Mypervyfamily
Karen Fisher, Johnny Love Pic(s)
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind me, sealing me into the hushed, expectant silence of the office. His gaze was the first thing I felt, a palpable heat that traveled from the nape of my neck down the length of my spine as I walked across the plush carpet. The air itself seemed thick with the scent of old leather and his faint, expensive cologne, a woody spice that promised secrets. He stood from behind the vast mahogany desk, his movements fluid and deliberate, his eyes holding mine with an unnerving intensity. My new silk blouse whispered agat my skin with every quickened heartbeat, a sensation both delicate and acutely heightened. He extended a hand, and when my fingers met his, the contact was not a simple greeting but a slow, deliberate claiming, his thumb pressing firmly into my palm. A flush bloomed across my chest, warm and undeniable, as his low voice rumbled a welcome that felt more like a caress. The world outside the floor-to-ceiling windows blurred into ignificance, leaving only this charged space between us. In that suspended moment, I knew my real orientation had just begun, not to the company’s procedures, but to the unspoken power thrumming in the space between our still-joined hands.
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