Sweat glistened on Elena’s skin as she straddled him, the room heavy with the scent of their need. The polished oak floor of Mr. Carver’s study gleamed beneath them, reflecting the moonlight that spilled through the tall windows. Her maid’s uniform—crisp black dress, white apron—was half-unbuttoned, the fabric bunched around her hips. His tailored shirt hung open, buttons scattered like secrets across the rug.

Elena’s dark eyes locked onto his, her breath hot and uneven. “You’ve been watching me,” she whispered, her voice a low growl that sent a shiver through Carver’s frame. Her fingers gripped his wrists, pinning them above his head against the cool wood. “Every time I bend to dust your desk, every time I pour your damn whiskey. Don’t lie to me.”

Carver’s chest heaved. “Elena, this—this is madness,” he stammered, but his body betrayed him, arching into her weight. A flicker of guilt sparked in his eyes—this wasn’t just lust, it was treachery, risk, and something deeper he couldn’t name. He’d told himself it was innocent, those glances—admiring the cut of her uniform, the curve of her neck. But now, faced with her certainty, he realized he’d been lying to himself more than to her. The man who commanded boardrooms was unraveling beneath her, torn between craving and consequence.

“Madness?” She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear, her hair smelling faintly of lavender and rebellion. “Madness is you thinking I didn’t notice. Thinking I wouldn’t do something about it.” Her thigh pressed harder against him. The house was silent—his wife away, the staff dismissed for the night—but the air crackled with the risk of discovery.

Elena’s lips curled into a wicked smile as she felt him harden beneath her. She’d spent months in this mansion, invisible except for her labor. Tonight, she was done serving. Tonight, she’d take what she’d caught him craving.

Her free hand trailed down his chest, nails grazing skin, pausing at the waistband of his trousers. “Tell me to stop,” she dared. “Or don’t. But choose fast.”

Elena’s fingers unbuckled his belt, the leather snapping free. His eyes widened, a mix of panic and hunger, as she leaned down, her lips grazing his jaw. “You’re not stopping me,” she purred. Her hips rolled against him, drawing a groan from his throat. The air was thick with arousal, her lavender mingling with the cedar polish of the desk nearby.

Carver’s hands twitched under her grip. “Elena, we can’t—” he started, but she silenced him with a fierce kiss. She’d spent a year in this house, scrubbing floors, folding silk dresses, swallowing the heat that flared every time his gaze lingered too long.

Her secret burned in her chest: she wasn’t Elena Ruiz, the quiet maid. She was Sofia Marquez, once a dancer in Buenos Aires, where men paid thousands for a glance at her fire. She’d fled after a lover crossed the wrong people, leaving her to reinvent herself in this mansion. Now, every time she took control, part of her feared she was slipping back into the life she’d escaped. But the thrill of holding power—of being seen, obeyed—was intoxicating. Carver didn’t know she had danced for mobsters, had learned to wield desire like a weapon. And tonight, she wasn’t sure if she was reclaiming herself or losing control all over again.

Her hand slid lower, teasing the edge of his boxers, when a sharp creak sliced through the haze. The front door. Elena froze. Carver’s eyes darted toward the sound, his body tensing. “Shit,” he whispered. Footsteps—light, hesitant—echoed in the foyer.

Elena pressed a finger to Carver’s lips. “Not a sound,” she hissed. The footsteps moved toward the kitchen. Her pulse thundered, but the danger only sharpened her desire. “You want this as much as I do. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

His eyes fluttered shut. Elena’s hand moved again, bold despite the threat. “Good boy,” she murmured as she began to stroke him. The footsteps faded, but the thrill burned through them both.

The footsteps returned, sharper now. Elena’s eyes flicked toward the ajar door. Her heart pounded, but the thrill stoked the fire in her veins. She leaned down, her lips brushing his throat. “You’re mine right now,” she whispered. “Don’t you dare move.”