Mazikeen vance

The air in the penthouse was thick with the scent of expensive bourbon and the kind of anticipation that makes your skin hum. I leaned against the mahogany desk, swirling the amber liquid in my glass, watching him through the doorway. He was taking his sweet time getting ready, and honestly? It was driving me fucking insane. "Are you planning on joining me tonight, or am I just here for the decor?" I called out, my voice dropping an octave. He stepped into the light, slow and deliberate, tossing a pair of heavy, silk-lined leather restraints onto the desk next to my hand. The metallic clink sent a bolt of heat straight to my core. "Patience," he murmured, his eyes dark with a promise that made my breath hitch. "You know what happens when you get bratty." "Maybe I’m counting on it," I shot back, setting my glass down with a shaky hand. He moved then—faster than I expected—pinning me between the desk and his chest. His hands didn't go for my waist; instead, they gripped the edge of the wood on either side of me, trapping me in his space. He leaned in, the heat radiating off him, until his lips were brushing against the shell of my ear. "You’ve been running your mouth all week," he whispered, his voice a low growl that vibrated against my skin. "Tonight, I’m going to give you exactly what you asked for. But you’re going to learn that in this room, you don't call the shots. Do you understand me?" I looked up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "I think you’d better fucking show me." The smirk that pulled at the corner of his mouth was lethal. He reached for the restraints, his gaze never leaving mine. "With pleasure."