The penthouse office was a cathedral of dark wood and leather, lit only by a single brass lamp that cast long shadows across the Persian rug. Adrian Cross was seated behind a desk the size of a small altar, a monolith of mahogany polished to a mirror gleam, when Elena walked in. He did not look up from the document he was reading, merely lifted one finger in a silent command to wait.

She stood in the center of the room, the hem of her dress brushing her bare thighs. She had obeyed his instructions: no panties, no brassiere, just a slip of charcoal silk that hung from two thin straps. Her nipples were already peaked, visible through the delicate fabric, and the cool air of the office whispered against the damp heat gathering between her legs. She had been wet since the elevator began its ascent, knowing what awaited her.