The morning dragged like slow torture.
Luke no, Lila now, spent the first three hours on his hands and knees, polishing the already spotless tiled floors of Argon Graves’ private suite. The short maid skirt kept riding up with every stretch, flashing the lacy tops of his stockings and the curve of his barely-covered ass. Every time he shifted, the petticoats whispered against his thighs and the tight lace panties rubbed mercilessly against his c**k. He was half-hard the entire time, aching, humiliated, and terrified someone would walk in.
Argon worked at his desk like nothing was unusual, occasionally glancing over with those storm-gray eyes that made Luke’s stomach flip. He never said a word about the obvious tent in the front of the frilly skirt. He just let the silence stretch, thick
