Nurumassage
Paige Owens, Dan Ferrari Pic(s)
The air in the office was thick with the scent of old leather and her expensive perfume, a silent testament to the late hour. He watched, mesmerized, as she slowly traced the rim of her crystal glass with a single, polished fingernail, the faint *ting* a punctuation mark in the quiet room. The city lights far below painted her silhouette in streaks of gold and shadow, highlighting the elegant curve of her neck as she tilted her head. Every movement was deliberate, a languid stretch of a cat that brought the fine fabric of her blouse taut across her chest. He could feel the weight of her gaze, a physical touch that traveled from his tense shoulders down to the hands clenched on his knees. When she finally spoke, her voice was a low, husky murmur that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards, a secret meant only for him. She rose, the whisper of silk stockings agat skin the only sound as she moved around the desk, her hips swaying in a hypnotic rhythm. Her shadow fell over him, cool and enveloping, before her warm hand came to rest on his shoulder, her thumb pressing into the knot of muscle there. In that charged silence, the unspoken promise of her proximity was a more potent reward than any promotion could ever be.
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