🔥 Bonus Chapter: The Consultation

She’s My Favorite Client by Aurora North

An exclusive scene set three months after the epilogue.

💚 Thank you for reading! You made it to the bonus content — which means you’ve survived the consulting sessions, the corridor kiss, the Connecticut night, the tuxedo at the Frick, the kitchen counter, the charcoal suit, the coffee the color of good leather, and a love story that started with “Good. That’s better.”

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⚠️ Content Warning: This bonus chapter contains extremely explicit FF sexual content including oral sex, fingering, role-play, praise kink, and power exchange dynamics. This scene is significantly more explicit than the main novel. Intended for readers 18+ who have read She’s My Favorite Client.

The Consultation

An exclusive bonus chapter from She’s My Favorite Client
Set three months after the epilogue.

Three months after the epilogue. A Tuesday afternoon. Mara’s old office on East Seventy-Third.

I hadn’t been back since December—since the week I closed the file and walked out of Celeste’s apartment and spent ten days learning what loneliness tasted like when you’d gotten used to the alternative. Lena still ran the front desk. The leather chairs still angled toward each other. The bookshelves still smelled like paper and cedar.

But I wasn’t here for a session. Sessions were over. Quinn Collective was thriving, my roster was full, and the woman I loved was not my client. She was my partner. My person. The woman who reorganized my spice rack last week because she said alphabetical by cuisine made more sense than alphabetical by name, and I let her because watching Celeste Vale have opinions about turmeric placement was the most endearing thing I’d ever witnessed.

She’d called me an hour ago. “Come to the office at three. I need to discuss something.”

“My office?”

“Your office. Three o’clock. Don’t be late.”

Then she hung up.

Celeste doesn’t hang up on me. Celeste says goodbye and I love you and sometimes don’t forget to eat, and then she hangs up. The abrupt click was deliberate. Calculated. The move of a woman who has learned, from me, exactly how to deploy silence as a weapon.

I arrive at 2:58. The front room is empty—Lena’s desk is dark, her computer off. No appointments on the schedule. The office is closed for the afternoon, which means Celeste arranged this, which means she’s been planning.

The consulting room door is ajar. Warm light spills through the gap. I push it open.

Celeste is standing in the center of the room. In a charcoal suit.

My charcoal suit.

The armor suit—the one I wore to the session after the first kiss, the one I put on when I was trying to rebuild a boundary I’d already demolished. She took it from our closet. Had it tailored to her smaller frame—the trousers hemmed, the blazer taken in at the waist—and she’s wearing it now with the kind of authority that makes my blood pressure spike and my mouth go dry simultaneously.

The blazer is buttoned once at the waist. Beneath it: bare skin. No blouse, no bra, just the pale curve of her sternum visible between the lapels and the shadow of what’s underneath. On her wrist, my gold watch—the one I left on the nightstand this morning.

She’s standing behind a desk. A sleek, dark wood surface I don’t recognize—she brought in a desk—and she’s standing behind it with her hands flat on the surface and her chin tilted at the exact angle I use when I’m about to tell someone something they’re not ready to hear.

“Ms. Quinn,” she says. Her voice is cool, measured, professional. The consulting register. My consulting register, borrowed, polished, and aimed at me like a mirror. “Thank you for coming in. Please, have a seat.”

She gestures to the client chair. The leather chair where she sat for months while I read her, coached her, fell in love with her.

I sit.

“I’ve been reviewing your progress,” she says, coming around the desk. Her walk is unhurried—hips moving with a confidence that is one hundred percent learned from watching me and one hundred percent her own. She stops three feet from my chair. Crosses her arms. The blazer shifts, revealing more bare skin—the inner curve of her breast, the line of her clavicle. “And I have some concerns.”

“Concerns,” I repeat. My voice is steady. My pulse is not.

