By the time we descended the marble staircase at 3:00 PM, the energy in the mansion had shifted from a lazy poolside afternoon to a high-octane film set. Evelyn hadn't cut corners. She had mobilized a professional five-man camera crew, not high-tier like the ones we had from The Banghouse. They were the best in the business—guys who knew how to make skin look like velvet and shadows look like secrets.

​The "story" was simple but lethal: The Architect and the Heiress.

​I was dressed in a tailored, charcoal-grey suit—no tie, top two buttons of my crisp white shirt undone. I looked like a man who designed empires for a living and had no time for pleasantries. Sasha moved through the crew with a newfound fire, checking monitors and directing the lighting guys to kill the overheads in favor of warm, cinematic side-lighting. She was definitely good at this. Watching Holmes and Lana had given her experience.

​Evelyn was waiting in the foyer, draped in a sheer, floor-length silk robe that did nothing to hide the gold-chain bikini beneath. She looked like every bit of the $200,000 investment.The sheer, floor-length silk robe she wore was a pale champagne color that caught the afternoon sun, clinging to her damp skin like a second thought. It billowed slightly as she moved, revealing the lethal curves of her body—the tight, athletic swell of her abs and the soft, dangerous dip of her waist.

​Beneath the silk, the gold-chain bikini was a masterclass in provocation. The thin metallic links bit into her sun-kissed hips, shimmering against her olive skin, while the triangles of gold fabric barely contained the heavy, perfect swell of her breasts. Every time she breathed, the chains clinked with a soft, melodic sound that cut through the silence of the mansion.

​She leaned against a cold marble pillar, her hair a dark, tousled waterfall over one shoulder. Her eyes, darkened by smoky shadow, were fixed on mine with a predator's focus. She looked like a woman who was used to getting whatever she wanted—and right now, she wanted to see me break.

"The tour starts here, Mr. Hart," she purred, her eyes scanning my suit with an appreciative hunger. "I'm told the bones of this house are magnificent... but the interior needs a man with a more... aggressive vision."

​"I don't just modify houses, Evelyn," I replied, my voice a low, professional rasp as I adjusted my cuffs. "I dismantle them and rebuild them into something they were never meant to be. Let's see if your kitchen can handle the heat."

​The plan was set. We would move through the house, the tension building with every room, every brush of a hand against a marble countertop, until we hit the kitchen. The kitchen was the heart of the home—the place where things got messy.

​Sasha stepped behind the lead cameraman, her eyes sharp on the viewfinder. "Alright, everyone, focus. We're tracking the movement from the foyer to the island. Druski, Evelyn... on my mark."

​She paused, the power of the director's chair radiating off her.

​"And... Action."

...

The kitchen was a sprawling expanse of white calacatta marble and brushed gold fixtures, looking more like a laboratory for luxury than a place to cook. As we entered, the camera crew fanned out, their lenses capturing the cold, sharp lines of the architecture.

​Evelyn played her part to perfection. She glided past me, the silk of her robe whispering against my suit trousers. She leaned over the massive central island, her back arched, her fingers tracing the edge of the stone with a slow, deliberate friction.

​"The previous owner found this space too... clinical," she murmured, turning her head to look at me over her shoulder. Her gaze was a challenge, her lips parted just enough to be an invitation. "I've always felt a kitchen should be the most intimate room in the house. Don't you agree?"

​I didn't bite. I pulled a silver measuring tape from my pocket, the metallic snap echoing in the quiet room. I stepped into her space, but my eyes were on the cabinetry, not the curve of her hip.

​"Intimacy is a distraction from function, Evelyn," I said, my voice as cold as the marble. I leaned past her—close enough to smell the jasmine on her skin—and pressed the tape against the backsplash. "If the workflow is compromised, the whole structure fails."

​She didn't back down. She pivoted, pinning herself between me and the counter, her chest rising and falling against my lapel. She reached up, her fingers grazing the fabric of my suit, heading for my collar. "And what if the architect is the one who's compromised?"

​I caught her wrist mid-air. The camera crew zoomed in, capturing the contrast of my tanned, rugged hand against her delicate, pale skin. I looked down at her, my expression unreadable, my grip firm.

​"Then the architect finishes the job," I rasped.

​From the shadows behind the monitors, I heard Sasha's voice, sharp and authoritative. "Hold that beat. Camera two, get the close-up on Druski's eyes. Evelyn, tilt your head back. Let him see that you're losing the fight."

​Sasha was thriving. She wasn't just watching; she was sculpting the moment, turning the woman I was about to fuck into a masterpiece of cinematic submission. I was starting to have bright ideas about her Future. I wondered if she also saw what I saw.

The tension in the kitchen finally snapped. Evelyn stopped pacing like a caged panther and moved into my personal space, her silk robe fluttering like a warning flag. She was close enough that the heat radiating off her body hit me in waves, a intoxicating mix of high-end perfume and raw anticipation.

​She didn't start with a kiss. Instead, she let her hands slide slowly up the sleeves of my suit jacket, her fingernails lightly dragging against the expensive fabric. Her touch was possessive, tracing the hard lines of my triceps before her palms flattened against my chest.

​"You're so rigid, Druski," she breathed, her voice a low vibration that I felt more than heard. "Is it the suit? Or are you just afraid that once you start, you won't be able to stop?"

​Before I could answer, she dropped one hand. She didn't hesitate. Her fingers found the unmistakable, heavy ridge of my cock through the charcoal trousers. Even through the premium wool, the contact was electric. She let out a small, triumphant hum as she felt the pulse of my erection, her thumb tracing the length with a slow, agonizingly rhythmic pressure.

​"The architect has a very firm foundation," she whispered, looking up at me through her lashes, her eyes dark with a mix of performance and genuine hunger. "But I think it's time we see what's underneath the blueprints."

​Behind the camera, I heard the sharp, steady intake of Sasha's breath. This was the moment. The "Professional" was dead; the "Man" had taken over.

​"Sasha," I rasped, my gaze never leaving Evelyn's. "Tell the crew to move to the wide angle. I want the whole kitchen in the frame for this."

​"Already on it," Sasha's voice came back, surprisingly steady, though I could hear the thrill in it. "Camera one, pull back. Camera two, stay tight on their faces. Druski... she's all yours. Take her."

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