Natalia squirmed in the leather chair, the slick surface sticking to her bare thighs. Every slight movement created a soft peeling sound that seemed to echo through the room. The simple act of breathing had become an exercise in torture—the black silk camisole sliding against her hardened nipples with each inhale, making her bite back a whimper.
Twenty-three minutes. Only twenty-three minutes had passed, and she was already losing her mind.
Her eyes darted to Satori, who leaned against the wall with that infuriating half-smile. How could he look so composed when her entire body was a live wire? His casual stance, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded—it was a performance designed to drive her mad.
"I need another drink," she announced, pushing herself up from the chair.
