Intentional.
Hand curled around that thick, gorgeous cock—pierced at the crown with that gold rose he never let anyone see but me.
I could almost hear his breath, the way it deepened just before he came, how his hips would lift as if trying to worship me with his release.
White semen spilling over the gold rose’s petals.
Him looking up at me—mouth parted, eyes blown wide with lust and devotion.
Hiroko stepped back, her gaze slicing over me and testing for softness. “You’re almost ready.”
“Not quite.” Zo got in front of me.
I eyed him. “What needs to be fixed?”
Zo moved in without a word. His eyes narrowed in full mission mode. His fingers went straight to my blouse, tugging it down with a sharp snap that made the fabric settle tighter against my body. The white satin was just sheer enough for the black lace of my bra to show through in the right light. Anyone could see the fullness of my breasts beneath it, the way they shifted ever so slightly with every breath, every move.
“I’ve got it.” He unfastened the top three buttons. “This blouse is dangerous. That little peek of lace? Men will be thinking about it for weeks. Especially when the girls jiggle like that. Make them bounce like you do.”
I smiled. “Like I do?”
He gave me a wink. “You know what I’m talking about. That was one of the ways you got me long ago. Do not pretend that you didn’t.”
I laughed.
He stepped back and studied me with a tilted head and a satisfied smirk. “There. That’s it. Just enough skin to make them risk sin. Not too much to make it easy.”
The neckline now dipped lower, just past modesty and into temptation—cleavage sculpted, the shadows between my breasts teasing with every small, natural shift. My bra lifted them just right. The lace caught the light.
Zo whistled. “Your breasts are lethal.”
“I must agree.” Hiroko nodded. “Now look in the mirror, Nyomi.”
I turned and drank myself in.
Damn. I’m a femme fatale.
Zo had painted my lips a deep lush plum. The color made my dark brown skin look like velvet lit from beneath—molten, dangerous, alive.
Smoked shadow ringed my eyes. The liner pulled into a razor-fine wing. My lashes curled upward, thick and fluttering, while my cheekbones were contoured to perfection.
My 4C curls had been swept into a sculpted power bun, tight and regal at the crown. Not a single coil out of place.
The blood-red patent leather stilettos gleamed—slick as a fresh wound. The toe, vicious. The arch, obscene. The red sole—Christian Louboutin's wicked signature.
My black pencil skirt hugged my hips. The slit was high enough to hint at ruin. When I walked, it would show a flash of my thigh.
Above it, my white satin blouse clung sheer against my dark brown skin—soft, feminine, anddangerous.
The black lace bra underneath didn’t just show.
Itperformed.
My breasts shifted subtly as I moved, full and proud, commanding attention without apology.
I didn’t look like someone headed to a meeting.
I looked like the reason meetings were called.
