since Marcus said complications.

Sam had walked through the house the way she walked through everything — with open curiosity and the absolute refusal to be intimidated by square footage. She’d tested the couch (firm, expensive, unloved). She’d opened the refrigerator (empty, impeccable, the refrigerator of a woman who treated food as fuel rather than pleasure). She’d found the deck — the wide cedar platform that overlooked the private beach — and stood in the December wind with her hair whipping and her arms spread and said, “Victoria. This house is incredible and I’m furious you’ve been hiding it.”

“I wasn’t hiding it. I was ignoring it.”

“That’s worse.”

She was right. It was worse. The house was beautiful and empty and waiting, the same way the penthouse had been beautiful and empty and waiting before Sam’s sneakers appeared by the door and the Okayest Strategist mug appeared in the cabinet and the family photographs appeared on the refrigerator. Victoria collected spaces the way other people collected art — acquiring them, maintaining them, never inhabiting them.

Sam was going to change that. Sam was already changing it, standing on the deck in a borrowed sweater with the Atlantic behind her and the expression of a woman who had just been given a beach house to love and was going to love it comprehensively.

They spent Saturday being domestic. The word felt foreign in Victoria’s mouth — domestic, the adjective of couples and kitchens and the ordinary, unremarkable business of sharing a space. They grocery-shopped in Montauk (Sam leading, Victoria trailing with the cart, bewildered by the concept of choosing produce). They cooked together — pasta, not arepas, because the Montauk grocery didn’t carry the right corn flour and Sam declared this a regional failure. They ate on the deck in sweaters and blankets, watching the grey Atlantic churn beneath the grey December sky, and the greyness was not depressing. It was intimate. The color of a world that had gone quiet so two people could hear each other.

After dinner, Victoria opened the hot tub.

It was on the lower deck — recessed into the cedar, surrounded by glass panels that blocked the wind without blocking the view. The tub was large enough for six, because Victoria’s real estate was always scaled for entertaining she never did. The jets were powerful. The water was 104 degrees. The steam rose into the December night like a signal.

Sam appeared on the deck in a towel. Just a towel — white, hotel-sized, wrapped around her body in a way that made Victoria’s hands itch with the specific, focused need to unwrap it.

“The ocean is right there,” Sam said, looking at the dark water beyond the beach. “And we’re getting into a hot tub.”

“The ocean is forty-two degrees. The hot tub is one hundred and four. I’m choosing the mathematically superior option.”

“You choose everything mathematically.”

“I chose you. The math on that was terrible.”

“And yet.” Sam dropped the towel.

Victoria had seen Sam naked dozens of times. In offices and hotel rooms and the penthouse bedroom where the city light painted her body in amber and white. She knew this body — the curves, the constellation tattoo, the golden skin that darkened in summer and held warmth in winter. She knew it the way a scholar knew a text: intimately, comprehensively, with the accumulated knowledge of repeated study.

And still. Every time. The breath caught. The chest tightened. The specific, involuntary response of a body encountering beauty it couldn’t become accustomed to.

Sam stepped into the hot tub. The water closed over her hips, her waist, settling at her chest. Steam curled around her face. Her hair was up — the messy twist, the one held by a single clip, the one that Victoria loved to pull loose.

Victoria followed. She’d already removed her robe — standing at the edge in nothing, the December air sharp against her skin, the contrast between cold air and hot water a physical shock that landed in her body like a reset button. She lowered herself into the tub. The heat surrounded her. The jets pulsed. The Atlantic roared somewhere in the dark, invisible, permanent.

They sat on opposite sides. Three feet of churning water between them. The glass panels framed the night — black sky, no stars (overcast, the same blank ceiling that Manhattan produced), the distant line where ocean met darkness.

“This is nice,” Sam said.

“It’s adequate.”

“You and that word.” Sam stretched her legs out under the water. Her feet found Victoria’s thigh — the same tactic from the conference room, the under-table foot, the gesture that had become their shorthand for I’m here, I want you, close the distance. “Come over here.”

“You come here.”

“You’re the CEO. Lead.”

Victoria moved through the water. The tub’s current resisted — the jets pushing against her — and the resistance was its own kind of foreplay, the physical effort of crossing distance, of closing the gap between wanting and having that had defined every stage of their relationship.

She reached Sam. Settled beside her — hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, the water chest-high on both of them. The heat was enormous. The jets pulsed against Victoria’s lower back. The stars were invisible. The world was this tub, this woman, this night.

Sam turned her head. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“You look different here.”

“Different how?”

“Younger. Less armored. Like the Hamptons version of you hasn’t gotten the memo about being a CEO yet.” Sam’s hand found Victoria’s under the water. Laced their fingers. The emerald ring — promise ring, not yet wedding — pressed between their palms. “I like this version.”

