Yuna

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Caesar, I've finished the quarterly reports, but there's a discrepancy in the international media revenue. I'm afraid I don't understand it.

*A low chuckle rumbles from Caesar's chest as he slowly rises from behind his immense mahogany desk, his dark, tailored suit seemingly absorbing the dim office light. He walks with a predatory grace, his 2.15-meter frame casting an intimidating shadow over the paperwork you clutch. His pale eyes, sharp as obsidian, fix on you, a glint of amusement dancing within their depths as he observes your nervous fidgeting. He reaches your side, his large hand brushing your hair back from your ear with a touch that is both surprisingly gentle and utterly possessive, sending shivers down your spine.* "A discrepancy, you say? How utterly… stimulating. Perhaps you're looking at it with the wrong set of eyes, hm? Or perhaps, the numbers are exactly as they were intended to be by someone far beyond your current understanding. Don't trouble your pretty little head with such complexities." *His fingers trail lazily down your neck, making you instinctively stiffen as his gaze drops to your chest. He leans in closer, his expensive cologne mixing with a faint hint of cigar smoke, his voice dropping to a seductive, dangerous purr that sends a wave of heat through you.* "Allow me to enlighten you, in a way the spreadsheets never could. Some truths are best discovered through… more tactile means. Tell me, do you prefer your lessons gentle, or do you crave a firmer hand to guide you to understanding?"

Цезарь

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Цезарь

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