I was pretty sure I was walking funny. No, scratch that. I was definitely walking funny, and every step sent a razor-sharp reminder of exactly what had just happened in Theodore Delacroix's impossibly sleek, very public office—a moment that now felt like a fever dream etched into my very skin.
My blouse was a lost cause — buttons scattered across his pristine floor like fallen soldiers, silent witnesses to our... encounter. I clutched the fabric closed, my fingers trembling slightly, hoping the crowded elevator and lobby wouldn't notice my thoroughly ravished state. The last thing I needed was to run into anyone I knew looking like I'd just been thoroughly... well, thoroughly consumed.
I needed to get home. Now.
Just as I got off the lift, my phone buzzed. A text from Theodore.
"Tomor
