He knows he's in over his head the minute she steps through his door, chin tilted at that damned impossible angle that somehow adds inches to her height. She's obviously coming from a night out; her eyes are ringed in heavy black pencil, and the white suit she has on is spotless, the gleaming fabric making his entry look dingy in comparison. There's some sort of wet gloss on her mouth, making her lips look even fuller and richer than usual; her hair is in a low loose bun, resting at the base of her neck. After a moment, her lips part—and he takes his eyes off them with some difficulty. Damn.

"Hello, Daniel," she says in that voice that's both gravelly and low, her usual bitch-nasal tone gone for the moment-- and looks him up and down, taking in his loft-ready sweats and battered-looking Harvard tee with a slightly hitched brow.

He can't do much more than gape at her.

She ignores this, peering around him deliberately; and in the process, moves almost disconcertingly close to him. "From your attire, it's obvious you're not entertaining," she says; and her voice is laced with its usual honey-dripped sarcasm. "And you're dressed, so your whores have obviously called it a night. May I come in?"

"I—I'm not sure about that," Daniel finally manages, still goggling. So his mouth does work, after all. "What—I mean, why---"

"Thank you," Wilhelmina says dryly; then walks around him, the heels of her white Jimmy Choos clicking against the tiles as she goes. Daniel stares at the place where her feet have been and blinked; then, he closes the door.

When he turns, she is nowhere to be seen—and then he catches sight of her slipping into his sitting room. She pauses at the entryway just for a moment, waiting for him to catch up. When he does she half-turns, lips curving up into something that resembled a smile.

"Impressive, Daniel. I somehow expected Grateful Dead posters, a stack of moldy Maxims and a blow-up doll."

"They're in my room," Daniel replies dryly, watching her walk to the couch, touch it as if she suspects dust, then lower herself into the cushions with a sigh. She moves slowly tonight, languidly, as if she has hours before her; and when she sits she crosses one leg over the other, revealing quite a bit of silk stocking—and thigh. Irritated with himself for noticing, he lifts his chin in an unconscious imitation of her own signature look. "I'm sure this isn't a pleasure call, so why are you here?"

She laughs, softly, and the sound sends a very inappropriate tingle up his spine. "Why shouldn't it be?"

Eyes narrowed, he regards her for another moment before speaking. "Wilhelmina," he says; and his voice is cooler than he feels, thank God. "Just get to the point, please?"

She shrugs as if to say, 'your loss' and reaches into the Birkin bag at her feet, pulling out a thick folder. Mock-ups. "I need you to approve these," she says, suddenly all business again, uncrossing her legs and stretching them out in front of her this time.

Daniel's eyes narrow, and he moves towards her, taking his hands out of his pockets. "I was supposed to do them in the morning."

"I know." She pauses, and for a moment he wonders if she is going to offer an explanation at all. "I…was supposed to go to the opera tonight, but my plans fell through," she adds finally, and her voice is completely flat; he can't tell whether she was lying or not. There is a flicker of hurt in her green eyes that sparks his curiosity, though. Maybe the Texan everyone's saying dumped her is back in town.

"Stood up?" he said rather unkindly, lowering himself to her side.

To his surprise, she smirks. "Never. Your sister…wasn't feeling well, and I didn't care go alone."

"Alexis?" Daniel eyed her with surprise—and some suspicion.

"You've got another sister?"

Daniel ignores her sarcasm, then reaches out, taking the mock-ups from her in a gesture that's just shy of snatching. Childish, he knows, but…yeah.

"Lets get to work," he says, and she looks up at him through lowered lids, offering up that half-smirk that always drives him wild. And not in a good way, either.

"Whatever you say, boss," she says softly; then lifts that leg up again.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He knows on some weird subconscious level, that the night—the surreal, fucking-out-of-it's-mind-night-- is eventually going to lead to this. That's why he's not surprised when he's bent over her about an hour later, hips grinding into hers with all his strength.

She's naked except for those goddamned stockings and heels; he can feel the silk against his fingers, where they're digging into her thighs. Illogically, he's still dressed, save for his sweats. The temperature in the room has increased significantly; their hair is damp from sweat, and he feels it trickling down his back. She moves, and he groans, trying to keep the sweat slicked, scented woman beneath him from squirming away as her body twists……she's a writher, he never would have thought that of her, he thinks……fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Inside she's unbelievably hot and wet, a tight vise clamping down on him and drawing him in, muscles clenching more deeply with every thrust. He's suddenly aware of how much smaller she is than him, that he can hurt her easily if he's not careful---Jesus, her skin must be getting a bruising from the table, though she's clearly not complaining---

As if in agreement with his thoughts, she inhales shallowly and he feels her nails dig into her back, beneath his shirt. "Christ—--"one word, whispered harshly—is that her, or him? No way of telling.

He draws back his head so he can look at her, forcing himself to stop with an effort. Her eyes flutter open, a look of surprise flickering across her face.

A faint sheen makes her skin glow, and her eyes are ringed with smeared mascara and eyeshadow, soft and luminous, not quite focused on him. He reaches down, cupping her hip to hold her still for just a moment; and her eyes lift to meet his, confused at the break in rhythm.

