Puretaboo
Bella Rolland, Mike Mancini Pic(s)
The hushed whisper of wool agat silk was the only sound as his knuckles, brushing agat the hem of her skirt, sent a tremor up her thigh. He leaned in, ostensibly to point at a figure on the screen, but the heat of his chest radiated through the crisp cotton of his shirt, a palpable force field agat her back. The scent of his cologne, a dark blend of sandalwood and bergamot, filled the space between them, intoxicating and sharp. Her breath hitched as his finger traced a slow, deliberate line down the spreadsheet, its path mirroring the one her pulse was racing along her neck. The starched collar of his button-down felt surprisingly soft as it grazed her cheek when he turned his head, his whisper a warm, low vibration in her ear. Beneath the polished veneer of the mahogany desk, her knees pressed together, a futile attempt to quell the liquid warmth pooling low in her belly. Every calculated movement, every professional gesture, was layered with a subtext so thick it was almost a physical presence in the sterile, air-conditioned room. The world outside the glass walls dissolved into a blur of city lights, irrelevant agat the intense focus of his gaze, which dropped for a fleeting, searing moment to her parted lips. This deliberate, agonizingly slow dance of almost-touches was a contract more binding than any document on the screen, a promise of what would happen when the pretense finally fell away.
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