“You’ve been exhibiting some patterns I’d like to address.” She tilts her head—my move, my angle, devastating on her face. “You’ve been working through lunch. You’ve been checking your email after nine p.m. And you’ve been—” She pauses. Lets the silence do the work, the way I taught her. “You’ve been neglecting certain needs.”

“Which needs?”

She uncrosses her arms. Takes a step closer. “Physical needs, Ms. Quinn.” Her voice drops—lower, warmer. “You’re tense. Your shoulders are up. Your jaw is set. You look like a woman who hasn’t been properly taken care of in—” She checks the watch on her wrist. My watch. “About forty-eight hours.”

“I’d like to propose a corrective intervention,” she says. And sits on the edge of the desk. Crosses her legs. The tailored trousers pull against her thighs and the blazer falls open another inch and I can see the full inside curve of her left breast and my hands grip the armrests of the chair.

“What kind of intervention?”

She reaches out. Places one finger under my chin. Tilts my face up. The gesture is so precisely mine—the exact motion I used the first time I kissed her—that my breath catches audibly and something hot and liquid drops through my stomach.

“The kind where you stop being in charge,” she says. “And let me take care of you.”

“Celeste—”

“That’s not my name right now.” Her finger traces along my jawline. Down my neck. “Right now, I’m your consultant. And I’m telling you—” She leans down, her mouth close to my ear. “You need to relax.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here.” She pulls back. Looks at me. “Let me. Please.”

The please does it. The same word she used in the Hamptons, when I tried to take back control and she stopped me. Let me. Please. The word that means: trust me the way I trust you.

“Okay,” I say.

She smiles. The real one.

“Good,” she says. And the word—my word, the word that started everything—hits me now the way it’s always hit her. A key turning. A lock opening. My shoulders drop. My jaw unclenches. Something in my chest releases.

“Stand up,” she says.

I stand.

She steps behind me. Her hands find my shoulders—the same position I used during the posture coaching, the session where I first touched her and felt the ground shift beneath my feet. Her thumbs press into the tension between my shoulder blades.

“You hold everything here,” she says. “Every client, every session, every person you’ve ever taken care of. It lives right here.” Her thumbs dig in—firm, knowing. “You never let anyone work on it.”

Her hands slide down my arms. Find the buttons of my blouse. She undoes them from behind—slowly, each button a deliberate act, her fingers grazing skin as the fabric parts. The blouse falls open. Her hands move across my stomach—bare now, the cool air and her warm palms a contrast that makes me shiver.

“Arms up,” she murmurs.

I raise my arms. She pulls the blouse over my head. Drops it on the floor.

She unclasps my bra. Her mouth finds the back of my neck—a kiss, then a bite, the sharp press of her teeth against the top of my spine. I inhale sharply. Feel her smile against my skin.

“Turn around.”

I turn. She’s looking at me—bare from the waist up, standing in my own consulting room—and her gaze moves over my body with the focused, consuming attention that I recognize because it’s mine. She’s using it on me. And the experience of being looked at the way I look at her is almost more than I can stand.

“You’re beautiful,” she says. Not flattery. A diagnosis. “You never believe that when I tell you, so I’m going to keep telling you until it lands. You’re beautiful. Your body is beautiful. And the way you look right now—” She traces her fingertip from my collarbone to my navel, one slow, devastating line. “Standing here letting me look at you, with your composure coming apart—that’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Sit,” she says. Softer now. “On the desk.”

I sit on the edge of the desk. The wood is cool against the backs of my thighs. She stands between my knees. Her hands on my waist—thumbs stroking the hollows above my hipbones, the place where I’m most sensitive, the spot she discovered in the Hamptons and has been exploiting ever since.

She kisses me. Not the consultant’s calculated kiss—Celeste’s kiss. Warm, deep, thorough. Her tongue against mine, her hands sliding up my ribs, her body pressing between my legs in the borrowed charcoal suit.

I reach for the blazer button. She catches my wrist.

