"Fine. I suppose that's… acceptable."
"Acceptable?"
"Don't push your luck, Mr. Maxton."
She kissed him—quick, teasing—tongue flicking against his once before she slid off his lap.
Her legs wobbled the second her feet hit the floor. Her core still throbbed—pussy swollen, gaping slightly, entrance fluttering with aftershocks, cream still leaking down her inner thighs in slow, sticky trails.
She'll be feeling him—his tongue, his fingers, the ghost of that promise—for days.
And he hadn't even fucked her yet.
Yet.
Phei watched her dress—watched her try to reassemble the composed, untouchable professional. She mostly succeeded. Cardigan buttoned. Skirt smoothed. Hair tucked behind one ear.
But the flush on her cheeks betrayed her. The slight tremor in her fingers. The way she couldn't quite meet his eyes without her breath hitching, without her thighs pressing together like she was already aching for round ten.
That was fine.
He'd see her tonight.
