The last client had finally left the building. Sarah listened to the click of the front door latching shut, the sound echoing through the hushed office. She leaned back in her chair, the faux leather creaking as she stretched her arms overhead, feeling the satisfying pull in her shoulders after a nine-hour day. The air in the office was still, thick with the scent of old paper, printer toner, and the ghost of someone’s floral perfume.
Across the open-plan space, a single light remained on. It glowed from the corner office, casting a warm rectangle onto the dark carpet. That was his office. Marcus.
Sarah had been her assistant for three years, but her crush on him had started the moment she’d walked in for her interview. He was fifty-five, with silver threading through his dark, carefully styled hair. His hands were large, the nails clean, and when he’d shaken hers, she’d felt a jolt of electricity that had nothing to do with the dry office air. He had a voice that could command a boardroom or soothe a panicked intern, rich and deep, with a rumbling laugh that she could hear from her desk even with her headphones on. He was the epitome of controlled power, and she was a moth drawn to a very steady, very dangerous flame.
Tonight, she’d stayed late to finish a presentation deck, but in truth, she’d been waiting. Waiting for the last person to leave. Waiting for the quiet. Waiting for him.
She stood, smoothing down her navy blue pencil skirt. The silk blouse, a deep charcoal gray, was untucked, a concession to the fact that it was just the two of them now. She’d worn her hair down, the dark waves brushing her shoulders, a deliberate choice. Usually, it was pulled back in a severe ponytail. Tonight, she wanted to look how she felt: soft, available, desperate.
She walked across the carpet, her low heels silent. The door to his office was ajar. She pushed it open, just a few inches.
Marcus was at his desk, reading glasses perched low on his nose. He was staring at a document, a pen held loosely in his fingers. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms dusted with dark hair. A tie, loosened, hung around his unbuttoned collar. He looked tired, but good. Impossibly good.
“You’re still here,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.
He looked up, and the way his eyes focused on her made her breath catch. He didn’t look surprised. He looked like he’d been expecting her, or maybe just hoping for it. He removed his glasses, folding them slowly.
“Paperwork never sleeps,” he said, a weary smile touching his lips. “And you? You should have gone home hours ago.”
“I was finishing the Henderson file,” she said, stepping fully into the room. She didn’t stop at the chair across from his desk. She walked around it, stopping by the edge of the heavy mahogany surface. “It’s done.”
He nodded, leaning back in his huge leather chair. “Good work. You always do good work, Sarah.”
His praise was a physical thing, a warm brush against her skin. She’d been soaking it up for years, but tonight, it wasn’t enough. Tonight, it felt like a wall she needed to climb.
“I do it because I want to,” she said. “For you.”
She watched his eyes darken, the lazy affection turning into something sharper, more alert. The air in the room shifted, the molecules tightening around them.
“Sarah,” he said, a warning in his tone.
She ignored it. She took a step closer, until her hip was pressed against the edge of his desk. She was close enough now to see the pulse flickering in his throat, to smell the clean, masculine scent of his soap overlaid with something muskier, more primal.
“I’ve been wanting to tell you something for a long time,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, steady hum. “I think you know what it is.”
He didn’t look away. He stood up slowly, and the power dynamic in the room shifted. He was taller than her by six inches, and his broad shoulders seemed to fill the space. He stepped around the desk until he was standing in front of her, close enough that the hem of her skirt brushed against his trouser leg.
“This is a bad idea,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“I don’t care,” she whispered.
She reached up, her fingers trembling, and undid the top button of her blouse. Then another. His gaze dropped, following the line of skin she was exposing. The lace of her bralette was visible now, black against the paler skin of her chest.
“I wanted you the first day I saw you,” she continued, her fingers moving to the third button. “I’ve been thinking about your hands on me for three years. Every time you stood behind my chair to look at a spreadsheet, every time you laughed at my jokes, I imagined being alone with you like this.”
She shrugged off the blouse, letting it slide down her arms and pool on the carpet behind her. She was left in the bralette and her skirt, the curve of her breasts visible, the hard points of her nipples pressing against the fine lace.
