Things get seductive

The soft click of heels on polished marble cuts through the air like a metronome of doom.

Velvet Vixen’s head jerks up, hair clinging to her cheek with sweat, chest rising and falling from all the useless struggling. Her wrists are sore, her ankles bruised where they’ve been pressed tightly against the velvet chaise for who knows how long.

But all of that fades—blurs—as Cleo Capone steps back into the room.

She isn’t wearing her signature suit anymore.

She isn’t holding a weapon.

She isn’t even pretending to play the boss.

No—Cleo’s returned in something far more dangerous.

A long black satin robe, slit high at the thigh, falls open at the front to reveal lace lingerie in blood red and noir black—something old-Hollywood and sinful. A fur stole drapes over one shoulder, ivory and decadent. Her curls are loose now, tumbling in soft waves. A thin cigarette smolders between two fingers, a trail of smoke rising like a ribbon behind her.

She leans against the doorway, crossing one leg over the other with languid grace.

“Still right where I left you,” she says softly, her voice like silk dipped in honey. “I was almost hoping you’d gotten loose. You looked so determined.”

Velvet Vixen’s only answer is the rise and fall of her breath—and the sharpness in her eyes, even as the rest of her is tied down and thoroughly undone.

Cleo pushes off from the doorframe and approaches slowly, hips swaying, never breaking eye contact.

“You know…” she murmurs, circling the lounge like a lioness around her caged prey, “I always thought you were just some glitter-drenched fangirl with a thing for ropes and trouble.”

She stops just beside the chaise and runs a single manicured nail along the sash binding Kendrick’s thigh to the lounge.

“But tonight? You were… impressive.”

Her hand drifts higher, resting lightly on Velvet Vixen’s stomach—flat, just below the corset line.

“You ruined a perfect heist. Took out two of my girls. Nearly caught me.”

Cleo smiles down at her captive.

“Which means you’ve earned this.”

She exhales a long, slow breath of smoke—not in Velvet Vixen’s face, but just close enough for the scent to linger—and steps back again, giving her a full view of the situation:

Cleo Capone, slinked out in lace and satin.

Velvet Vixen, bound spread-eagle in silk.

The air between them charged with heat and danger.