The silence stretched, taut and electric, broken only by the faint hum of his computer and the unsteady rhythm of her breathing. The cool air of the office kissed her bared knees. His fingers were still poised on the waistband of his trousers, that unreadable, dark emotion still swimming in his ocean-blue eyes.
And then, the spell cracked.
A low, rough sound rumbled from his chest, a chuckle so unexpected it seemed to startle even him. The intense focus in his gaze dissolved into something else, something just as unnerving: pure, unadulterated amusement.
"Get up."
The command was flat, devoid of the heated promise of a moment before.
Linnea blinked, her mind struggling to catch up. Her body, thrumming with a confusing mix of adrenaline and shameful anticipation, felt heavy and uncooperative. She didn't move.
His eyebrow arched, a silent question. Is there a problem?
"I said, get up, Linnea." His voice was smoother now, a velvet-wrapped command. "On your feet."
Her muscles protested as she pushed herself up, the sleek fabric of her pencil skirt twisting tight around her thighs. She smoothed it down, a futile attempt to reclaim some scrap of her shredded professionalism. Her cheeks burned. She couldn't meet his eyes, choosing instead to stare at the pristine knot of his blue silk tie.
He didn't move from his chair, just watched her with that infuriating, amused detachment. He leaned back, the leather groaning softly in protest. "That was the obvious play," he mused, more to himself than to her. "Too obvious. A man of my standing, taking his... frustrations... out on a business associate under his desk. It lacks finesse."
Her head snapped up at that. Frustrations? Was that all this was to him? Another negotiation tactic? A way to vent?
"But you," he continued, his eyes roaming over her with a clinical interest that made her skin prickle. "You presented me with a far more interesting opportunity. All that righteous fire, that pretty, fake smile you use to mask how badly you want to scream... I think we can put on a much better show."
He gestured with a tilt of his head towards the floor-to-ceiling window behind him. The Seattle skyline sprawled before them, a twinkling grid of lights and ambition. Their reflection was a ghostly overlay on the cityscape: her, disheveled and flushed; him, cool and completely in control.
"They can't see in during the day," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Not from that distance. But at night... with the lights on in here and the darkness out there... it's a one-way mirror. We are on display for the entire city. And they haven't the faintest idea."
A cold thrill, shot through with pure terror, traced its way down her spine. Voyeuristic. The word he hadn't said hung in the air between them.
He reached into a drawer, his movements efficient. He didn't pull out what she expected. Instead, his hand emerged holding a single, elegant fountain pen, its black lacquer body gleaming under the recessed lights. He twisted it, and the nib slid out, menacing and sharp."Come here." It wasn't a request.
Hesitantly, her heels making no sound on the plush carpet, she took the two steps to his desk. He didn't touch her. He just pointed the nib at the center of her white silk blouse.
"Unbutton it."
Her fingers, trembling slightly, went to the first pearl button. It slipped free. Then the second. The third. She parted the fabric, revealing the delicate lace edge of her bra and the rapid, shallow rise and fall of her stomach. The office air felt shockingly cool on her exposed skin.
"Further," he instructed, his voice a low hum.
She opened the blouse completely, letting it slide off her shoulders to drape over the crooks of her arms, baring her torso from the waist up. She was on stage. The entire phantom audience of Seattle was her witness. Humiliation burned hot under her skin, but beneath it, a treacherous, shocking current of excitement began to flow. He was watching her so intently.
He uncapped the pen fully. The scent of rich, dark ink bloomed in the space between them. He leaned forward, his free hand coming up to splay across the small of her back, pulling her an inch closer to the desk. His touch was like a brand.
"Hold still."
The nib was cold against the warm, sensitized skin just above the lace of her bra. She flinched at the contact, a tiny gasp escaping her lips. He ignored it, beginning to move his hand. There was no pain, just the startling, slick pressure of the tip tracing a path across her skin. She watched, mesmerized, as a single, elegant word began to take form just below her collarbone. The ink was a shocking, wet black against her pale complexion.
He worked with a surprising concentration, his brow slightly furrowed. He was an artist, and she was his canvas. The silence was broken only by the soft scratch of the nib and the increasingly ragged sound of her own breathing. He moved down, tracing a slow, deliberate line down her sternum, the sensation making her muscles quiver. The control it required, to hold perfectly still while he marked her, was its own form of exquisite torture.
He finished with a final, flourishing stroke just above her navel. He leaned back to admire his work, his blue eyes flicking from the writing on her skin to her face, reading her reaction.
"Look at yourself," he commanded, his voice rough around the edges.
She forced her gaze down, her eyes struggling to focus on the words in the faint reflection in the polished mahogany of his desk.
Mine.
