The sky was still heavy with the scent of recent rain when Oscar turned into the long, gravel driveway. The countryside was quiet, interrupted only by the soft crunch of tyres and the occasional birdcall. Ahead of him, the property stood tall and proud -- an old Georgian house, modernised just enough to feel luxurious but still charming in its bones.
He'd seen the listing online. Impressive enough. But it was the estate agent's voice that had piqued his interest.
"You'll want to see this one in person," she'd said. Her tone was smooth, sultry. Confident. He hadn't forgotten it.
The heavy wooden door creaked open before he reached it.
She was already waiting.
Maya.
Tall. Poised. Dressed for power and attention. She wore a crisp white blouse tucked into a charcoal-grey pencil skirt that hugged her hips like a second skin. A black belt cinched her waist, and her legs, long and toned, disappeared into jet-black stilettos that clicked against the polished wood as she stepped forward. Her dark hair was sleek, lips tinted deep rose, and her eyes... sharp, knowing.
"You must be Oscar," she said, extending a hand.
Her grip was deliberate -- not soft, not aggressive. Balanced. As if she knew exactly how she affected people.
"I am," he replied, eyes flicking down, then quickly back up.
Her heels clicked again as she turned. "Come inside. I think this one might surprise you."
The hallway was wide, light pouring in from skylights above. As she led the way, Oscar's gaze dropped to the sway of her hips -- subtle but controlled, each step perfectly measured. The rhythm of her stilettos on the hardwood echoed like a metronome, ticking with a kind of slow, deliberate seduction.
"This is the sitting room," she said, stepping aside. "South-facing, original fireplace, restored flooring."
But he wasn't looking at the woodwork.
He was watching her -- the way her skirt gripped her thighs when she leaned forward slightly to gesture at the ceiling height, the faint line of her stockings where they peeked through the slit at the back of her skirt. Her blouse clung just enough to suggest the curves underneath, the top button undone to hint at the swell of her chest.
"You're quiet," she said, catching him watching her.
"Just taking it all in."
She arched an eyebrow. "The house, or the view?"
Oscar smirked. "Depends which you're selling harder."
She smiled, then turned slowly on her heel -- a deliberate little spin, letting him hear the click of her stilettos again as they hit the floor.
"I sell whatever someone's interested in," she said over her shoulder.
He followed her up the stairs, her hips a hypnotic sway, the heels biting into the carpet runner with soft, precise clicks. At the top, she paused beside a full-length mirror in the hallway.
"The master bedroom," she said, opening the door with a quiet push.
It was large. Elegant. Double windows. Clean lines. But all he could see was her reflection in the mirror -- standing slightly to the side now, hand resting lightly on her hip, her body angled just so.
Oscar stepped closer behind her.
"It's a beautiful room," he said, his voice lower.
She didn't move. "It is."
"Would you stay here?"
Maya's eyes met his in the mirror. "Depends."
"On what?"
"On who I was staying with."
The air went thick.
Oscar watched her closely. The way her chest rose just slightly. The way her lips parted, barely. He took another step closer, now directly behind her.
"You look like you'd make yourself right at home," he murmured.
Maya turned slowly to face him. No more than an inch between them now. Her heels gave her the height to meet his gaze directly. "I always do."
Oscar's eyes dropped -- to the curve of her hips, the smooth line of her blouse, the subtle pressure of her chest against his. Her perfume was warm, floral, a little intoxicating.