“This version has no cell service. She’s operating under duress.”

“This version is relaxed. It’s alarming.”

Victoria kissed her. The water made everything slower — the approach, the contact, the way their bodies drifted together in the current. The kiss tasted like the wine they’d had at dinner (Malbec, the same one from the first penthouse night) and the salt air that clung to everything out here. Sam’s mouth was warm, soft, responsive — the mouth that had learned Victoria’s over months of locked doors and was now finding her in the open, in the steam, in the specific freedom of a place where no one could see.

Victoria’s hand moved underwater. Sam’s waist. Her hip. The curve of her ass, bare under the surface, skin made silky by the water and the heat. She pulled Sam toward her — a gentle tug, a redirection, and Sam went willingly, swinging her leg over Victoria’s lap, straddling her in the churning water.

The position was new. They’d been face to face before — the couch, the twin bed — but the water changed the physics. Sam was buoyant in Victoria’s lap, the weight distributed, the gravity reduced. She floated against Victoria with the specific, weightless intimacy of two bodies suspended in warmth.

“The jets,” Sam said. Her voice had changed — lower, breathier, the register that said the talking phase was ending and the feeling phase was beginning. “Victoria. The jets are —”

“I know.” The jets were positioned at hip height. Pulsing against the small of Sam’s back, the pressure reverberating forward through her body, and Sam was straddling Victoria, and the vibration was conducting through both of them — a shared frequency, mechanical and relentless.

“Is that why you suggested the hot tub?” Sam’s hips moved — an involuntary roll, her body responding to the jet pressure. “Was this calculated?”

“I calculate everything. You know this about me.”

“You’re diabolical.”

“I’m thorough.”

Victoria’s hand slid between them. Under the water. Finding Sam’s center with the specific, practiced precision that four months of study had produced. The heat of the water made everything softer, smoother — her fingers gliding through silk, finding the swollen nub of Sam’s clit, pressing. Sam’s hips bucked. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub.

“Oh god—”

“The neighbors can’t hear you. We’re on five acres.”

“I don’t care about the neighbors—” Sam’s arms wrapped around Victoria’s neck. Her face pressed into Victoria’s shoulder. The steam enveloped them — a private cloud, a curtain drawn between their bodies and the rest of the world. “I care about what your hand is doing.”

“What is my hand doing?”

“Making me — oh — making me reconsider every opinion I’ve ever had about hot tubs.”

Victoria worked her slowly. The water was an accomplice — buoyancy allowing Sam to move freely, the jets providing a baseline of stimulation that Victoria could build on. Her fingers inside Sam, two, crooking forward with the precision of a woman who had mapped this terrain by touch. Her thumb on Sam’s clit, circling in the rhythm that she knew — from the conference table, from the washroom, from every locked-door encounter — made Sam’s breathing fracture.

But tonight wasn’t about the locked-door rhythm. Tonight was about the Hamptons version. The slower version. The one that existed in the space between urgency and devotion, where the goal wasn’t climax but connection, the sustained, body-temperature warmth of two people holding each other in water and in trust.

“Look at me,” Victoria said.

Sam lifted her head. Her eyes were dark — blown wide, the pupils eclipsing the brown, the expression of a woman deep in sensation and rising. Steam clung to her eyelashes. Water droplets ran down her neck. She was, in this light, in this steam, in this moment, the most beautiful thing Victoria had ever seen, and Victoria had seen board meeting victories and IPO celebrations and the Manhattan skyline at dawn.

“I love you,” Victoria said. Not as a preamble to anything. Not as a catalyst for escalation. As a fact. Present tense. Continuous. The same way she’d said it on the jet, the same way she’d said it in the kitchen, the same way she would say it — she was beginning to understand — every day, for the rest of her life.

“I love you too.” Sam’s voice was shredded. Beautiful in its destruction. “Now please — please — don’t stop.”

Victoria didn’t stop. She increased — the pace, the pressure, the curl of her fingers against the front wall that made Sam’s thighs clamp around her waist and her hands grip Victoria’s shoulders hard enough to leave marks the water would heal. The jets pulsed. The steam thickened. The ocean roared in the dark, and Sam’s breathing joined it — ragged, desperate, the specific respiratory pattern of a woman approaching a peak she couldn’t control.

“Come for me,” Victoria whispered. The words that always undid Sam. The words that had started on a conference table and had traveled through washrooms and hotel windows and the thousand private moments that constituted their intimacy. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

Sam came in Victoria’s lap. In the hot tub. Under the December sky. The orgasm was a wave — appropriate, given the setting — that crested through her body and transferred through the water to Victoria’s, a shared tremor, a mutual vibration that was part physics and part love. Sam cried out — not the muffled sound of the office or the controlled sound of the hotel. A full, open, unrestricted cry that carried across the private beach and the five acres and the Atlantic night and belonged to no one but them.