“Not yet,” she says against my mouth. “This is mine right now.”

My own words. Given back to me. The callback hits me in the chest and between my legs simultaneously, and I make a sound that is not composed.

She unbuttons my trousers. I lift my hips and she slides them down—trousers and underwear together, the same efficient motion I used on her that first night in Connecticut. She kneels.

She kneels.

Celeste Vale, in my charcoal suit, in my consulting room, on her knees between my legs, looking up at me with an expression that is equal parts worship and authority. The posture is submissive. The energy is not. She is kneeling because she wants to, not because I directed her there, and the distinction is everything.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” she says, her mouth close to my inner thigh, her breath hot against my skin. “About giving you back what you’ve given me. Every session. Every touch. Every time you said good and my whole body responded. I want you to feel that.” She presses her lips to my thigh. “I want you to know what it’s like to be the focus.”

“I can’t—”

“You can.” Her hands spread my thighs wider. “I know you can.”

She puts her mouth on me.

The sound I make fills the office. I don’t try to contain it—there’s no one to hear, no gala to return to, no performance to maintain. This is our space and she is on her knees and her tongue is tracing slow, thorough circles around my clit and I let the sound come out of me unfiltered, raw, the noise of a woman being unmade by someone who has memorized the specific pressure, the specific rhythm, the specific angle that turns precision into incoherence.

She learned this from the Hamptons. She’s refined it since. Her tongue moves with the deliberate, patient focus that I bring to everything—the attention that reads a body like a room, that finds what works and does it without rushing.

“That’s it,” she murmurs against me. “Let go. You don’t have to hold anything right now.”

Her fingers join her mouth—two sliding inside me while her tongue stays on my clit, and the dual sensation—the fullness and the pressure and the wet heat of her mouth—makes my hands find her hair and grip. Hard. She moans against me and the vibration sends a shock through my core.

“Celeste—fuck—”

“Tell me what you want.”

“Don’t stop. Don’t—right there—”

“Good,” she says. Against my clit. The word vibrating through me. “That’s better.”

I come with a violence that surprises us both. My back arches off the desk, my thighs clamp around her head, my hand in her hair pulls tight, and the orgasm tears through me in waves—long, rolling, seismic pulses that I feel in my teeth and my fingertips and the base of my skull. I am making sounds that are not words. I am holding onto her head like she’s the only solid thing in a dissolving world. I am shaking so hard the desk moves.

She stays with me. Mouth gentle, fingers still, riding the aftershocks with the patience of a woman who has all the time in the world. When my body finally stops convulsing, she withdraws—slowly, carefully—and presses a kiss to my inner thigh. My hip. My stomach. She rises from her knees and stands between my legs and she looks at me.

I am destroyed. Sitting on a desk in my own consulting room, naked, sweating, my hair wrecked, my composure in pieces on the floor next to my blouse. She’s still fully dressed in my suit. The power imbalance is complete and deliberate and the hottest thing that has ever happened to me in thirty-six years of being alive.

“Your progress is excellent,” she says. Calm. Professional. As though she’s delivering a quarterly assessment and not standing between my bare thighs with my taste on her lips. “I’m very pleased with what I’m seeing.”

I laugh. The laugh breaks open into something bigger—relief, love, the particular joy of being known so completely that someone can take your entire identity and turn it into a game you both win.

I grab the lapels of the charcoal suit—my suit, on her body—and I pull her to me. Kiss her. Taste myself on her mouth. Feel her smile against my lips.

“My turn,” I say.

“You’re supposed to be the client—”

“Session’s over.” I unbutton the blazer. One button. The fabric falls open and she’s bare underneath—nothing, no bra, no undershirt, just Celeste’s skin and the architecture of her body that I know by heart and still find devastating. “The consultant is off the clock.”

I spin her. Sit her on the desk where I was sitting—the wood warm from my body. I stand between her legs. The dynamic reverts—me standing, her seated, my hands on her waist—and the shift back to our natural register is so seamless it feels like breathing.

