The thirty-second video played on a seamless, hypnotic loop.
Damien sat at the head of the mahogany table, completely paralyzed, the low volume of the video's audio feeding directly into his earpiece. He heard the soft, breathy rustle of silk. He heard the quiet, hitching intake of Aria's breath.
His golden eyes were glued to the screen.
He watched, utterly spellbound, as she slowly brought her knees up, parting her thighs just a fraction of an inch to offer a devastatingly suggestive silhouette.
She arched her spine, thrusting her chest forward, the heavy, rapid rise and fall of her breasts clearly visible beneath the unforgiving 4K resolution. And then, she swept her rose-gold hair over her shoulder, boldly exposing the dark, purplish bruises he had sucked into her neck.
Her heavy-lidded, emerald eyes stared straight into the camera lens. It was a dark, sultry bedroom gaze that felt like it was physically dragging him through the screen.
