Dominic was breathing like he'd just done CrossFit for the first time, and his body was filing a formal, complete with emotional damages and a demand for hazard pay.
Wet hand still hovering. Chest heaving. Face cycling through colors like a mood ring having a seizure in the middle of a psychedelic crisis.
The whole office smelled like sex and the slow, theatrical death of a man's ego—somewhere between a high-end perfume called "Regret" and the faint, unmistakable tang of a marriage that had just been publicly vivisected with surgical precision and zero anesthesia.
Somewhere in this building a janitor was going to find this room tomorrow and just… quit.
Just keys on the desk, a long drive home, and a sudden, burning desire to move to a monastery in Tibet where nobody ever had sex on mahogany desks.
I didn't even look at him at first.
I fixed my belt. Slow. Buckle through the loop.
