Chapter One

Carlos was a tempest of conflicting signals. His body throbbed, a singular, undeniable urge pulling him deeper, while his mind screamed a desperate retreat. Shame, fear, and a deep-seated respect battled with the raw, overpowering current Reverie had ignited. He felt himself tremble, his hands still uselessly suspended in the air.

"Ma'am, please," he managed to choke out, his voice hoarse, a desperate plea. He finally found the courage to push against her shoulders, a tentative, almost apologetic shove. "I'm… I'm sorry. I won't do this again. Please."

Reverie’s eyes, which had been blazing with playful mischief, softened, blurring with a feigned vulnerability that twisted Carlos’s gut. Her lips formed a delicate pout, and her voice dropped to a soft, injured murmur. "Oh, Carlos," she whispered, her 'baby eyes' fixed on his. "You don't want to kiss me? Or touch me? Am I that bad of a woman for you?"

The question, laced with a hint of challenge and a potent dose of manipulative charm, struck Carlos dumb. Before he could process the impossible words, Reverie moved with a sudden, fluid grace. Her hand shot up, her fingers wrapping around his neck, not with malice, but with a firm, possessive grip that left him no room to breathe, let alone protest. In the same motion, she shifted, half-splitting her legs to sit on his lap, her pelvis pressing down hard, grinding against his straining arousal.

A low gasp tore from Carlos's throat. Her body, soft and yielding, yet utterly dominant, pulsed against him. He felt the slick heat through their clothes, a testament to her own arousal. She made her intentions crystal clear; there was no room for misinterpretation now. His body throbbed, a desperate, aching pulse between his legs, but his mind clung to its last vestiges of control.

Reverie felt his hesitation, the last thread of his resistance. A slow smile, private and knowing, touched her lips. She loosened her grip on his neck, allowing him to gasp. Then, her fingers began a slow, deliberate dance. They trailed from his collarbone, tracing the heated skin of his chest, before one finger dipped, teasingly, to the waistband of his trousers, her nail barely brushing the sensitive skin. As she did so, she leaned in, biting softly on his earlobe, the gentle nip sending a shiver through him.

"If you won't do it, Carlos," she breathed against his ear, her voice a low, dangerous purr, "I will do it with someone else."

That was it. The final, shattering blow to his self-control. The idea of her, so utterly captivating and demanding, with anyone else, ripped through his remaining restraint. His hands, which had been frozen, finally moved, clenching into fists, then releasing.

"No!" he rasped, his voice raw with a sudden, fierce possessiveness. "No, you can't! I'm… I'm ready! What should I do now? Tell me!"

A soft, triumphant chuckle escaped Reverie's lips. She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, now wide and unfocused with desperate hunger. "Is this your first time, Carlos ?

He swallowed hard, his face flushed, eyes darting from hers to his engorged crotch. "Ye-yes."

Reverie’s smile was knowing, almost tender. She took his still-trembling hands and guided them to her hips, pressing them firmly into the curve of her waist. "Good. Keep a firm grip, sweetheart. I’ll do the honors."

With a languid grace that belied the burning intensity between them, she reached down, her fingers deftly unzipping his trousers. She pulled his throbbing penis free, her touch light, confident. A low groan escaped Carlos’s lips as she gave him a few soft, teasing jerks. He was already leaking pre-cum, thick and clear, a testament to his suppressed desire. But Reverie wasn't ready for climax. Not yet.

She pressed her thumb against his swollen tip, meeting his eyes, holding him captive with her gaze. "Your hands feel empty," she whispered, her voice husky. Without breaking eye contact, she took one of his hands from her hip and guided it, slowly, deliberately, to her breast. "Let me fill them."

Carlos’s fingers splayed against the soft, warm curve of her breast, the delicate fabric of her compression top the only barrier. Reverie began to move, a slow, sensual grind against him, her hips rotating, pressing his aching penis against her, inviting him deeper. A low moan escaped her throat, a raw, uninhibited sound that fueled Carlos’s burgeoning desire. She was wet, so wet, the heat of her seeping through their clothes, a promise of shared pleasure.

