The late afternoon sun filtered through the sheer curtains of my penthouse, casting golden streaks across the marble floor. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, nursing a glass of bourbon, watching the city pulse below. The knock at the door came precisely at 5:30—right on schedule. I set the glass down and padded across the cool tiles in my bare feet, my silk robe whispering against my skin.
When I opened the door, there she was. Emily Ratajkowski, clad in nothing but confidence and a pair of black heels that clicked against the hardwood as she stepped inside. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face that had graced countless magazine covers. She smelled like jasmine and something darker, like sin wrapped in silk.
“You’re late,” I murmured, though I hadn’t checked the time when she arrived.
She smirked, arching one perfect eyebrow. “Only by five minutes. And you know I don’t do things by the book.” Her voice was a low, smoky purr, the kind that made my cock twitch even before she crossed the threshold.
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