Claude's POV
I'm not sure when my arms gave up holding her, or when my head tilted back against the sofa in something dangerously close to surrender. All I know is my breathing is ragged, my skin damp, and every muscle in my body feels like it's been wrung dry.
And she's still there.
Mio.
Perched across my lap like a queen who has conquered her territory, not in a rush to move, not in a rush to speak—just watching me with that infuriating mix of satisfaction and something darker. My shirt is long gone, crumpled somewhere on the carpet. My chest still rises and falls too fast. The only thing I've managed to put back on are my short pants, clinging to my hips like some kind of mercy she decided to allow me.
She, on the other hand, looks untouched. No—worse than untouched. She looks fresh. Composed. The faintest smile playing at the corner of her lips, like she's sitting on a secret only she knows.
"You're quiet," she says finally, her tone almost innocent. Almost.
