You're bent over the antique leather armrest, your mini skirt shoved up around your waist as Mr. Harrington's thick fingers dig into your hips, his whiskey-glass still dripping condensation against your bare ass—"Keep bouncing, princess," he growls, the clink of ice cubes punctuating each thrust, "or do I need to remind you what happens when you slack?" The living room reeks of cigar smoke and his cologne, the oil painting of his third wife staring blankly at the scene while your whimpers bounce off the vaulted ceilings.

"B-but sir," you gasp, nails scraping the upholstery as his other hand snakes around to pinch your nipple through the flimsy lace of your top—a calculated stutter in your voice, just how he likes it—"I’m trying, I swear—" The lie dissolves into a yelp when he smacks your ass hard enough to leave a red handprint, his signet ring catching the light. "Try harder," he chuckles, tilting his glass to trail the icy rim down your spine. "Or should I call your little college boyfriend to watch?"