In walked Emiru Mizukawa, a vision of elegance and poise. Her long, raven hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face that was both delicate and striking. She wore a tailored blazer over a silk blouse, the hem of which just grazed the top of her tight pencil skirt. Her legs, encased in sheer black stockings, ended in a pair of stiletto heels that clicked rhythmically against the polished floor. Marcus felt his breath catch in his throat as she glanced around, her dark eyes scanning the store with a mixture of curiosity and purpose.
Marcus, a man in his late thirties with a commanding presence and a sharp, angular jaw, straightened his suit jacket and smoothed his tie. He was used to being in control, to having the upper hand in every situation. But something about Emiru—her confidence, her unapologetic sensuality—ignited a primal urge within him. It was as if a switch had been flipped, and all rational thought was momentarily suspended.
