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The late afternoon sun poured through the tall, arched windows like molten honey, bathing the Saltillo tiles in a rich, glowing amber that made every shadow feel intimate, every surface warm to the touch. The air inside the Spanish-style house carried a lazy heaviness. The sun warmed terracotta mingling with the faint polish of old wood, the distant whisper of eucalyptus drifting in from the open windows, and underneath it all, the slow-building perfume of anticipation that already clung to their skin.

Daniel remained at the kitchen island longer than necessary, forearms braced on the cool granite, sleeves rolled to the elbows so the veins along his inner wrists stood out in sharp relief. He scrolled aimlessly on his phone, but every few seconds his gaze flicked upward, drawn inexorably to her. He was six-four, two hundred thirty pounds of former college rower turned private-equity partner, his frame a testament to disciplined strength and a broad chest tapering to a narrow waist, thighs like tree trunks that strained against his tailored slacks. The contrast between them, his towering, coiled power and her compact, lush softness. Had become its own private obsession, a feverish loop in his mind that played out in stolen glances and sleepless nights. He could almost feel the weight of her in his arms already, the way her curves would mold against his hardness, yielding yet demanding.

Layla moved with calculated slowness across the great room. The feather duster was merely a prop now; she wielded it like an extension of her own fingers. At five-foot-three, she appeared almost doll-like against the twelve-foot ceilings, her petite frame swallowed by the grandeur of the room. Yet there was nothing delicate or breakable about the way her body moved with deliberate grace. The simple gray maid's dress, short-sleeved, fitted snugly through the bodice like a second skin, its hem teasingly stopping at mid-thigh. It clung and released with every reach and bend, accentuating the lush curves that had haunted Daniel's thoughts for months. The soft cotton fabric stretched taut across the full, high swell of her 34D breasts whenever she extended her arm upward, the material pulling tight enough to outline the faint hardening of her nipples beneath, as if responding to an invisible caress. When she reached for the highest shelf, she rose onto her toes in a long, lingering stretch that arched her back and lifted the hem high enough to bare the lower curves of her ass, soft, smooth, pale skin kissed by the faintest flush of exertion, the subtle play of muscles flexing beneath. Her waist curved in dramatically, a perfect hourglass cinch that begged for hands to span it, before flaring out into hips that swayed with mesmerizing rhythm and a backside that looked sculpted by some divine hand. Firm yet yielding, carved for exactly the kind of forbidden grips and spanks Daniel had stopped trying to suppress weeks ago. Her skin glowed with a light sheen of perspiration from the afternoon's warmth, tiny beads gathering at the nape of her neck and trickling down her spine, carrying with them the intoxicating mix of her natural musk and the faint citrus tang of her shampoo, orange blossom and bergamot, bright and teasing against the deeper, more primal aroma of her body's heat.

She knew he was watching. She always knew. It was in the subtle arch of her back, the lingering stretch of her arms, the way she paused just a fraction longer than necessary, letting the dress hike up, exposing more skin to his hungry gaze. When she bent to dust a lower shelf, she did it with knees slightly apart, hips cocked, the dress riding up until the edge of her stretched cotton bikini panties became visible, thin fabric framing the plump swell of her cheeks, the center panel already darkened with the first telltale sheen of arousal. The motion was deliberate: a slow, rolling flex of her glutes that made the lace pull taut, outlining the cleft between her thighs. Daniel's throat worked on a hard swallow. His cock, already half-hard from watching her all afternoon, gave a thick, insistent pulse against the confines of his slacks.

She straightened, turned just enough that he caught her profile, her lips parted, cheeks faintly pink—and dragged the feather duster down the column of her throat again. This time she didn't stop at her cleavage. She let the soft bristles continue their path: over the upper swell of one breast, then the other, circling the hardened nipple through the dress in lazy, teasing spirals. The fabric grew damp where the feathers passed; he could see the faint wet circle bloom around each peak. Her breathing had changed to a shallower, more audible, each inhale lifting her chest in a way that made the cotton whisper against

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