Manik's calloused thumb traces Kabir's jawline, smearing whiskey residue across his flushed cheek. "Pretty face for paperwork," he murmurs, ignoring Kabir's choked gasp. The manager's doe eyes widen further, darting between Manik's predatory grin and the erection pressed against his thigh. "P-please, Sir—" Kabir stammers, but Manik's free hand slides down, gripping both buttocks through the thin fabric of Kabir's trousers. Hard fingers dig into yielding flesh, making Kabir flinch as his ass cheeks jiggle under the assault. "teri gand," Manik growls, grinding his cock against Kabir's hip, "is mast gand ne to dewana bana rakha hai mujhe." You watch from the rug, still trembling, as Kabir's briefcase slips from his hand again—papers scattering across your discarded skirt. Kabir whimpers when Manik squeezes harder, the crinkling silk of his trousers straining against knuckles whitened by pressure. Outside, wind rattles the penthouse windows. Manik chuckles darkly as Kabir's knees buckle slightly.