POV Mira The last spreadsheet closed with a satisfying click, and I leaned back in my chair, stretching my arms over my head until my shoulders popped. The office was quiet now-most people had already gone home. Just me, the hum of the air conditioner, and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. I gathered my bag and phone, ready to make my escape before anyone decided to rope me into some "quick" end-of-day meeting. I stepped into the elevator, watching the digital numbers tick down. Halfway to the lobby, the doors slid open, and I froze. "Well, hello, Mira." Milo stepped inside like he owned the place, his smile warm and far too self-assured. He took my hand before I could react and, with a flourish that felt stolen from another century, kissed the back of it. "Milo," I said, my tone half-surprised, half-guarded. "Oh, so you can tell us apart now?" he teased, a playful glint in his eyes. I couldn't help but laugh, rolling my eyes. He leaned against the railing, studying me like I was part of one of his paintings. "So, what are you doing tonight?" I shifted my bag higher on my shoulder. "Honestly? Just going home. Probably answering a few more emails in my pajamas. Very glamorous." "Tragic," he said with mock dismay. "How about you come to my new art space instead? I could use a fresh pair of eyes on it." I hesitated, but curiosity tugged at me. "Your new art space?" "Brand new," he said, his smile widening. "I'm still setting it up, but I want you to see it before anyone else does." I let out a small laugh. "Alright. I'd love that." "Perfect." He pushed the elevator button like it was already decided. "Oh, and-tell your dad you'll be with Leo tonight and coming home late." My brows rose. "Mmhh using Leo as an excuse huh?" "Mm-hmm." His smile turned smug. I typed out a quick message to my father: Heading out, will be home later. Don't wait for me at dinner. No mention of Milo or Leo-he didn't need details. By the time we reached the street, Milo's sleek car was already waiting. Sliding into the passenger seat, I glanced at him. "So where is this new art space of yours?" "A little bit downtown," he said, pulling into traffic. "It's just an empty building right now, but I can see it in my head. The colors, the textures, the way the light will hit the canvases." His voice softened, almost reverent. "It's going to be something." "You sound like you've already painted it." "I have-just not on walls yet." He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "I also want to do a special collection... just for the audience." "The audience?" I asked, curious. "Mm," he said vaguely, his gaze fixed on the road. "Haven't decided what it'll be yet, but it'll come to me. It always does." When we arrived, the building was quiet, tucked between a coffee shop and an old brick bookstore. From the outside, it didn't look like much. But inside... It was empty, yes-bare walls, concrete floors, high ceilings-but the way Milo walked me through it, I could almost see it the way he did. "Over here," he said, gesturing to a large stretch of wall. "This will be the main display-massive canvases, floor to ceiling. I want people to feel swallowed by the color." I followed him, nodding. "And what about over there?" "That corner?" He pointed toward a spot near a set of tall windows. "That's going to be my light installation. Mirrors, glass, and paint that shifts depending on the hour of the day. It'll make people forget what time it is." I smiled. "Sounds dangerous." "Art is supposed to be dangerous," he said with a wink. We walked further in, his voice alive with ideas. "That wall will hold a rotating series. Monthly themes, maybe. And here-" He pulled me toward the center of the space, his hands light on mine. "This will be the heart of it. The place where people stand and just... breathe it in." "Breathe what in?" I asked, amused. "Whatever I decide to give them," he replied, grinning. At some point, I realized our fingers were still laced together. His hand was warm, steady, grounding in a space that felt like it belonged to him before the first nail had even been hammered. That strange flutter in my stomach caught me off guard, sharp and uninvited. We stopped near the back wall, and I glanced around. "It's strange," I admitted. "It's completely empty, but I can already see it." "That's because I'm showing you," he said softly. Before I could get a word out, Milo was on me-closing in slow, deliberate, like a fucking wolf stalking prey. Each step erased my air until my back hit the cold wall with a dull thud. The chill sliced up my spine, but it was nothing compared to the heat pouring off him, wrapping around me, suffocating and addictive. His eyes locked on mine-no smirk, no teasing-just a look that said he wanted to split me open and wouldn't stop until I was dripping for him. "You drive me fucking insane," he rasped, voice low and jagged. "Not in a bad way. You make me want to tear you apart, keep you shaking on my cock until you forget your own name." "Milo-" I breathed, but it came out like a whimper. He didn't let me finish. He spun me hard, pressing me to the wall, one palm slamming down beside my face, the other gripping my hip so tight I knew I'd bruise. His chest was solid heat at my back, his cock already hard and thick, pressing against my ass like a promise. The air was heavy, thick enough to choke on, and every breath I took tasted like him. "Feel that?" he growled, grinding into me slow and deliberate. "That's what you do to me. And you're gonna take every fucking inch." My fingers curled against the wall, nails scraping, because fuck-it felt so good. I could feel the length of him, the way the blunt head pressed exactly where I'd ache for him. My cunt throbbed, wet and needy, my panties already sticking to me. "I can smell how wet you are," he murmured against my ear, his lips brushing the shell. "Bet if I slid my fingers in right now, I'd find you dripping and ready for me." A shiver ripped through me, my knees threatening to give out, but his grip on my hip kept me upright-kept me exactly where he wanted me. His free hand slid down my stomach, over my thigh, and cupped me through the thin fabric, his fingers pressing just enough to make me gasp. "Tell me you feel it too," he ordered, voice dark, dangerous. I didn't answer-couldn't -because my body had already given me away. I was rocking back into him, matching his slow grind, desperate for more. "Fuck, look at you," he hissed, dragging his hand up and slipping it under my shirt to palm my breast, rolling my nipple between his fingers until my breath came in sharp little gasps. "Clenching around nothing like you're begging for my cock. I'll give it to you, Mira . I'll fill this greedy little cunt until you're a mess against this wall." He breathed something filthy against my neck, and it was all over-I knew I'd never think about this wall without remembering how it felt to be pinned here, soaked and aching, with his cock pressed against me like it belonged inside me.