Kyoto flashed her a quick, distracted grin. "Morning, Mariko." He didn't slow down. He knew the drill. Head down, move fast. Get to his cubicle before Elara materialized like the wrathful ghost of corporate punctuality. He pivoted towards the hallway leading deeper into the cubicle farm.
And that's when he saw her.
Elara Vance stood rigidly beside his cubicle partition, arms folded tight across her chest like a fortress wall. Her fitted charcoal blazer strained against sharp shoulders, the fabric swallowing what little curve existed beneath it. Her collarbones stood out starkly against the pale skin of her throat, sharp enough to draw blood. Kyoto's stride faltered for half a heartbeat. Seriously? He scanned the empty aisle. No Henderson file clutched in her talons. No urgent client call blinking on his phone. Just Elara. Waiting. Like a hawk perched over a mouse hole. Did this woman have nothing better to do?
He forced his feet forward, slipping past her into his cubicle. Her presence radiated cold fury, prickling the air. "You," she hissed, the word sharp as shattered glass. "Nine o'clock sharp, Kyoto. Not nine-oh-two dripping rainwater and smelling like..." Her nostrils flared, a flicker of disgust twisting her thin lips. "...a distillery's back alley." Her voice climbed, tight and venomous. "Do you think deadlines are suggestions? That policies are optional? Vance Consulting isn't your personal playground! I can fire you. I should fire you!"
Kyoto sank into his cheap office chair, the plastic groaning. He spun it halfway around, deliberately turning his back slightly to her rant. He logged into his computer, the screen flickering to life. Her words washed over him – shrill, predictable static. Fire me? A dry chuckle almost escaped him. She'd been threatening that since his third week. Yet here he was. Still. She'd fight HR tooth and nail if they tried to push him out. Why? Because beneath that glacier exterior, Elara Vance was obsessed. With him. With controlling him. With the chaos he represented that she could never touch. Her fury wasn't professional; it was deeply, personally invested. She loved the fight. Loved him, twisted as it was. Otherwise, she'd have delegated this morning ambush to some junior manager weeks ago.
His gaze drifted sideways, tracing her silhouette reflected dimly in his monitor. That rigid posture. The way her narrow waist tapered sharply above the flare of her hips beneath the pencil skirt. Small, yeah. Easy to grip. He could picture it vividly: her perched on his lap right here in this flimsy chair, those prim knees straddling his hips. Her blazer discarded on the floor. That icy composure shattered into gasps. Her small hands gripping his shoulders for balance, those sharp collarbones heaving as she rode him. Would she be quiet? Or would she finally scream? The fantasy was sharp, visceral. Kyoto shifted slightly, adjusting himself against the sudden tightness in his slacks. Shame was a luxury he couldn't afford right now.
Elara's tirade hit a crescendo. "...and the Henderson file! Where is the updated projection matrix? It was due yesterday! Did you even—" She broke off abruptly. Kyoto finally swiveled his chair fully to face her, meeting her furious glare head-on. Her face was flushed, two spots of high color burning on her pale cheeks. Her eyes, usually chips of glacial ice, blazed with a heat that surprised him. It wasn't just anger. It was… frustration. Raw, unspent energy crackling between them. Kyoto leaned back, a slow, deliberate smirk spreading across his face. He let his gaze travel down, lingering pointedly on the flat plane of her chest beneath the severe blouse. "Relax, Elara," he drawled, his voice low and deliberately rough. "Paper flat or not, stress isn't doing those nonexistent tits any favors."
Elara froze. The flush deepened, spreading down her neck like spilled wine. Her lips parted slightly, not in outrage, but in stunned silence. Her eyes flickered over him – the sleep-tousled brown hair sticking up at odd angles, the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the wrinkled shirt smelling faintly of cinnamon and sin. A choked sound escaped her, half gasp, half disbelieving laugh. "Y-Your hair," she stammered, her voice losing its razor edge, wobbling slightly. "It looks… ridiculous. Like you wrestled a badger." The insult lacked its usual venom. It sounded almost… flustered. Her gaze darted away, then back, unable to settle. Kyoto saw it then – the flicker beneath the fury. The want. Stark and undeniable.
Kyoto chuckled, low and knowing, watching Elara's composure fracture. Her fists clenched at her sides, knuckles white against the charcoal fabric. For a heartbeat, he imagined the sharp crack of his palm connecting with that taut curve of ass beneath her pencil skirt. So little of it, really. Just enough to sting. To make her gasp. To shatter that glacial control completely. The impulse fizzed hot and sudden in his veins. Do it. See those icy eyes widen with shock, then darken with something else. But he didn't move. Slapping Elara wasn't foreplay; it was a grenade tossed into a powder keg. Messy. Career-ending. Probably police-involving. He let the fantasy linger, savored the heat of it, then let it cool. Not today. Not with Henderson hanging over him like a guillotine.
Instead, he swiveled his chair lazily towards the cubicle partition. "Jenny," he called out, his voice slicing through Elara's furious silence. The blonde head popped up instantly from the neighboring cube, wide blue eyes blinking owlishly behind thick frames. "Yeah, Kyoto?" Her voice was pure sunshine and helium, gratingly cheerful even at nine AM. "Coffee. Black. Two sugars. Now." He didn't frame it as a request. It was an order, delivered with the casual authority of someone used to being obeyed.
Jenny's face lit up like a pinball machine hitting the jackpot. "Oh! Sure thing, Kyoto! Right away!" She scrambled up, nearly knocking over her ergonomic keyboard. Kyoto leaned back, tracking her movement as she scurried towards the break room. His gaze locked onto her ass, snug in cheap polyester slacks. It wasn't Bianca's masterpiece – that was Michelangelo carved from chaos and tequila. But Jenny's? It was magnificent in its own suburban way. High, round, bouncing with each eager step. A perfectly sculpted peach. He watched the hypnotic sway until she disappeared around the corner, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. Yeah. That view never got old. Almost made the fluorescent hellscape worth it.
Elara stood frozen, the flush on her neck deepening to crimson. The blatant dismissal, the way his eyes had followed Jenny… it was a slap she couldn't return. Her lips pressed into a bloodless line. "The Henderson projections," she hissed, the words tight, brittle. "My desk. By noon. Or pack your things." She spun on her stiletto heel, the sharp click echoing like gunshots down the aisle. Her retreat was stiff, furious, the rigid line of her back radiating pure, impotent rage. Kyoto watched her go, the narrow skirt straining over those scant curves. The fantasy flickered back: that ass in his hands, her gasping against his ear. He filed it away for later. Right now, he had a spreadsheet to massacre and Jenny's glorious return to anticipate.