The Consul swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. His carefully maintained composure fractured, replaced by raw, undisguised desire. The muted sounds of the distant celebration – the fireworks, the music, the murmur of the elite – seemed a universe away, irrelevant noise beyond the heavy office door. Here, in the sudden, intense silence broken only by the faint crackle of the comms unit he hadn't bothered to switch off, the air vibrated with a different kind of energy.
Wanda remained perched on the edge of his desk amidst the wreckage she'd casually created, the picture of provocative stillness. The curve of her thigh, revealed by the slightly raised hem of her midnight silk dress, was a deliberate focal point, a challenge laid bare. Her dark eyes held his, unwavering, a mix of promise and cool command that stripped away his titles, his responsibilities, leaving only the man beneath, caught in her gravity.
He took a step forward, then another, the polished floor cool beneath his expensive shoes. The scent of her – that underlying floral note beneath the sophisticated perfume – seemed to fill the room, overriding the faint smell of ozone from the datapads and the aged wood of the desk. His carefully constructed world of order, protocol, and political maneuvering felt suddenly fragile, unimportant compared to the immediate, visceral pull she exerted.
"Wanda," he breathed, the name rough in his throat. Years of discipline, of calculated control, warred with the primal urge she ignited. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, not quite touching her yet.
She tilted her head slightly, the motion elegant, feline. "Still afraid of the dark?" she asked, voice velvet-soft, laced with amusement.
His brow furrowed. "No. Just what's in it."
She smiled at that, a quiet, razor-thin curve of her lips. "And here I thought you invited the dark in." Her eyes flicked to his hand, still hovering near her skin. "Or have you forgotten how to surrender?"
His fingers brushed her thigh, barely. The warmth of her skin ignited sparks up his arm. "You're assuming I ever did."
"That's the thing about you," she said, eyes narrowing. "You're always pretending to be the one in control. Even when you're already mine."
She shifted forward slightly, her leg brushing his. The movement wasn't rushed — it was deliberate, laden with power. A test. A statement. The air between them crackled.
He exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to close the space between them completely. "This—" he said, voice low, "—isn't wise."
"Wisdom's rarely fun," she murmured, leaning closer. "And you're tired of being the wisest man in the room."
The silence that followed was heavy, intimate. He stared at her, this woman who had upended court and council with nothing but presence and precision, who moved through power as though she'd been born of it — no title, no House, no legacy but her own. And here she was, offering him a different kind of submission. One she controlled entirely.
He leaned in.
"I never stopped thinking about you," he admitted, barely above a whisper.
Her gaze didn't soften. But something shifted. Approval? Hunger? "Then stop thinking."
She pulled him in with nothing but presence, and he came willingly—not as the Consul of Hope, but as a man standing at the edge of a decision. His lips met hers not with desperation, but certainty. It wasn't a kiss; it was an agreement. A crossing of lines both of them had already redrawn in secret.
The office, already a mess of swept-aside protocol, faded into the periphery. Fireworks flashed behind thick curtains. The city roared outside, a cacophony of loyalty and illusion.
But here, in the shadowed heart of power, the rules were different—rewritten by touch, breath, and the tension between them.
The desk creaked beneath them.
She leaned back slightly, inviting but unreadable, her expression a study in control. He reached for her again—but this time, she turned her face just enough to deny him, not with rejection, but with purpose.
In the same breath, she lifted the hem of her gown higher.
There was nothing beneath it.
A perfect triangle of bare skin framed in smooth precision. Intentional. Inverted.
The Consul's breath caught. The reaction was immediate. Hunger. Awe. His pupils dilated, mouth parting as though caught in a spell. She smirked, pleased, the corners of her lips tilting with quiet satisfaction.
He opened his mouth, a word forming — but she silenced it with a whisper.
"Go ahead. Taste it."
He sank to his knees.
The moment hung suspended, primal and reverent. He exhaled once — then inhaled deeply. The scent of her undid whatever shreds of composure he had left. Slowly, he parted her thighs, his hands reverent on her skin. Then, carefully, with aching restraint, he leaned in.
His mouth met her — tentative at first, a slow reverence, lips exploring, learning. She let out a quiet, pleased sound, but it was not enough.
"More," she breathed, her hand threading through his hair, guiding. Demanding.
He obeyed. His tongue traced her, slow then faster, tasting every inch with deepening hunger. Her hand tightened in his hair, pressing him closer, anchoring him in place.
She rocked against him, moaning low, a sound that vibrated straight through him. He adjusted, matching her rhythm, letting her ride the sensation she craved. The control he surrendered only fed her more. Her pace quickened, hips rising, grinding. Her voice rose with her pleasure, sharp, guttural.
"Faster," she hissed, and he complied, his tongue relentless now, tracing and teasing until her thighs trembled. Her hand seized his head tighter, holding him still. "Stay."
He did. She rode the wave harder, grinding against him, her breath broken, her voice cracking around curses.
When the release hit her, it was sudden, unrestrained. A gasp, then a cry. Liquid heat spilled over his face, and still she didn't stop. Her moans crescendoed into a final, feral scream.
And he let her. Drenched, breathless, eyes glazed. He didn't care.
She collapsed back on her hands, chest heaving, eyes lidded but blazing. And the look she gave him now was something altogether different: possession and pride.
The Consul wiped his mouth slowly, his breath ragged.
He leaned back on his heels and let out a quiet, shaky laugh.
"gods," he murmured. "I've missed this."