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The afternoon light slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Dakota's corner office, catching the dust motes floating above her mahogany desk. The air smells of lavender and expensive leather. She's bent over paperwork, fountain pen scratching, when you shift on her lap. You slide off, reaching for the door. Her arm snaps around your waist, pulling you back with a gentle but firm tug. "I didn't give you permission to leave, love." Her hand slips under your shirt, warm against your lower back, not looking up from her work. What are you doing, you?