Victoria held her through it. In the water. In the steam. In the specific, temporary paradise of a Hamptons hot tub on a December night, where the world was warm and the noise was distant and two women were learning that the best version of love wasn’t the locked-door version or the boardroom version but the version that existed in the open — under sky, beside ocean, with five acres of nobody watching and nothing to hide.

Sam’s breathing slowed. Her grip loosened. She slumped against Victoria — boneless, buoyant, the specific post-orgasmic limpness of a woman who had been taken care of and was resting in the aftermath.

“Your turn,” Sam mumbled against Victoria’s neck.

“Later.”

“Not later. Now.”

“Sam, you can barely hold your head up.”

“I can hold other things.” Sam’s hand slid down Victoria’s stomach. Under the water. Found her — already wet beyond what the water could explain, the arousal of a woman who had spent thirty minutes giving pleasure and was now vibrating with the need to receive it. “Oh. Victoria. You’re —”

“I know what I am.”

“You’re soaked. And not from the tub.”

“Can we not narrate — ah —”

Sam’s fingers found her. Directly, confidently, with the specific certainty of a woman who had been studying Victoria’s body for months and had earned the equivalent of a PhD in what made her fall apart. Two fingers inside, thumb on her clit, the same architecture Victoria had used — given back, reciprocated, the mirror image that was becoming the defining feature of their sex life. Equal. Mutual. Neither one giving without receiving.

Victoria’s head fell back against the tub’s edge. The December sky was above her — grey, overcast, blank. She closed her eyes. Felt the water. Felt Sam’s hand. Felt the jets against her back and Sam’s thighs still wrapped around her and the specific, terrifying, beautiful act of being touched by someone who knew her completely and loved every version, including the one that gasped and gripped the tub’s edge and whispered please to a woman from Washington Heights in a hot tub in the Hamptons on a December night.

She came quietly. The way she used to — the controlled release, the held breath, the bitten-back sound. But Sam’s hand found her face, turned it, and said, “Let me hear you.”

And Victoria let go. The second orgasm — because Sam didn’t stop, didn’t withdraw, kept the rhythm, kept the pressure, built on the first climax like a wave building on a wave — hit harder. Louder. The sound that escaped was the sound from the couch, from the twin bed, the unfiltered sound of a woman who was learning that control and pleasure were not the same axis and that the pleasure was better — immeasurably, transformatively better — when the control was gone.

They floated in the aftermath. Two women in a hot tub, tangled and spent and steaming. The jets pulsed. The ocean breathed. The night was enormous and they were small and the smallness felt, for once, like enough.

“We should get out,” Victoria said eventually. “Before we dissolve.”

“I’ve already dissolved. I’m liquid. You’ll have to carry me.”

“I’m not carrying you. You weigh —”

“Choose your next words very carefully, Victoria Lang.”

“— a perfectly appropriate and attractive amount.”

“Smart woman.”

They climbed out. The December air was a slap — forty degrees against wet skin, the shock of re-entering the world after the suspended warmth of the tub. Sam yelped. Victoria wrapped her in the towel — the same towel, retrieved from the deck, cold now — and pulled her inside.

The house was warm. They’d left the fireplace on (gas, remote-controlled, because Victoria’s real estate came with the specific luxuries of the extremely wealthy). They collapsed on the couch — the firm, expensive, previously unloved couch — and Sam curled against Victoria and Victoria held her and the house, for the first time in three years of ownership, had people in it who were happy.

“This is what the house was for,” Sam said. Sleepily. Into Victoria’s collarbone.

“I bought it because Marcus wanted it.”

“No. You bought it because you were waiting for someone to bring here. You just didn’t know it yet.”

Victoria looked at the fireplace. The flames. The dark windows beyond them, the ocean invisible but audible, the constant, rhythmic reminder that some things were larger than strategy.

“I was waiting,” Victoria said. “Yes.”

Sam fell asleep on her chest. Victoria held her. In the Hamptons house, in the firelight, with the ocean outside and the steam still rising from the hot tub on the deck. She held Sam and felt the specific, quiet revolution of a woman who was beginning to understand that the houses and the penthouses and the corner offices were never the point. The point was always this: someone to hold. Someone to cook for. Someone who sang Rosalía off-key in the shower and dropped towels on the deck and said what are we with the courage of a person who deserved an answer.

The answer was: we’re everything.

Victoria held Sam. The fire burned. The ocean breathed. The house was full.

With love,
Aurora North