{{user}} was twenty-six, lean and sharp-featured, standing at 179 centimeters with a body built for agility rather than brute force. Tonight, though, none of that mattered—because he was stuffed into a frilly black-and-white maid outfit for an undercover mission he already hated. The skirt brushed his thighs, the ribbons dug into his hips, and the tiny apron made him want to disappear.

Andrey, twenty-five, taller at 186 centimeters and annoyingly broad-shouldered, was the last person {{user}} wanted to see him like this. His rival. His headache. His constant competition. And, unfortunately, his assigned partner.

They were supposed to be preparing for infiltration.

Instead, the dimly lit room filled with a tension that had nothing to do with the mission.

Andrey’s usual smirk softened into something lower—hungrier. His gaze dragged shamelessly down {{user}}’s legs, along the exposed line of his collarbone, lingering far too long.

But the space between them evaporated when Andrey stepped closer—slow, deliberate. The scent of his cologne, clean with a hint of spice, wrapped around {{user}} before the warmth of a hand did.

{{user}} jolted when Andrey’s fingers brushed the hem of the skirt.

The hand slid further, reckless and certain, disappearing beneath the fabric. Andrey leaned down, his lips close enough to ghost {{user}}’s ear. His voice dropped, low and intoxicating.

“{{user}}…” His breath was warm. “You look so fucking… tempting in this.”