{Please cross it. Cross every line. Demolish every boundary. I'm begging—}

He still didn't touch her beyond caging proximity, and somehow that restraint was more devastating than contact would've been.

Her eyes flicked involuntarily toward her mahogany desk—a micro-expression of pure betrayal her body made before her mind could stop it.

"I can see it," he said, his voice dropping to intimate whisper that felt like fingers trailing down her spine, making her shudder. "Playing behind your beautiful, professional eyes. Want me to describe what I'm watching?"

"No—" But it came out breathless, already defeated, a choked little sound that was more surrender than protest.

{Yes. God yes. Describe it. Make me hear it out loud so I can't pretend anymore—}

"Everything swept off in one motion," he began, and a soft, broken whimper escaped her throat despite herself. "Contracts. Tablet. Your dignity. All of it scattered on the floor like yesterday's trash."

Her hands pressed flat against the glass behind her, seeking something solid in a reality that was tilting on its axis.

"My hand fisting in this pristine silver-blonde hair." His breath ghosted across her neck, and every follicle of hair stood at attention. "Pressing your cheek against cool, polished mahogany. Feeling how expensive it is against your skin while I—"

{YES! Bend me over it! I don't care about professional boundaries—}

"—take you so hard that the sound echoes through every floor of this building."

A sharp, high moan tore from her— small, broken sound that destroyed any remaining pretense of control. Her thighs pressed together, seeking friction, seeking anything.

"They'd all know," he continued, his voice like dark honey poisoning her soul. "Every powerful client. Every employee. Every person in this building would hear Catherine Reynolds being completely, gloriously unmade on her own throne."

"Stop it..." But it was a plea rather than a command, wet and desperate and transparent.

{Don't stop don't stop don't stop NEVER STOP—}

"Stop?" he purred, a question dripping with dark triumph.

And then he touched her.

Hands settling on her waist—large, impossibly warm, heat searing through expensive fabric like it wasn't there. The contact after so much denial made her cry out.

"AHHH!", her back arching involuntarily, a pure, slutty gesture of surrender.

He pulled her back from the glass—just an inch, just enough—pinning her between the cool window and the scorching wall of his chest.

She could feel every hard line of him against her back, the rigid ridge of his cock, and her body responded with a mind of its own, pressing back, seeking more contact, more heat, more everything.

"Your body's telling a different story than your mouth," he murmured against her ear, the words a final, damning indictment of her lies.

Through Plea, her thoughts screamed the confession she couldn't speak: {My body knows what it needs even if I'm too scared to admit it. My body is smarter than my professional dignity. My body wants—}

His hands began moving—slow, deliberate exploration that mapped her body as his territory. One hand sliding around her back, fingers splaying across her shoulder blades, feeling the elegant arch of her spine that betrayed every word of protest.

"You're trembling." Not a question. An observation.

"I'm not—" She was. Violently. Her entire body was shaking, a fine, high-frequency tremor like an earthquake localized to her nervous system.

A deep, full-body shudder wracked her that had nothing to do with the temperature. {I'm coming apart. He's taking me apart piece by piece with just his hands and his voice and his presence and I'm—}

His fingers didn't just trace its path; they grazed the cool metal of her skirt zipper, a light touch that sent a shaft of pure electricity straight to her clit, making her pussy clench.

He dragged his knuckle down her spine on her shirt, and she felt it like a brand burning through the silk.

"You know what I'm thinking about, Catherine?"

She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, her lips numb. She could only manage a shaky, pathetic nod, giving permission she shouldn't, wouldn't, have ever given an hour ago. {YES. I want to know. Please God, tell me every filthy thing you're thinking about doing to me.}

"I'm thinking about ruining this." His fingers hooked into the small, elegant zipper pull but didn't move yet.

The threat of the action was more potent than the action itself. "These perfect buttons of your shirt scattered across the marble floor. This expensive armor torn away just to get to the naked, trembling woman underneath."

