The hush in the room was absolute, the only sound the quiet hum of the projector. A golden haze of sunlight filtered through half-closed blinds, casting lines of warmth across the polished table, over the dark suits of the aging businessmen, and settling like a spotlight on the woman commanding the room.
She stood by the screen, poised and radiant, one heel slightly crossed over the other, her hips tilted in casual authority.
The woman was young — late 20s — but carried herself like she owned the room.
Her short black hair framed her face in clean lines, her red blouse tight across her chest, showing the curve of her breasts with every breath. The top two buttons were undone, just enough to be noticeable. Her black pencil skirt gripped her waist and hugged her hips like it was stitched on. A small slit in the back revealed just a bit of her toned thighs when she turned. She wore heels that made her calves pop and sheer stockings that shimmered subtly under the room's lighting.
She pointed to the chart on the projector screen with a slim stick, her nails glossy and red to match her shirt.
"I can extensively elaborate on the prolific successes of Detective.com," she said clearly, her voice steady, low, controlled. "But as you can see here—"
She tapped the projected chart with the stick.
"The numbers speak for themselves."
Silence. No reaction. The old men in suits stared. A few shifted slightly in their seats, but said nothing.
She paused. Then smirked.
"I mean, not literally, of course. As we all know, numbers are highly marginalized."
Still nothing. She gave a small laugh — not amused, more like she was toying with them.
"And because they can't speak for themselves, we have to speak for them. Just like we must speak for the millions of others who can't protest on Jantar Mantar."
Her tone sharpened. No longer playful — serious, direct. She looked around the table, eye to eye.
"If you're here for the view," she said, eyes flicking downward to her own chest, then back up coldly, "then enjoy it. But if you want to make money, pay attention."
"And because they can't speak for themselves, we have to speak for them. Just as we must speak for the millions of others who may not be able to protest on Jantar Mantar."
Her voice was sharp, grounded. She paused.
Then slowly, she inhaled and reached for her top button. The click of it coming undone echoed lightly in the silence. She fanned herself with her hand, then said flatly:
"AC, please."
One of the older men cleared his throat, finally speaking.
"It's… centrally air-conditioned."
Without missing a beat, she looked straight at him and tilted her head.
"Then why am I so damn hot?"
Before anyone could answer, the chair directly across the table spun around.
She stopped. Her eyes locked onto the man sitting there.
Young. Fit. Shirtless.
His torso was toned, skin smooth, a subtle V-line drawing down to the edge of his tight black underwear. He sat casually, arms over the chair's backrest, smirking.
"Yes, terminate this, Your Honor," he said, his voice confident, cocky, almost amused.
She didn't speak — her breath caught halfway. Her gaze didn't leave his body.
Then, without warning, he stood up. Climbed onto the conference table. Fully bottomless except for the stretch of underwear barely holding back the obvious.
The room was still. No one said a word.
He walked across the table like it was a stage — slow, barefoot, each step deliberate. Her eyes followed every move, and with each one, her breathing grew quicker. She didn't try to hide it.
By the time he reached her end of the table, her chest was rising faster, her fingers curled slightly around the pointer stick she'd been using minutes ago.
He jumped down, landing right in front of her.
Now he was face-to-face with her.
She was still holding the pointer stick. But her hand was shaking slightly.
He looked down at her chest, then back up at her eyes.
"Still hot?" he asked.
She was frozen.
Her eyes stayed locked on his chest, then trailed down his body. She didn't blink. She didn't breathe. Not when his hand came up to her face.
He caressed her cheek slowly, then traced down to her neck — skin exposed from the open collar. She didn't stop him. Her body leaned slightly into his touch.
With his other hand, he reached for the glass of water on the table. Then, without a word, he tipped it forward — splashing it over her chest.
The cold water hit her blouse. The red fabric clung to her body instantly, outlining the shape of her breasts, the lace pattern of her bra clearly visible. She gasped — not from the cold, but from the shock, from the tension, from him.
She didn't protest.
He grabbed the stack of files on the table and shoved them aside — papers flying everywhere.
He took her by the waist, turned her around, and lifted her effortlessly onto the table. She moved with him, eyes locked on his, breathing heavier now.
He grabbed both sides of her wet blouse and yanked them apart — buttons popping, the fabric tearing. Her red bra, soaked and tight, pushed her breasts forward, her cleavage deep and rising with every breath.
He leaned in. Bit into her neck.
Her head tilted back as she let out a sharp inhale, pleasure curling through her chest.
His hands slid down her back, gripping her waist, exploring her skin. She raised her leg around his hip, pressing him in closer.
Her hands ran over his bare back, nails dragging lightly down. She wanted more. He gave it.
His fingers unhooked her bra. It dropped away.
Her breasts were full, round, firm — finally free. Her back arched on the table, her mouth parting as a wave of pleasure hit.
He leaned down. His lips closed around one nipple while his hand massaged the other breast, squeezing, teasing. She moaned — low, breathy, no longer holding anything back.
Everything else disappeared. The men in suits sat silent, staring, but she didn't care. All she felt was him. His mouth, his hands, the heat between them—
RING. RING. RING.
The scene shattered.
The woman shot upright in bed, chest heaving, sweat on her skin.
She was in a silk nightgown. Her sheets were twisted around her legs. The alarm clock on the nightstand kept screaming.
She stared at it.
"Shit…"
Her hand smacked the button. Silence.
She was alone.dd
Just a dream.
But her nipples were still hard, her thighs pressed together. And the heat… hadn't gone anywhere.
She sat up slowly, dragging a hand through her curls, which were already doing their own thing. No surprise there. The dream had been vivid—hands, mouths, skin on skin. She didn't remember all the details, but the feeling lingered.
And damn, it had felt good.
She stood, stretching, the cool air brushing over her skin. It helped a little. Not much.
At the mirror, she tried to tame her hair, half-heartedly running the comb through it. It only made it wilder. Typical.
She smoothed her shirt down, still feeling flushed, the memory of the dream making her bite back a grin. Her eyes caught her reflection—bright, playful, a little dangerous.
"Good morning, trouble," she muttered to herself with a smirk.
This girl was Shanaya—a wild beauty always looking for some fun.
Still buzzing from the dream, she started her morning routine, that same smirk never leaving her face.