Page 35 of His Dark Desires

"No, really, it's fine." I take another step back, my shoulder bumping the wall. "I'll just ask him another time."

Mara's eyes dissect me like a scientist studying a particularly disappointing specimen. I press myself against the wall, wishing I could melt into it. The silence stretches until I'm ready to bolt—

"We should get coffee sometime."

I blink. Hard. Did Mara—ice queen extraordinaire and keeper of mysterious red-lit doors—just ask me to coffee? My brain short-circuits, trying to process this whiplash-inducing turn.

"Coffee?" I squeak.

"Yes. Just us girls." Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Talk about art. Life. Adrian."

My imagination runs wild despite my better judgment. I picture us at some cutesy café, sharing gossip over lattes. Maybe she'll braid my hair while we swap stories about our first kisses. We could become besties, have slumber parties in the penthouse, paint each other's nails while dishing about—

Mara clears her throat, snapping me back to reality. Her expression makes it clear she can read every ridiculous thought crossing my face. So much for my brief fantasy of friendship bracelets and secret handshakes.

"I'd like that," I hear myself say, though my throat feels tight. Something about Mara's invitation feels less like a friendly gesture and more like a command.

She pulls out her phone, fingers tapping efficiently. My own phone buzzes in my pocket a moment later.

"There. Now you have my number." Mara's hand settles on my shoulder, steering me away from the mysterious door. Her touch is light but insistent, like a dance partner leading without appearing to lead at all. "I know this charming little place downtown. Very private."

We move through the hallway, back toward the familiar territory of Adrian's living room. Each step puts more distance between us and that red glow, but I can't shake the feeling it's still there, pulsing behind us like a heartbeat.

"Tuesday at 2?" Mara suggests, her hand still on my shoulder until we reach the main area. "I'm sure we'll have plenty to discuss."

"Tuesday sounds perfect," I manage, trying to match Mara's professional tone. My voice wavers slightly, betraying my nerves.

"Wonderful." Mara's stance shifts, her sharp edges softening just a fraction. "Though I should point out," she says as she checks her watch elegantly, "it's getting quite late. You must be exhausted from all that painting."

I glance at my own phone. 11:47 p.m. How did it get so late? The hours always blur when I'm working, but tonight feels different, like I've crossed some invisible boundary I can't uncross.

"You're right," I say. "I should head home."

Mara walks beside me back to the studio, each step echoing through the empty penthouse, making me hyper-aware of how alone we are.

"Don't forget your coat," she says, reaching for it before I can. The gesture seems helpful, but the look in her eyes makes my skin prickle. As she holds it out, her smile carries an edge that wasn't there before. "We wouldn't want you catching cold before our coffee date."

I slip my arms into the sleeves, very conscious of how close she stands. That smile—it's not quite threatening, but it reminds me of a teacher who's caught a student somewhere they shouldn't be.

As I gather my supplies with trembling fingers, my mind keeps circling back to that door and its strange red glow. What lies behind it? And why does Mara guard it so fiercely? The questions tangle with new ones about her sudden interest in coffee with me.

My things clatter against each other as I stuff them into my bag. Everything feels off-kilter now—the studio I'd grown comfortable in, Mara's unexpected invitation, even the penthouse itself seems filled with unspoken warnings.

I zip my bag closed, my earlier confidence replaced by a gnawing uncertainty. What kind of game is Mara playing? And how does Adrian fit into all of this?

* * *

You'd think Adrian didn't have a mouthful of my pussy a few days ago by the way he's behaving around me.

"That's not how it works," Adrian says, his shadow falling across my screen. "You're approaching it all wrong."

I bite back a retort, my fingers hovering over the tablet. The software feels alien. Numbers and parameters fill the screen, a digital maze I can't seem to navigate. I'm completely lost.

"I'm trying," I mutter, adjusting a value that makes the pattern shift and warp. Not at all what I wanted.

His fingers drum against the desk, each tap like a tiny accusation.

"Here." He reaches around me, his chest pressing against my back as he takes control of the tablet. "Watch carefully."

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