Lena was late. Again.
She barely cared.
The rain had drenched her on the way, her white blouse sticking to her skin like a second, unforgiving layer. The thin fabric clung to the curve of her breasts, n*****s sharply outlined beneath, bra completely transparent. Her plaid skirt wasn’t much better, hitched high up her thighs, damp and creased, as if she’d rolled out of bed and straight into the storm.
Mr. Draven’s door loomed in front of her, slightly ajar. She didn’t bother knocking. She never did.
He was seated at the desk, dark slacks crisply ironed, black shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His glasses sat low on his nose as he scribbled something with that precise, ruthless hand. The sharp angles of his jaw, the way his lips pressed into a thin line when he saw her — it wasn’t