"Move with me," she commanded softly, her voice thick with arousal, her own breathing growing ragged. She arched against his hand, urging him to explore, to grip firmer. Carlos, his mind swimming, his body in an agony of pleasure, tried to fit her whole breast into his hand, a futile, fumbling attempt. But his fingers, guided by her subtle nudges, found the soft skin beneath her top, brushing against the silk of her bra, then finally, the bare, yielding warmth of her skin. Her nipple, hard and erect, sprang to attention under his hesitant touch.

Reverie gasped, a sharp, ragged sound of pleasure, her hips picking up their rhythm. She stroked his penis lightly, her touch sending fire through him. Carlos groaned, a deep, guttural sound, his fingers now kneading her breast with a desperate hunger. The cabin filled with their escalating sounds: the soft groans, the wet presses of skin against skin, the ragged breaths. He found her other breast, hands now desperate to cup, to squeeze, to consume. His control shattered, melting into pure, unadulterated sensation. Reverie arched against him, her head falling back, a primal moan tearing from her throat as she found her own release, her body trembling violently against his. A moment later, Carlos convulsed, crying out her name, his whole body shaking as he poured himself into the contact, his own shattering climax leaving him utterly spent against her.

Sudden notifcation on her mobile ?

Reverie, who is this now at this hour I just had an amazing time with .....and thud she is knocked out because of the drinks obviously.

Next day

The city lights bled across the penthouse windows, a glittering tapestry Reverie rarely bothered to appreciate. Her focus was always internal, on the delicate balance of her own carefully constructed world. Tonight, that world was about to collide with someone else's.

She adjusted the silk slip, the fabric a whisper against her skin. Midnight blue, it clung to her curves, a prelude to the evening's fleeting intimacy. He was a tech billionaire, new money, old desires. Predictable. Exactly what she sought in these encounters. No complicated emotions, no lingering questions. Just the raw, fleeting connection of bodies, a temporary escape from the weight of her other life.

A notification buzzed on the burner phone hidden beneath a pile of discarded cashmere. It wasn't the billionaire confirming his arrival. This tone was different, a sharp, almost imperceptible ping that only one person used. Carmine.

Reverie’s fingers stilled their tracing of the cool silk. A cold ripple, not of fear, but of anticipation, ran through her. Carmine never called her outside of established operational channels unless it was urgent. And personal. The two words rarely coexisted in her lexicon, especially when it came to him.

She retrieved the phone, its screen glowing with a single, encrypted message:

Conference room. 0100. Solo.

The time was an hour from now. Her evening plans, meticulously laid out for a night of uncomplicated pleasure, evaporated like smoke. The billionaire would be left waiting, a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things.

Slipping out of the silk, Reverie moved with practiced ease. The penthouse, rented for this specific liaison, quickly shed its seductive veneer. Lingerie was replaced by practical, dark clothing – flexible trousers, a fitted top, a lightweight jacket. Her hair, usually a cascade of artfully disheveled waves, was pulled back into a severe, efficient bun. The transformation was complete. The playgirl vanished, replaced by the ghost.

The drive across the city was silent, save for the low hum of her custom-built sedan. She navigated the maze of streets with an instinct honed by years of nocturnal missions. Her mind, usually a whirlwind of calculated risks and seductive maneuvers, was now a quiet pool of concentration. Carmine’s summons was unusual. "Solo" meant no intermediaries, no buffers. Just him and her, in the sterile heart of his operations.

She pulled into the underground parking garage beneath a seemingly innocuous corporate building. The security was tight, a silent testament to the empire hidden within. Codes, retinal scans, biometric pads – all recognized her, letting her pass into the core of the Moretti world.

The conference room was exactly as she’d imagined: sleek, cold, dominated by a vast table of polished black granite. Carmine stood at the far end, silhouetted against the panoramic window that overlooked the city. His presence, even when still, was immense, a silent force that filled the room. He wore a dark suit, impeccably tailored, a stark contrast to the shadowy depths around him.

He turned as the heavy door hissed shut behind her. His eyes, dark and piercing, locked onto hers. There was no greeting, no pleasantries. Just the weight of his gaze, assessing, demanding.

"Reverie," his voice was a low growl, like gravel shifting over rock. "We have a problem."

What kind of problem do you think Carmine is facing that requires Reverie's unique skills and a direct, solo meeting?

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