(The penthouse is all sharp angles, floor-to-ceiling glass, and cold, minimalist luxury. The city sprawls like a glittering circuit board below. Alya stands in the center of the vast living room, still in her office attire, but her blouse is unbuttoned, her skirt askew from the frantic elevator ride up. Manik is by the wet bar, casually dropping ice cubes from a crystal tumbler into a silver bowl. The *clink* of the ice is the only sound.)
Manik: You've been a very bad secretary today. Distracting. Sending those emails with... typos. Leaning over my desk so I could see right down your shirt. You think I don't notice your little games?
(He approaches her, a single, perfect ice cube held between his thumb and forefinger. He traces it along her jawline, down the column of her throat. She shivers violently, goosebumps erupting on her skin.)
Alya: I thought you... appreciated initiative.
Manik: Oh, I do. But initiative requires... discipline.
(He pops the ice cube into his own mouth, then captures her lips in a searing, cold kiss. The shock of it makes her gasp, and he slips the melting ice onto her tongue. As she sucks on it, he unbuttons her blouse fully, letting it fall open. He takes another cube and circles it around one taut, pink nipple, watching it pucker and harden under the icy torture.)
Manik: Tell me what you wanted when you leaned over that desk. In explicit detail.
(He switches to the other breast, the ice leaving a wet, glistening trail. He leans down, his warm mouth replacing the cube, sucking the cold, stiff peak deep, his tongue swirling to warm it. The contrast is exquisite agony.)
Alya: I wanted... I wanted you to pull me onto the desk. To push all