OliverI hit the enter key hard enough to make the laptop screen wobble.Chana doesn’t even blink, her eyes glued to her own monitor. "If you crack the casing on that, you can explain it to Kir.""The hardware is fine," I snap.My right leg is bouncing. It’s been bouncing for the last hour. The dining chairs in this rental are made of some kind of unyielding, ridiculously expensive antique wood, and sitting on them is an exercise in applied torture. Clearly I was never spanked as a child. My poor flesh is still a bit achy.Every time I shift my weight, the heavy seams of my jeans drag across my ass.I should have worn sweats, but they don’t look as good. And I want to look as tempting as possible.The sting is pretty much gone, but there’s still a dull feeling of heat and discomfort that’s impossible to ignore.It’s making me restless. My brain is trapped in a loop, oscillating between the intricate routing protocols of Silvio Morandi’s offshore accounts and the memory of Kir’s ha
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