Cyril
The drive from the Vance Conglomerate headquarters to the manor had been a masterclass in psychological torture.
For the last thirty minutes of the workday, the air in Alan’s private cabin had been practically combustible.
Every glance exchanged over a legal brief, every brush of our hands as documents were passed, had felt like a spark dropping into a powder keg.
The urge to lock the heavy oak doors and surrender to the hunger right there on his desk had been a physical ache, a suffocating pressure that made breathing difficult.
When we finally escaped to the parking garage, the restraint had nearly snapped entirely.
The moment the doors of the Mercedes closed, sealing us away from the prying eyes of the corporate world, Alan had reached across the console.
His hand had