“You put on my suit,” I say, pushing the blazer off her shoulders. It falls behind her on the desk. “You borrowed my voice. My posture. My words.”

“I learned from the best.”

“You learned from me.” I unbutton her trousers. “And now I’m going to show you what the best does when she gets her turn.”

I pull her trousers down. Her underwear—black, simple, soaked through—comes with them. She’s dripping. The evidence of her arousal is everywhere—her inner thighs slick, the scent of her sharp and sweet, the physical proof that going down on me turned her on as much as it turned me inside out.

I don’t tease. Not today. Today I match what she gave me: immediate, focused, consuming. My mouth on her the moment the fabric clears. She cries out—loud, startled, the cry of a woman who expected buildup and got devastation instead.

“Mara—oh god—”

I grip her hips. Pull her to the edge of the desk. Bury my face between her legs and eat her like I’m proving a point, which I am—the point being that I may let her play consultant, I may let her borrow my suit and my words and my authority, but when it comes to this—to knowing her body, to reading every signal, to finding the exact rhythm that makes Celeste Vale lose the ability to form sentences—I am, and will always be, the expert.

She comes fast. Faster than usual—wound up from the role-play, from watching me come apart under her mouth. Her orgasm is a full-body event—her back bowing, her hands gripping the edge of the desk, her thighs shaking against my ears. She says my name like a prayer. Like a word she’s been holding in her chest and is finally letting go.

I bring her down slowly. Kiss the inside of her thigh. Her hip bone. The soft skin of her stomach. I rise and she’s lying back on the desk, bare and boneless, her honey-blonde hair spread across the dark wood, the charcoal blazer puddled behind her head like a pillow.

She’s smiling. Eyes closed. The consultant performance completely abandoned, replaced by something raw and warm and so open it makes my heart feel too large for my chest.

I climb onto the desk. Lie beside her. Two naked women on a desk in a consulting office on the Upper East Side at three-thirty on a Tuesday afternoon.

“I bought the desk,” she says. Eyes still closed. “Online. Had it delivered this morning. Roux helped me carry it upstairs.”

“Roux knows about this?”

“Roux carried a desk up three flights of stairs without asking a single question. That woman deserves a raise.”

I laugh. She laughs. We lie on the desk and laugh together and the sound fills the office—warm, real, the sound of two people who have earned every inch of happiness they share.

“Mara.”

“Hmm.”

“I was nervous. About the suit. About—all of it. I wasn’t sure you’d—”

“I loved it.” I press my lips to her temple. “The suit. The register. The ‘sit down, Ms. Quinn.’ All of it.”

“Really?”

“You looked at me the way I look at you. Do you know how that feels? To be on the other side of it?” I pull back enough to see her face. “It feels like being seen. The way you described it, the first time I asked you what you needed. The feeling of someone looking at you and not flinching.”

Her eyes are bright. She reaches up and touches my face.

“Good,” she says softly. “That’s better.”

“We should probably get dressed,” I say.

“We should.”

“We should also probably return this desk.”

“Absolutely not. This desk is ours now. I’m putting it in the apartment.”

“Where?”

“The bedroom. Obviously.”

“We don’t have room in the bedroom.”

“Then we’ll make room. I’ll move the bookshelf.”

“Don’t touch my bookshelf.”

“Our bookshelf. Our chaos.” She grins at me—the full, devastating grin. “And I want this desk in our bedroom because I want to remember today. I want to remember what your face looked like when I said ‘sit down, Ms. Quinn,’ and you sat.”

I pull her back down onto the desk. Kiss her—slow, thorough, the kind of kiss that says I see you and I choose you and you are my favorite thing in this life.

“You’re my favorite,” I murmur against her mouth.

“Favorite what?”

I smile. She knows the answer. She’s always known the answer.

I don’t say it.

I don’t have to.

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