The penthouse suite was a cage of glass and steel hanging over the city. Below, the lights of Washington D.C. spread out like a field of fallen stars. Marcus had prepared the space perfectly. The air was heavy with the scent of Egyptian musk, a thick, cloying smell that clung to the back of the throat. It was a scent of tombs and ancient secrets. A bottle of twenty-five-year-old Macallan—Whitman's favorite, according to Marcus's research—sat on the marble bar, glowing like amber in the dim light. Every detail was a carefully placed stone on a path leading to a man's ruin.
Selene waited on a black leather chaise lounge. She wore a slip of sheer black silk, so thin it was more shadow than fabric. Her body was a suggestion beneath it, a promise of flesh and heat. She was perfectly still. Her breathing was slow and even. She was not a woman waiting for a lover. She was a serpent coiled in the dark, waiting for the tell-tale warmth of approaching prey. The tiny red lights on the hidden cameras in the smoke detector and the television were invisible. But she knew they were there. They were her eyes. Her witnesses.
The doorbell chimed, a soft, polite sound that was obscene in the charged silence.
Selene did not move. She let the sound hang in the air. She let him wait. Let his anxiety build. Let him feel the first prickle of doubt. After a full minute, she rose with a liquid slowness and padded barefoot to the door.
When she opened it, Daniel Whitman stood there, his expensive suit looking rumpled and wrong. He was sweating. He clutched a bouquet of roses in his hand like a shield. His eyes widened when he saw her, taking in the sheer silk, the kohl-lined eyes, the utter lack of a welcoming smile.
She stepped back, holding the door open. She said nothing. He walked in, uncertain, his confidence from the gallery completely gone. He was in her world now.
"These are for you," he said, holding out the flowers.
Selene looked at them, then back at him. "I don't like cut flowers. They're dead." She turned her back on him and walked to the bar. "Pour the drinks, Daniel."
The use of his first name was a slap. An assertion of an intimacy that did not exist. He put the flowers down on a side table, where they looked garish and pathetic. His hands trembled slightly as he poured two glasses of scotch. He brought one to her.
She took it, her fingers brushing his. His skin was damp. "Take off your clothes," she commanded softly.
"What?"
"Your suit. Your tie. Your pathetic little shield of respectability. I want to see the man, not the Congressman." Her voice was a murmur, but it held the unyielding force of a royal decree.
He hesitated for a second, then began to undress. It was a clumsy, fumbling process. The jacket came off, then the tie, loosened with a jerk. The shirt followed. His body was soft, pale, a life lived in boardrooms and back seats. When he was standing before her in nothing but his boxers, he looked utterly powerless. He was just a man. A weak, frightened man.
"Good," she purred. "Now kneel."
He sank to his knees on the plush rug. The position was alien to him. He was a man who stood at podiums, who sat at the head of tables. Kneeling was for praying, and he was not a pious man.
Selene sat back down on the chaise, sipping her scotch. She watched him over the rim of her glass. "You spend your days surrounded by people who fear you," she said, her voice a hypnotic drone. "They bow. They scrape. They want your power. But you and I know the truth, don't we? You're terrified."
He didn't answer. He couldn't.
"Here," she said, "you don't have to be afraid. Here, you have no power to lose. You have nothing. You are nothing." She set her glass aside and leaned forward. "And that is exactly what you want."
She reached out and traced a single finger down his cheek, across his lips. He shuddered. She guided his head forward, into her lap. Her command was unspoken but absolute. He obeyed.
His mouth was clumsy at first, then desperate. He worshipped her through the thin barrier of silk, his hands gripping her thighs. She did not move. She did not respond. She let him work, a detached observer to his frantic, clumsy passion. Her mind was cold and clear. She cataloged his desperation. She noted the way his breathing hitched when she tangled a hand in his hair, pulling just hard enough to cause a flicker of pain. This was not seduction. It was vivisection.
When she decided he was ready, she pushed him away. She stood and let the silk slip from her body, pooling at her feet. She was naked before him, her body pale and perfect in the dim light. She was a goddess of marble and moonlight.
"Now," she whispered, her voice husky. "You may have me."
He surged up from the floor and pushed her back onto the chaise. His movements were rough, greedy. He was trying to reclaim some shred of his power, to take what he wanted. She let him. She became pliant beneath him, her body a vessel for his lust. He thrust into her with a raw, animal need. He grunted and moaned, lost in his own fantasy.
But Selene was not lost. Her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. She was counting his heartbeats. She was listening to the words he mumbled against her throat. He called her a goddess. He called her his queen. He was completely broken.
As his rhythm became more frantic, as his climax approached, she leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear.
"A powerful man like you," she whispered, her words a counterpoint to his thrusts. "You must have so many secrets... it excites me."
"So many," he gasped, his mind unraveling.
"Tell me about them," she breathed. "Tell your queen what makes you so strong. Who fears you the most?"
The carefully constructed walls of his mind crumbled. Sex and submission had eroded the foundation.
"Aerodyne," he groaned, the name spilling out with a shuddering breath. "The defense bill... General Atwell..."
"Yes," she encouraged, her hips moving against his, driving him closer to the edge. "Tell me more. Tell me everything."
And he did. Between desperate, ragged breaths, he confessed it all. The kickback scheme. The offshore accounts. The way he was funneling millions in government funds through the appropriations bill. He named names. He gave details. Each word was a nail in his own coffin. Each thrust was a shovelful of dirt on his own grave.
He cried out, a raw, guttural sound, and collapsed on top of her, his body shuddering with the force of his release. He was spent. Empty.
The spell shattered.
Selene's body, which had been a warm, welcoming thing, turned to stone beneath him. She pushed him off her with a surprising strength. He rolled onto the rug, dazed and sated.
When he looked up, the goddess was gone. In her place was a woman with eyes as cold and empty as a winter sky. She stood and walked to the bathroom without a word, without a backward glance. He could hear the sound of the shower turning on.
He was still on the floor when she came out, wrapped in a thick white robe. She looked down at him, her expression one of utter disinterest.
"Get dressed," she said. Her voice was flat, devoid of all emotion. "The service elevator is at the end of the hall. Don't use the main one."
"Selene..." he started, confused. The whiplash was too much for his shattered mind to comprehend.
"Our business is concluded, Congressman," she said, cutting him off. "Leave."
He scrambled to his feet, pulling on his clothes with clumsy, shaking hands. He felt ashamed. Exposed. He glanced at the roses he had brought, now wilting on the table. He turned and fled, a broken man escaping a room that had become his tomb.
Selene watched the door close behind him. She walked to the window, the thick robe a comforting weight around her. The city glittered below, oblivious. She felt nothing. No triumph. No disgust. Only the cold satisfaction of a job well done. The scent of Whitman still clung to her skin, even after the shower. She would need another one. She needed to wash away the weakness, the filth of these modern men. The first piece was now hers to command.