Sable had been razor-sharp the entire time, firing questions, negotiating terms like a shark who smelled blood in the water. Professional. Impeccable.

And the whole time I'd been the perfect gentleman.

Hands folded on the conference table. Eye contact polite. Voice calm, measured, charming. Just a slow pulse of my Taboo abilities and Lust Presence. Only that, on a low scale.

She'd relaxed, inch by inch, thinking she'd won the round, while she bathed in my abilities and auras. Thinking the lobby stunt had been the peak of the tension, and now we were just two powerful people doing powerful-people things.

Wrong.

The moment the last document was signed and the assistants cleared the room, I stood, buttoned my jacket, and walked—not to the door—but around the table.

Slow. Deliberate.

Sable looked up from her tablet, that cool, victorious smile still playing on her lips.

"Something else?" she asked, arching a brow.

I didn't answer with words.

I stopped right beside her chair, close enough that the heat of my body brushed the bare skin of her arm where her sleeve ended. Then I leaned down, one hand braced on the table, the other on the back of her chair—caging her without touching her.

Her breath caught. Just once.

"You had your fun downstairs," I murmured, voice low, velvet and steel. "Made me wait. Made me uncomfortable."

My fingers drifted—not to her skin, not yet—just above the inside of her wrist, tracing the air a millimeter from contact. Goosebumps rose instantly.

"Now it's my turn."

I let my knuckles finally graze her—barely. A ghost of a touch along the sensitive skin of her forearm, up to the crook of her elbow. Slow. Controlled.

Sable's lips parted. Her eyes flicked to my hand, then back to my face, that polished mask cracking at the edges.

"Eros~"

"Shh." My thumb brushed the hollow just beneath her ear, feather-light. "You've been thinking about this for months. Every time I walked into a room and looked at you like I could ruin you with a smile. Every time I left you wet and arching and pretending you weren't."

Another graze—this time along the side of her neck, following the line of her pulse. I could feel it racing.

"I'm not pretending anymore," she said, voice husky, trying for defiance and landing somewhere closer to surrender.

"No," I agreed, lips brushing the shell of her ear, not quite a kiss. "You're not."

My hand finally settled—palm flat against the center of her chest, just above the neckline of her blouse. Not moving. Just resting there, feeling her heart hammer against my skin.

Her nipples were already hard. Visible through silk.

I smiled.

"This is just the beginning, Sable."

My fingers spread, slow, possessive, thumb tracing the edge of her collarbone—once, twice—then dipping just beneath the fabric. Not enough to expose anything. Just enough to promise everything.

Her thighs pressed together under the table. A tiny, involuntary movement of my fingers, Touch fully on doing it's magic.

Good.

I pulled back an inch, letting the absence of touch ache more than the touch itself.

"Meeting's over," I said softly. "But we're not."

The city sparkled thirty-eight floors below like scattered diamonds on black velvet, but inside the room the only light that mattered was the one catching in Sable's eyes: dark, defiant, and already slipping.

She stayed seated, fingers pretending to scroll the tablet, but her knuckles were white and her shoulders too rigid.

I didn't rush.

I was dangerously close. Close enough that my shadow fell over her throat. Close enough that the thick, heavy heat of my cock—already half-hard from the scent of her alone—radiated against the small of her back through two layers of fabric.

She didn't move. But every fine hair on her nape lifted, as if my breath alone had stroked her.

I let the silence thicken until it was its own kind of touch—heavy, suffocating, electric.

My cock became rock-hard, thick enough that the ridge of it pressed against the seam of my jeans and radiated straight through the back of her chair, a silent, throbbing threat inches from her spine.

She felt it. I watched her spine bow the tiniest fraction, an involuntary arch that offered her throat like tribute.

Every fine hair on her nape stood up, quivering.

I let silence stretch and grow more until it was its own kind of torment—heavy, suffocating, soaked in the scent of her perfume and the sharper, unmistakable note of her arousal drifting up from between her clenched thighs.

Then I bent, slow enough that she tracked every millimeter, until my lips hovered a single, cruel millimeter from the shell of her ear.

