𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎
❝ You will always and forever be Made For My Control Kyra, just as I was designed to be under yours ❞
𝐊𝐘𝐑𝐀 𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 a woman with passion and a fiery heart. As the youngest...
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"he didn't want her love; he wanted her soul, wanted to possess every secret she kept locked away." Unknown ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
𝐊𝐘𝐑𝐀 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐓 me, her cat-like eyes sharp and unyielding as they track my every move. I settle into the chair across from her desk, my head tilted slightly, mirroring her scrutiny. I assess her as the sunlight streaming through a nearby window catches her features, emphasising the glow of her golden-brown eyes. Her long, natural lashes casting faint shadows, a delicate veil over the shimmering orbs, though they do little to soften the intensity of her gaze.
The first few buttons of her fitted blouse are undone, offering a tantalising glimpse of the soft curves of her breasts. It's an intentional imbalance—structured professionalism disrupted by an edge of provocation, a contradiction as sharp and commanding as her gaze.
Her sharp grip tightens on the edge of her desk, knuckles blanching against her deep brown skin as I casually lift my loafers onto the pristine surface of her meticulously organised workspace. The tension radiates off her, but she says nothing, her eyes locked on mine in a silent challenge, daring me to push her further.
"What are you doing here?" she repeats, her voice tight, gritted teeth betraying her control. I mirror my earlier response, offering nothing but silence. Her question hangs in the air, unanswered, as I shift my gaze from hers, letting it drift slowly across the sleek, minimalist room that surrounds us. Every carefully placed item—organised, restrained—seems to echo the precise, controlled woman she is, a stark contrast to the mess I'm creating by simply existing in her space.
"You can't just—" she starts, but the words catch in her throat, her expression shifting ever so slightly. A flicker of something—uncertainty, frustration—passes across her face before it's quickly masked.
"Can't what?" I ask, leaning back in the chair, elbows resting casually on the arms. My fingers intertwine, the gesture deceptively relaxed, though I know better. It's a calculated ease, the calm before I push her just a little further.
She shakes her head, her expression flickering with disbelief before she straightens her posture, her eyes drifting toward her desktop. She blinks a few times, almost as if trying to clear the fog of a daydream, then looks back at me, clearly convinced that my presence in her office is some illusion her mind has conjured.
A long, exasperated sigh escapes her lips as she rolls her eyes, pushing my polished loafers off her desk with a quick, dismissive motion. She inhales deeply, as if preparing herself to speak to a child, her patience clearly thinning. "You can't be here," she states flatly, her voice a mix of disbelief and authority.
"Can't?" The word rolls off my tongue, laced with a hint of humour that doesn't reach my eyes. "Last I checked, I had an appointment with you at..." I drag the words out, checking my watch with deliberate slowness. "Six. It's now five minutes past the time we were supposed to start."
