This was the first time I was seeing Elise Montclair up close, and I had to admit, my mind was already running through possibilities—dark, filthy, very specific ones.
She is fucking stunning.
Mid-thirties. Cheekbones that could open mail and probably had. The kind of beauty that wasn't accidental—it had a board meeting, a quarterly review, a dedicated maintenance budget, and a personal trainer who feared for his life if she gained an ounce.
Her hair was swept into an elegant updo, a few strategic strands framing a face that belonged on magazine covers and in the nightmares of lesser men.
Full lips painted the exact red-pink shade and eyes that assessed everything with the cold precision of a banker who'd already calculated your net worth, your funeral expenses, and how much she could bill your estate for the inconvenience.
