She slid off the desk with slow, liquid grace—legs unwrapping from his waist like silk falling away, feet finding the floor without sound, her body still pressed to his in lingering worship.
Her hands never left him: one stayed splayed on his chest, feeling the thunder of his heart like war drums; the other trailed down his sternum, nails dragging lightly over skin still marked from her earlier kisses—faint red trails blooming like sacred sigils.
She sank to her knees.
Not hurriedly. Not submissively.
Like a goddess descending to claim an offering she had every right to take—slow, regal, inevitable.
Her eyes never left his even as she knelt—dark, glittering, pupils blown wide with ancient, ravenous hunger. The long midnight dress pooled around her like spilled starlight; the silk whispered against the carpet as she settled, thighs pressed together, back straight, chin tilted up so she could still hold his gaze even from below, a queen on her knees before her equal.