He says nothing, only stares; and she doesn't either, a steel entering her expression. And then he knows—he fucking knows---

She's brought him to this deliberately.

In a sudden flash of—rage, or something like it, he begins to move again, harsher this time, faster, hips slamming into hers. They're like two fucking animals now, rutting across the wood, and it's all he can do to hold on, fingers traveling from her hips to her waist to her breasts, nipping at her skin, stroking her nipples hard—--God, her hips, her breasts-- they're so soft, so full--

He's imagined this before, but--

There's a gasp—he's taken her by surprise, he realizes with a dark stab of satisfaction; and he drops his fingers between her thighs, fingering her hard as he pushes her back even more. Table's moving now, he can feel the proofs she brought ripping under his feet, not that he cares—

"Say…something, damn you—" he grits out, twisting her hip to the side, watching red marks appear on her skin. It must hurt, but at this point he doesn't care. "Or I swear to God I'll stop—"

She eyes him, but bites her lips in an obvious effort not to speak. Fuck you, her expression seems to say. She's close, though; he can feel the slickness against his fingers, can feel the clenching of her inner muscles beginning to quicken. Although it nearly kills him, he pulls back, and he has to admit he uses his size against her unfairly now, teasing her entrance, looking down at her straining thighs. She holds herself rigid with an obvious effort, but he can see her expression beginning to crack. Her lips part and she whimpers softly, breaking the silence.

"Say it, damn you, you want this—" she's squirming now, trying to arch up to meet him.

"No—"

"Yes…" he's adamant, although he's breathing just as hard. Can't hold on much longer…Christ, he's like a fucking horny high-schooler right now, and everything is throbbing…she has to come first. He can't lose it now.

"Fuck it, Daniel, stop!" she finally cries out, frustration husking her tone considerably; and he yanks her back into him, nearly gasping with relief, himself. She places one hand on his shoulder and drops her head to it, and he yells in pain.

She bit him—--! He can't quite process that though, because she's crying out and suddenly, so is he, and everything is all hot slick and tight and he closes his eyes, and in a flash—

It's over.

They're both breathing hard now, trying to regain their bearings. Her hands are resting on his lower back; his are resting on the cool wood of the tabletop, and her breath is soft and silken against his neck. He closes his eyes, taking in the vague sensations of stickiness and cooling sweat, wondering who'll be the first to speak.

Naturally, it's her. "Daniel."

He inhales, then opens his mouth, surprised he even has a voice. "Yeah?" he croaks. His voice is rusty, unnatural, as if he hasn't spoken in a while.

"Is your ear bleeding?"

He checks it automatically. "I…no."

"It'll bruise, though."

"Yes. Badly."

"Good." Her voice is back to its usual iciness, as if nothing has happened between them. "Get up, Daniel, you're crushing me."

Dumbly he does so, sliding off the table and onto the floor, watching Wilhelmina draw up her legs. They were long, he noticed, longer than he thought, even when he'd had them wrapped around his waist. And…Jesus Christ, Wilhelmina Slater, draped over his coffee table, naked except for her thigh-highs and shoes. He swallows. It's stuff of fantasy for a lifetime, although he'll never admit it—even to himself.

"I need a robe," she says coolly, without looking at him.

And I need my pants. They're on the back of the couch, tossed there carelessly by Wilhelmina, earlier in the evening when he'd first lost his head. He moves a little bit over to the left and yanks them on, face stony.

"Daniel."

He turns around so abruptly he winces- he's still way too light-headed to make any sudden moves. "God damn it, Wilhelmina, we just—"

"You don't need to paint me a picture." Her voice is icy. "You did quite the good job, by the way."

He's dangerously close to vomiting, he can feel it. "Yes, but fuck it, why--?"

She smiles and he knows he's screwed. "Doesn't matter at this point, does it?" she reaches out, cups his cheek, kisses him. It feels reptilian, artificial.

"You're a snake," he says quietly.

She pats his cheek. "Least you got some enjoyment out of it." Stretching luxuriously, she slips off the table, bending to pick up the paperwork now scattered on the floor. She seems unbothered by her nakedness; picking up her fur and pulling it round her shoulders seems almost an afterthought. "I'm going to sleep," she announces, then begins to walk away. "I suggest you do, as well. Please don't disturb me when you come in." She pauses, looks over her shoulder at him. "We've got a meeting with your sister in the morning, after all." She pauses again. "And you've got papers from Grace Chin in here I'll want to make copies of. We can do that in the morning—I'm fine now, but I'm sure you're exhausted," she adds kindly.

Daniel merely stares at her, to shocked to even let his mouth drop open; and she gives him a look with an actual hint of regret in it.

"I'm sorry it had to end up this way, Daniel," she says softly. "If I were fifteen years younger, we'd have made quite the pair."

"Fuck you," he croaks out.

"You did. And decently, I might add. I never scream, usually." A smile. Then, huskily, "You're a big boy, Daniel." With that, she is gone.