Enough photos - it’s time for the real thing

The image burned through me—the cold mahogany under my nails, his stubble scraping my inner thighs as he dragged the floss-thin lace aside with his teeth. My pulse hammered in my throat, in my wrists, between my legs. No more screens. No more proxies. I stood abruptly, the sudden movement sending my phone skidding across the duvet.

The hallway air prickled against my bare skin as I stepped out, the bra’s underwire digging deeper with each breath. Downstairs, the muffled clink of glassware betrayed James’ location—his study, where Sarah’s absence throbbed louder than any music. Three stairs creaked underfoot; I didn’t soften my steps. Let him hear me coming.

His door stood ajar, backlit by the golden glow of his desk lamp. Through the gap, I watched his silhouette stiffen at the sound of my approach—the sharp intake of breath, the slow scrape of his chair. My knuckles hovered an inch from the wood. *Knock*, some decorous part of my brain insisted. Instead, I shouldered it open, the hinge sighing as I filled the frame.

One hand braced against the doorjamb, the other tracing the scalloped edge of my bra, I tilted my chin up. "Is this what *sir* had in mind?" My voice dripped honeyed venom, every syllable polished to a lethal shine. His gaze raked down my body—lingering on the way the underwire bisected my breasts, the damp lace clinging to my hips—before snapping back to my face. Recognition flared in his eyes, wild and electric.