I stepped from the shower, skin still fever-hot, water beading along the carved ridges of my chest before I dragged the towel across it. Hair slicked back, dark and gleaming, I shrugged into the black shirt—damp fabric clinging instantly to pecs and shoulders like wet paint, every button pulling taut against muscle.
The penthouse breathed quiet menace: low city drone beyond armored glass, the ghost-scent of oud and fresh linen hanging in the air.
Nathalie stood framed against the windows, a black-and-cream silhouette haloed by the last molten gold of afternoon.
Charcoal blazer nipped at her wasp waist, cream silk blouse stretched obscenely over the heavy swell of her breasts—nipples already stabbing through like accusations.
The pencil skirt molded liquid-tight to her hips and the lush, upturned heart of her ass, ending high enough to bare the dangerous flex of her calves in those red-soled Louboutins. Tablet in one manicured hand. The picture of untouchable control.
