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Anna Valentina, John Price Pic(s)
The low hum of the computer was the only sound competing with the frantic rhythm of her heart as she leaned over the polished mahogany desk, her blouse gaping just enough to reveal the delicate lace edge of her bra. The scent of his cologne, a dark mix of sandalwood and bergamot, clung to the air, intoxicating her senses with every shallow breath she took. Her fingers, usually so precise on the keyboard, trembled slightly as she traced the cool, smooth grain of the wood, imagining it was the firm line of his jaw. A flush of heat bloomed across her chest, creeping up her neck as she recalled the way his gaze had lingered on her lips during the morning briefing. She could almost feel the phantom weight of his hand on the small of her back, a possessive pressure guiding her through the crowded office. The simple act of straightening a stack of papers became a slow, deliberate motion, her wrist bending gracefully as she savored the tension coiling deep within her abdomen. Each rustle of parchment was a whisper agat the overwhelming silence, a promise of the friction she desperately craved. The world outside the glass walls blurred into ignificance, the city lights becoming nothing more than a distant constellation agat the intimate darkness of the office. In that suspended moment, every fiber of her being was attuned to the empty chair behind the desk, aching for its occupant to return and make real the vivid fantasy unfolding in her mind.
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