I still stood directly behind her chair. Close enough that the thick, heavy heat of my cock (already fully hard, straining against my pants from nothing more than the scent of her perfume and the knowledge of what I was about to do to her) radiated against the small of her back through two layers of fabric.

She didn't move.

Then I bent, slowly, until my lips hovered a single millimeter from the shell of her ear.

"Your pulse is hammering so hard I can see it in your throat, Sable," I whispered, voice low and filthy.

"Tell me… is that because you're terrified a seventeen-year-old is about to make you come in your own boardroom, or because your married cunt is already clenching around nothing, begging for the cock you've been fantasizing about since the first time I looked at you like I was going to ruin you for every other man you've ever had?"

A broken sound slipped from her lips—half gasp, half moan—raw and feminine and nothing like the ice-queen who'd laughed at me in the lobby.

A tremor ran through her—tiny, delicious.

I smiled against her skin, letting her feel the scrape of stubble, the heat of my breath.

My hands settled on the back of her chair, caging her completely again, but still I refused to touch her.

Then my thumbs floated just above the delicate slope of her shoulders, close enough that she felt the phantom weight, the promise of what was coming.

"Tell me," I breathed, letting my lower lip graze the edge of her ear in the slowest drag imaginable, "when you orchestrated that little lobby stunt, did you picture yourself here? Sitting in your own boardroom, thighs clenched so tight it hurts, dripping into thousand-dollar lace while a seventeen-year-old decides whether or not you deserve to have your married, forty-something pussy absolutely wrecked?"

Her breath fractured. The tablet slipped from her fingers, clattering softly.

I smiled against her skin, letting her feel the curve of it.

"Because that's exactly what's happening, isn't it? You're soaked. I can smell it. Thick, creamy, ready to coat my cock the second I decide to feed it to you."

She turned her head—just enough that our mouths almost, almost brushed. Her pupils were blown wide, lips parted on a sound she hadn't let escape yet.

"You're very—" Her voice cracked, husky and raw. "Very confident for a boy who still gets carded."

"I am?" My right hand finally descended. One fingertip, nothing more, traced the hollow of her throat, then slid downward in a single, torturous line between her breasts.

Silk whispered under my touch.

"And you're very sure you want my teenage cock splitting your grown-woman cunt open right here on your own conference table."

Her inhale was sharp enough to cut glass.

I let my thumb settle in the tiny dip at the base of her throat, feeling her heartbeat hammer against it like a trapped bird.

Then I dragged it lower—slow, merciless—between the swell of her breasts, stopping just above where lace met skin. Pressing. Claiming.

Her nipples were diamond-hard, straining against the thin blouse, begging.

I ignored them.

For now.

"Feel that?" I murmured, lips brushing the corner of her mouth, not a kiss, just the cruel promise of one. "That's months of you pretending you didn't want a barely-legal cock stretching you wider than your husband ever has. Months of stolen glances while you imagined me bending you over in front of all those old men and making you scream my name so loud the whole building knew who really owns this pussy now."

My thumb circled once—lazy, proprietary—then dipped just beneath the edge of her blouse, grazing the heated skin no one else in this building had ever seen flushed like this.

Her hips rolled, a helpless, hungry little motion she couldn't hide.

A soft, broken sound escaped her throat—half moan, half curse.

I simply let her feel me—let the thick, rigid line of my cock press against the back of her chair, inches from her spine, throbbing with every heartbeat so she knew exactly how hard a seventeen-year-old gets for a woman old enough to know better.

She shivered. A full-body tremor she couldn't hide.

Only then did I bend, achingly slow, until my lips hovered a single millimeter from her neck.

"Weeks," I continued, lips grazing the edge of her ear with every syllable, "of watching me across when we meet, while pretending you weren't soaked through your La Perla imagining my mouth right here.

"My tongue tracing this exact spot until your knees buckled and you had to grip the champagne flute so hard it nearly shattered."

Her head tilted—barely—an unconscious offering of more skin.

I took it.

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