My hand leaves his belt buckle, the cool metal imprint lingering on my fingertips.
I take one deliberate step back, the sound of my heel on the polished floor a sharp punctuation.
My gaze drops, and there it is—the blatant, undeniable truth of him straining against the fine wool of his trousers, a thick, swollen line of need that makes my own breath catch.
I lift my right foot, slowly, letting him watch the movement, letting the sharp, black point of my stiletto heel hover in the air between us.
His eyes are locked on it, his chest rising and falling in a ragged rhythm that fills the silent room.
I press down.
Not hard. Not a strike.
But with a firm, undeniable pressure, right onto the swollen length of him, the tip of my heel finding the rigid heat beneath the fabric.
A ragged, br
