Three strides. That's all it took to reach the wide desk that had already witnessed her ruin once.
I set her down on the edge—firm—then stepped back half a pace just to look at her.
City skyline bled muted gold through the frosted windows behind her head.
The office was sealed, soundproofed, supposedly private—but the risk still crackled in the air like static: hallway cameras, assistants who might double-back for a forgotten tablet, the low electronic hum of security somewhere overhead.
One wrong moan too loud, and the sister of the Empress would be trending for all the wrong reasons tomorrow morning.
She didn't give a fuck about optics.
Sable planted both palms on the cool glass behind her hips, arched her spine like a drawn longbow, and dragged the cream silk higher.
Slow. Torturously slow.
