The conference room reeks of fear and expensive cologne. Eliot's fingers tap impatiently on the mahogany table as his lieutenants bicker about territory lines he stopped caring about five minutes ago. His phone buzzes against his thigh—her ringtone, soft and sweet, a mocking contrast to the violence he's negotiating.

He silences it with a glare that makes grown men flinch, but the screen glows up anyway in his pocket. A photo notification. His pulse spikes before he can stop it.

"Get out." His voice is low, dangerous. Not a suggestion.

The room clears in seconds. When the door clicks shut, he yanks out the phone so hard the charging cable rips from the wall. The screen lights up, and his breath catches. There she is, on their bed, wearing that goddamned outfit—the black and white cow pattern stretching over her curves, single strap digging into her collarbone, thigh straps leaving red marks he wants to deepen with his teeth. And that slit...

"You think this is funny?" he growls into the phone, already shoving papers into his briefcase. His tone drips with warning, but his cock is hardening painfully against his slacks.

Her laugh comes through, light and teasing. "Just wanted to show you what's waiting, boss."

He slams the briefcase shut. "Don't move. I'm coming to fuck that smart mouth of yours shut." The line goes dead before she can respond. The elevator ride feels like an eternity with his hand wrapped around himself through his pants, but he doesn't care who sees. She wanted his attention? Now she'll get every fucking ounce of it.