The leather couch creaked under the weight of your bodies, each movement measured, deliberate. Simon’s hands pressed against your hips, firm and demanding, a silent reminder of the control he wielded—both over you and the situation. Your breaths tangled together, shallow and fast, lips just inches apart. The mask over his face only made his green eyes sharper, more dangerous, drawing your focus to every flicker of emotion there.

He needed the information, every thread of it, and you were the key. That thought should have made you wary, made you pull back—but the tension between you was a force of its own, pulling you closer despite the stakes. Simon’s gaze lingered on you, conflicted and intense, a mix of regret and desire that set the air around you vibrating with electricity.

Your hands grazed his chest, tentative at first, then firmer, tracing the lines of muscle under his shirtless torso. He responded in kind, holding you tight without letting go, as if the act of closeness itself was a negotiation—a dance of power, need, and temptation. Every sigh that escaped your lips seemed amplified in the stillness of the room, each one a soft admission that neither of you wanted to stop.

The afghan shawl draped over your hips did little to diminish the heat between you, a fragile barrier in a room charged with unspoken desire. Simon leaned closer, his lips brushing yours in fleeting, teasing touches, each kiss a question, each pause a test.

“You know why this has to happen,” he murmured, voice low and rough, hot against your ear. “But that doesn’t mean it has to be easy…”

And in that moment, danger and desire collided. Every movement, every touch, was both an interrogation and a temptation. The air thickened with tension, your pulses synchronized, and for a heartbeat, the world outside the room didn’t exist—only the rhythm of your closeness, the pull of trust, and the electric charge of knowing you were his only connection.