I don’t knock. Privilege of mates.
Her office is exactly what I expected when she first described her vision: large windows overlooking the crystal spires, practical furniture softened by personal touches, and her particular brand of chaos scattered across every surface. Holographic stickers decorate her terminal. Pink accents appear in unexpected places—a throw pillow, a stylus, the frame around our wedding photo on her desk.
She’s reviewing something with Zip when I enter, pink hair longer now and pulled back in a style that’s almost professional. Her clothes are appropriate for a branch director—which means she’s added unauthorized modifications to the standard OOPS uniform that somehow make it look better.
“WE HAVE A VISITOR.”
“I noticed, Zip.”
She looks up. That smile—the one that’s just for me, sharp and soft at once—still hits me like a solar flare. A year of waking up next to her, and I’m still not immune.
I hope I never am.
“Lord Valorian.” She leans back in her chair, eyes dancing with mischief. “Here to distract me from work?”
“Would I do that?”
“Constantly.” She waves a hand at the stack of datapads on her desk. “Some of us have actual responsibilities. Courier routes to approve. Logistics to coordinate. A branch to run.”
“And yet you’re looking at me like you’d rather be doing something else.”
Through the bond, I feel her pulse quicken. She hides it well—she’s had a year to practice—but I know her tells now. The way her breath catches. The slight flush at her throat.
“I have a meeting in twenty minutes,” she says, but her voice has gone slightly husky.
“Then I’ll be efficient.”
I circle the desk. She swivels her chair to track my movement, and I see her thighs press together beneath her desk. The bond shimmers between us, anticipation building like heat haze.
“Rynn.” She’s trying for stern. It’s not working. “I’m serious. I have—”
“A meeting. You mentioned.” I stop behind her chair, close enough that she can feel my heat radiating against her back. “You also haven’t stopped thinking about last night since you woke up.”
Her breath catches audibly. Through the bond, I feel the spike of arousal she’s been suppressing all morning—hot, insistent, a slow burn that matches the ache already stirring low in my belly.
“That’s cheating,” she says. “Using the bond to read my mind.”
“It’s not your mind I’m reading.” I lean down, my lips brushing the sensitive shell of her ear, my voice a low rumble that I know makes her shiver. “It’s your body. Every time you shifted in that chair, I felt it. Every time you crossed your legs, trying to ease the ache between them...”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar.”
I spin her chair to face me and catch her chin, tilting her face up. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with want, but that stubborn set to her jaw tells me she’s not going to make this easy.
Good. I prefer it when she fights.
“Admit it,” I murmur, my thumb stroking along her lower lip. “You’ve been wet since breakfast. Aching for me. Imagining my hands on you, my mouth, my cock stretching you open.”
“Maybe I’m just excited about my meeting.”
“Your meeting is about shipping manifests.”
“I find logistics very stimulating.”
I can’t help it—I laugh. A year of marriage, and she still surprises me. Still challenges me. Still makes me work for every inch of surrender.
“You,” I say, pulling her to her feet, “are a brat.”
