The office was dim now, lit only by the city bleeding through the blinds in long, thin stripes of neon and starlight. The hum of the world outside was a distant pulse, a forgotten rhythm. Here, time had slowed to the languid beat of her own heart.
Catherine was sunk low on the couch, her body a long, slim curve against the leather. Her shirt had been the first thing to go, discarded in a heap on the floor.
Her naked upper body was a pale landscape in the gloom, the gentle curves of her ribs leading to small, perfect breasts—pert handfuls with deep rose nipples, thick and erect, pebbled tight in the cool air, begging to be twisted, sucked, bitten until they ached.
Her hair, usually a severe, elegant knot, was down, a dark cascade around her shoulders. She looked younger, softer, like she'd shed her armor along with her clothes.
But her eyes, fixed on the large screen on her wall, were burning.
And her hands were moving.
