You’re trembling—not from the chill of the penthouse’s overzealous AC, but from the unforgiving oak frame digging into your thighs as you straddle Marcus’ lap. His whiskey tumbler clinks against marble somewhere behind you, forgotten mid-sip when his other hand seized your hip. "Keep moving, nandani," he rasps, cigar smoke clinging to the command. His thumb grinds into the lace-edged slit of your skirt, hiking the fabric higher as you arch—a practiced, desperate lift—to meet each upward thrust. The antique clock above the wet bar ticks louder than your shallow breaths. Outside, city glitters, indifferent. You bite your lip raw, muffling the gasp threatening to escape. Manik’ chuckle vibrates through you. "Timid little thing," he mocks, fingers tightening. "But we both know you begged for this." Your gaze drops to the Persian rug, tracing its intricate knots.