Fake Agent UK
Ian Tate, Lena Frank Pic(s)
Her heels clicked a slow, deliberate rhythm against the marble floor, each step a silent promise that tightened the air between them. The low light caught the curve of her throat as she tilted her head, and his gaze traced the line of her shoulder with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. He felt the heat of her presence before she even spoke, a familiar warmth that pooled low in his belly and made his breath catch. Her fingers, cool and sure, found the knot of his tie, and the simple act was a question whispered against his skin—an invitation he had no will to refuse. The scent of her perfume, something dark and floral, wrapped around him like a second embrace, blurring the edges of the room until only they remained. She knelt with a grace that belied her years, and the anticipation in her eyes was a liquid fire that made his pulse drum against his ribs. The first touch of her lips was not a kiss but a revelation, a slow unraveling of every careful thought he had ever held. Her hair brushed his thighs like silk, and the soft sounds she made were a language of pure longing, spoken only in the space between their bodies. He surrendered to the exquisite pressure of her devotion, his hands threading through her hair as a low groan escaped him, a sound of raw, unguarded pleasure. The final, shuddering release was a shared secret, a tide of heat and connection that left them both breathless, her gaze rising to meet his with a satisfied, knowing smile.
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