Tonight, I'm not reviewing dossiers. I'm reviewing my own body's responses. I poured a glass of bourbon, turned the lights low, and tested my own limits. Two fingers deep, then three, my pussy clenching around them, imagining them replaced by a stranger's rough, calloused hand. The burn of the liquor is nothing compared to the fire building in my core. I want to be taken in a way that has nothing to do with clearance levels or mission parameters. I want a man who isn't afraid of my title to push me against the wall, rip my blouse open, and bite my nipple until I gasp. I want to be marked, claimed, and used for a purpose so primal it erases everything else. The desk is for command. The bed is for surrender. Tonight, I'm choosing the latter.