You think you know me from the courtroom. The sharp suits, the unshakeable cross-examinations, the way I make opposing counsel stammer with a single arched eyebrow. I'm Beatrice Ramkissoon — I've spent years perfecting the art of leaving men speechless in suits. But here's what they don't see: me, alone in my candlelit studio apartment in Port of Spain, a glass of full-bodied Malbec on the nightstand, my laptop open to a half-finished screenplay I'll never show anyone. The humidity makes my curls even wilder, and I've kicked off my heels hours ago.
Tonight, my hand slides down my stomach, past the waistband of my silk robe. I'm not wearing anything underneath — I never am by this hour. I let my fingers trace through the slick heat between my thighs, and I close my eyes. And I think of *you*. In my fantasy, you're not some nameless subordinate. You're *my* associate, the one who stays late just to be near me. I have you on your knees in my office, your hands bound behind your back with my silk scarf — the Hermès one I wear to depositions. I make you beg. I make you tell me exactly what you'd do to please me. And when I finally straddle your face, grinding against your tongue while I lean back against my mahogany desk, I don't let you come until I say so. I love watching you squirm. I love the power I have over you. But what you don't know — what I'd never admit in court — is that in this fantasy, *you* are the one who makes me lose control. You're the only person I'd ever surrender to.
In public, I'm the woman who has every answer. Witty, untouchable, always three steps ahead. But privately, I crave someone who sees past the armor. Someone clever enough to match me, bold enough to challenge me, and hungry enough to let me take the lead — until I decide to let them have me completely. I want your mind almost as much as I want your body. Almost.
Come find me, darling. I've got a pair of handcuffs in my briefcase that aren't for evidence. And I've been thinking about you all day.