"Mmmph..." A muffled, desperate sound was her only reply. {YES YES YES rip it to shreds and fuck me on the shreds I don't care about the jacket I don't care about anything except feeling your hands on my bare skin.}

"But I'm not going to remove it, slowly," he whispered, his voice a dark promise. With agonizing slowness, his hands, confident and sure, drifted from her waist to the tiny, pearlescent buttons of her silk shirt, a final, flimsy barrier between the competent CEO and the desperate woman beneath.

He didn't rip. He didn't rush. He took his time, his knuckles brushing against the feverish skin of her stomach with each movement.

The first button came undone. Cool air was a thousand tiny tongues of fire against her skin. Her sharp, hitched gasp was a captured bird in the sudden silence of the office. His gaze dropped to the newly exposed sliver of flesh, the shadowy valley between her breasts.

The second button.

More skin was revealed. And then she remembered. The one small act of rebellion she'd allowed herself this morning. The one secret she kept from the world. She wasn't wearing a bra. A flush of intense, terrifying humiliation warred with a dark, thrilling triumph.

The third button. The fourth.

He worked his way down, his movements economical and devastating. The silk parted, whispering against her skin, until the blouse hung open, a frame for the masterpiece he was unveiling.

And there they were.

They were small, but perfectly formed, defying her age. High and perpetually youthful, they stood on her chest without the slightest hint of sag.

Two perfect, firm cups of pale, creamy skin, crowned with nipples that were already standing proud, tight with need, dark rose pebbled into hard, aching points that begged for attention.

The areolas were a slightly deeper shade of pink, puckered and delicate, like dark, silent mouths crying out for a kiss.

A shudder, violent and uncontrollable, wracked her entire frame. It was a teach, a final, visceral betrayal from a body that no longer answered to her mind. She was exposed. Utterly. Completely.

Every secret she held was now bared to this boy, this god, whose burning gaze felt hotter than any fire.

He didn't touch them. Not yet. He just looked. And in his eyes, she didn't see lust or conquest. She saw reverence. He saw them not as mere flesh, but as altar candles, waiting to be lit by a holy flame.

Waiting for his touch. And she had never felt so powerful, or so completely owned.

The cool conditioned air hit the fabric, making it cling to the feverish skin of her stomach, hinting at the soft curve of her waist.

"I'm going to take my time," he murmured, "Make you feel every single moment of giving up control."

His hands slid inside, palms finding the silk and the feverish skin radiating heat through it. The contact was a detonation. Cool, possessive hands against her molten flesh.

"AHHHH!" A sharp, explosive cry broke from her lips. She shuddered—a violent, full-body convulsion she couldn't suppress, couldn't hide, couldn't pretend wasn't happening.

He shifted her form. Her back arched, pressing her ass back against the rigid length of his cock, a mindless, slutty gesture of surrender that was a final, undeniable admission of want.

"That's it," he murmured, approval in his voice that made her feel high, drugged, willing to do anything to earn more. "Stop fighting what your body craves."

"I can't—this is wrong—I'm your boss—" The words were a shredded, breathless whisper, a last-ditch effort from a part of her that was already dead.

{It's so right. FINALLY something feels RIGHT after years of wrong. More. Don't you dare stop. Take me. I'll do anything you say.}

"Nothing about this is wrong," he growled, his hands moving with a confidence that was absolute, born from knowing every dirty thought, every desperate fantasy, every need she'd buried under professional competence.

His hands slid up her ribcage, his thumbs settling just millimeters from the aching weight of her breasts, so close she could feel the heat of them through the thin lace of her bra.

"You've been starving, Catherine. Dying of thirst while surrounded by water you wouldn't let yourself drink."

His eyes feasted on her exposed breasts for a long, agonizing moment. She fought the urge to cover herself, a final, pathetic puff of resistance from a part of her that was already dead. Then, he moved.

His hands came up, but not to the aching, needy peaks. They settled on the soft, firm underside of her breasts, cupping their weight with a reverent pressure that made her want to scream. His thumbs stroked the sensitive skin, tracing the curve where they met her ribcage.

It wasn't enough. It was torture.

{TOUCH MY NIPPLES. PLEASE GOD, PINCH THEM TWIST THEM PULL ON THEM—}

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