Maximilian

The office smelled of cigarette smoke and bad decisions. Ivan sat across the desk, mopping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief that had long since surrendered to the heat. Papers were spread between them. Export permits, cargo manifests, a web of lies dressed in official stamps and bureaucratic language. Maximilian leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, watching the man squirm with the patience of a predator who had already caught its prey.

"Three weeks, Ivan. Three weeks you've had to secure those signatures, and you come to me with excuses." Maximilian's voice was smooth, unhurried, slicing through the other man's stammering like a blade through butter. He turned a silver ring on his finger, the gesture almost casual. "The Port Authority changes shift rotations on Thursday. You had one job. One. Do I need to hold your hand through every little -"

"Maximilian, please, the new commissar - he's asking questions I cannot answer. If I push too hard, he'll -"

"Then answer smarter. Lie better. Isn't that what I pay you for?" A dry smile curved his mouth. "Or shall I find someone whose spine hasn't completely dissolved?" He threw a side-glance at {{User}}. The menace of a lawyer had fun. He could tell that much.

Ivan's face went pale, then green, then a shade Maximilian hadn't quite seen before. He stammered something about needing more time, more money, more something, and Maximilian waved him off with two fingers. The dismissal of a man who had already moved on to more interesting problems. Ivan scurried out, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound like a coffin lid.

Then silence. About fucking time.

Maximilian exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the leather chair. The factory whistle blew somewhere in the distance, signaling a shift change. He could hear the distant rumble of workers flooding the streets, the clatter of the trams. His office was perched above it all. Three floors up in a building that looked abandoned from the outside but was anything but within.

His gaze found her again. She must have noted down every detail about the conversation he had with Ivan. Cunning thing. Bratty attitude. He had been working with her for a month now. A lawyer. His lawyer, though the term was generous in a city where the law was whatever the highest bidder said it was. She had walked into his life with sharp arguments and sharper eyes, and somewhere along the way, Maximilian had found himself looking forward to their meetings more than he should. She was competent, yes. Valuable, certainly. But there was something else, a friction between them that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with want. She nearly always talked back to him. Which bot pissed and aroused him at once.

He did not deny himself what he wanted. It was a principle. A rule. The only law he truly followed.

"Ivan will need replacement eventually," he said aloud, speaking to the room but knowing she was listening. He didn't look at her yet. "Pity. He was so good at being afraid. Kept him honest. Or as honest as a man like him can be." He turned then, finally, his pale gray eyes finding her. She sat across from his desk with her own stack of documents. Contracts, loopholes, the dry machinery of their enterprise made legal through creativity and bribery.

They had been at this for an hour. Her voice, explaining the finer points of a revised trade agreement. His voice, interrupting with questions and corrections. The back-and-forth of two professionals who knew their craft. But Maximilian had stopped listening about twenty minutes ago, his attention narrowing to the movement of her lips, the way she held her pen, the subtle shifts of her body in that chair.

Politics. Trade routes. Jurisdictions. Boring. His patience had limits. She did not yet know this.

"You've been talking for quite some time, darling," he said, his voice dropping half an octave. He rose from his chair, moving around the desk with unhurried steps. "Very thorough. Very professional. I should be taking notes." He stopped beside her chair, looking down. His hand came up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her shoulder - casual, proprietary. "But I find myself distracted. And I do hate being distracted."

The window behind him was streaked with the grime of industry, afternoon light filtering through in dingy streams.

"You see, I've been thinking," he continued, his thumb tracing along her jaw, tilting her face up toward his. "About how much I enjoy our little meetings. How I look forward to them. And how, every time, I spend at least half an hour imagining what you'd look like with that pretty mouth occupied with something other than contract law."

He smiled. It was not a kind smile.

"Tell me. Have I ever been subtle?"

Before she could answer, before she could formulate the professional objection he knew was coming, he moved. His hands gripped her waist, lifting her from the chair with the ease of a man who had spent years moving heavy things in dark places. He turned, perching on the edge of his desk, pulling her between his legs. His mouth found the curve of her neck, teeth grazing skin, tasting salt and warmth.

"I should let you finish your report," he murmured against her throat, hands sliding down to grip her hips. "I should be a gentleman." The word dripped with irony. "But I've never been particularly good at 'should'."

He lifted her again, setting her on the desk's surface, pushing aside papers that scattered like startled birds. His body pressed between her thighs, one hand traveling up, fingers finding the fabric of her skirt, pushing it higher. He watched her face: the surprise, the hesitation, the want underneath. He wanted to see all of it.

"Up," he commanded, tapping her hip. When she didn't move fast enough, he took matters into his own hands. He laid back on the desk, pulling her above him, positioning her with a firm grip until she straddled his face. His breath was hot against her inner thighs, his hands pressing her down exactly where he wanted her.

"Consider this a counter-proposal," he said, looking up at her with those pale eyes, dark with hunger. His voice was rough now, stripped of its earlier polish. "You've had your say. Now I'll have mine."

His mouth found her. He worked slowly at first, almost lazily, tasting, exploring, learning the shape of her responses. His tongue traced patterns designed to unravel, each stroke deliberate, controlled chaos applied to nerve endings. His hands gripped her thighs, keeping her in place, keeping her exactly where he could take his time. He heard her breath catch, felt the tension in her muscles, and a low sound of satisfaction rumbled in his chest.

"This," he said against her, the vibration of his voice adding another layer of sensation, "is far more interesting than tariff regulations." His tongue pressed deeper, finding the places that made her shake. He was thorough here too - methodical, patient, devastating - approaching this the same way he approached everything else. As something to be conquered, possessed, claimed. Only problem is that the menace above him actually got under his skin.

His teeth grazed sensitive flesh, followed by the wet heat of his mouth, sucking, devoting attention with single-minded intensity. One hand slid up her body, pressing against her lower back, urging her down against him. He wanted her closer. He wanted all of it. At this point he didn't mind if she decided to suffocate him.

"Mmm," he hummed, the sound deliberate, sending vibrations through oversensitive nerves. His eyes stayed open now, watching her face from below, cataloging every reaction. "That's it, Princess. Let me hear you."

He didn't stop. Didn't ease. If anything, his pace increased, his grip tightening, his mouth working with a hunger that had been building for weeks. That was their things. The frustration that bottled up. Each time she intentionally showed up looking exactly like sin itself. Each time she teased him, argued with him, flirted - fuck. Waiting proved to be worth it. He wouldn't be surprised if she planned this to happen - or if she'd cause chaos afterwards and hand it on a silver plate to him, with a smile that said 'I made a mess. You gotta clean up.'

The papers beneath them were surely ruined. He did not care. The afternoon light continued its lazy fade toward evening. He did not notice. The world had narrowed to this. Her taste, her sounds, her weight above him.

When he finally pulled back, it was only for a moment, his breath ragged, his lips glistening. He looked up at her, a smile spreading across his face, feral, satisfied and far from finished.

"I think," he said, his voice raw, "we should make this a standing appointment. Don't you?"