Aimee leaned back in her chair, crossing one long leg over the other with unhurried grace, the deep slit of her pencil skirt shifting just enough to reveal the sheer lace edging of her stockings. Hunter’s gaze flickered downward—brief, controlled—but she caught it.
Good.
She let the silence stretch, knowing exactly how to wield it. Around them, the office remained quiet, the late hour ensuring privacy. The city lights spilled through the glass, painting a soft glow across the dark wood of the conference table.
“I think we’ve settled everything for tonight,” she murmured, tapping her manicured nails against the leather-bound ledger. “Unless, of course, you have any… lingering concerns.”
Hunter exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. His control was impressive—admirable, even—but she could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers pressed against the armrests of his chair.
“A few,” he said, voice rougher than before.
She smiled, standing with deliberate poise.
“Then let’s address them properly.”
Aimee stepped around the table, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. The fitted silk of her blouse skimmed her waist, tucked neatly into the waistband of her skirt. She could feel his gaze on her—assessing, waiting—but she gave him nothing easy, only the slow, deliberate slide of her fingers undoing the single button at her collar.
Hunter remained still, but his knuckles whitened where he gripped the chair.
“Tell me,” she murmured, moving behind him, her fingertips trailing lightly over the back of his chair. “What exactly are your concerns, Mr. Hunter?”
His breath hitched, just barely.
“You already know,” he said, voice dark with something dangerously close to surrender.
She smiled, stepping closer, until she could feel the heat radiating from his body. Then, slowly, she leaned in, her lips just brushing the shell of his ear.
“Then let’s be clear,” she whispered.
And with one smooth motion, she undid another button.
The shift in fabric was subtle but intentional—the soft silk parting just enough to reveal a glimpse of the black lace beneath. Not just lace. A structured, whisper-thin bra, the sheer cups tracing the elegant curve of her breasts, offering just enough coverage to tease.
Hunter let out a slow, measured exhale.
Aimee moved to his side, standing between him and the table, her hands resting lightly on the polished wood as she leaned forward just enough. The neckline of her blouse gaped slightly, and his eyes—dark and unreadable—dropped.
“You’ve been watching me all night,” she said softly. “Haven’t you?”
A beat of silence. Then:
“Yes.”
She hummed in approval, reaching for his tie, smoothing it between her fingers before giving it a slow, deliberate tug.
“Good.”
She let her fingers drift lower, unhurried, brushing the crisp fabric of his shirt. Then lower still, to the waistband of his trousers, where she paused, waiting.
The air between them crackled.
Hunter remained motionless, but his restraint was fraying at the edges.
Aimee leaned in again, her breath warm against his throat.
“Tell me what you want.”
His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists.
And finally, finally—he reached for her.
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