Your breath catches as your hands brace against Arlecchino’s shoulders, her back warm beneath your palms. Her gloved fingers dig into your thighs as you straddle her lap, head on her shoulder too. The heat between you swells with every shift, every heartbeat. Her smirk is sharp—hungry—but her gaze on you is molten.

“You’re really not quiet, huh?” she murmurs, her voice like a velvet threat, teasing you with the truth.

“You caused this,” you whisper, half-laughing as your breath stutters.

Just as you sink closer, tangled in her, your rhythm syncing with hers, the shrill brrt of her encrypted phone vibrates against the nearby couch. She growls low in her throat. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You freeze, eyes wide, chest rising and falling. “Don’t answer it.”

Arlecchino snorts, but already her hand is reaching back and grabbing it, swiping to answer. “Speak,” she barks, her tone immediately cold, businesslike. You flinch slightly at the shift—Serious Arlecchino.

“It’s the Grand shipment,” a voice crackles on the other end. “They want to renegotiate the handoff time.”

She exhales slowly, still holding you on her lap, palm steady on your waist. Her eyes flick to you. “Then tell them they have two options: keep the time or lose the deal. I don’t give second chances.”

You feel the pressure of her hand return, guiding your movements subtly. You hesitate—but her fingers squeeze.

“Don’t stop now,” she mouths to you silently, eyes dark, lips tugging into that wicked grin.

You do your best not to make a sound as you move slowly, silently, every part of you burning. The thrill of it—her calm, commanding tone on the phone while you’re so close—sends sparks up your spine. She stays composed, as if the two of you weren’t lost in something secret and dangerous just beneath the surface.

Her eyes never leave yours.