He made a sound, low in his throat, a growl of surrender. His hands came up, not to push her away, but to cup her face. His palms were rough and warm, and he tilted her head up, forcing her to meet his eyes.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” he breathed, his lips barely an inch from hers.
“Show me,” she demanded.
It was all the permission he needed. He crashed his mouth down on hers, not gently, not tentative. It was a hungry, possessive kiss, his tongue sliding against hers, tasting her, claiming her. His hands slid down her neck, over her shoulders, and he pulled her body flush against his. She could feel the rigid length of him through his trousers, pressing into her belly.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “Not here,” he muttered, but his hands were already sliding down her back, cupping her ass through the thin fabric of her skirt.
“Yes, here,” she insisted, reaching for his belt. “Now.”
She fumbled with the buckle, then the button, her fingers clumsy with desire. He groaned, swatting her hands away and doing it himself. The rasp of the zipper was loud in the silent office. He kicked off his shoes, pushed his trousers and boxers down to his thighs, and stood before her, his cock thick and fully erect, the tip glistening in the low lamplight.
She sank to her knees without a word. She wanted this. Wanted to taste him, to worship him. She leaned forward, her lips parting, and took the head of him into her mouth. He hissed, a sharp intake of air, his hand flying to her hair, gripping the dark strands.
“Fuck, Sarah.”
She worked him slowly, taking him deeper, her tongue swirling around his shaft. She could taste the salt of him, the musk of his skin, and it drove her wild. She wanted to devour him, to make him forget every other woman he’d ever had.
But he wasn’t letting her. He pulled her up, her chin slick with him, and turned her around. He pushed her forward, bending her over the edge of his desk. The wood was cool against her bare stomach, the papers scattered. He lifted her skirt, bunching it around her waist. Underneath, she wore a garter belt and black thigh-highs, but no panties. She’d planned for this, hoped for it.
He let out a long, shaky breath. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and she felt his fingers slide between her legs. She was already slick, embarrassingly, desperately wet. He pushed two fingers inside her, and she gasped, her hips bucking back against his hand.
“I’m going to fuck you right here,” he said, his voice a low rumble in her ear as he leaned over her back. “And I’m not going to be gentle.”
“Please,” was all she could manage.
He removed his fingers and positioned himself. She felt the blunt pressure of him against her opening, and then he pushed inside her, filling her in one long, slow, agonizingly perfect stroke. She cried out, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the polished wood of his desk, knocking over a pen holder.
He set a brutal rhythm, his hips slamming against her, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the quiet office. Each thrust was deep, hitting that perfect spot inside her that made her see stars. He was grunting with the effort, his breath hot on her neck. She was moaning, her voice a high, keening sound that she couldn’t control, didn’t want to control.
He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing in tight, fast circles. The sensation was too much, and she shattered, her orgasm ripping through her, her inner walls clenching around him. She felt him stiffen, heard him curse, and then he buried himself deep, spilling his release inside her, his body shuddering with the force of it.
He collapsed over her, his chest heaving against her back. They stayed like that for a long moment, panting, tangled. Then he kissed her shoulder, a soft, tender gesture that felt more intimate than the act itself.
Slowly, he pulled out, and she straightened up, feeling the wetness slide down her thigh. He turned her around, cupped her face, and kissed her again, this time soft and deep, a lover’s kiss.
“I’ve wanted that for a very long time,” he admitted, his voice rough.
“I know,” she whispered, smiling against his lips. “I could tell.”
He laughed, that rumbling laugh she loved. He helped her off the desk, and they dressed in comfortable silence, buttoning and zipping, smoothing down crumpled fabric. He picked her blouse off the floor and handed it to her.
As she pulled it on, she saw him go to his desk drawer. He pulled out a small leather journal and reached into the pocket of his discarded jacket, pulling out a worn key.
“What’s that?” she asked, her heart skipping.
He tossed the key on the desk between them. “My cabin. Upstate. It’s small, but it’s private. No neighbors for miles.”
He opened the journal and wrote something on a fresh page. He tore it out and handed it to her. It was an address and a date. The next Saturday.
“I want a replay,” he said, his eyes holding hers. “But not here. A whole night. Can you do that?”
She looked at the piece of paper, then at him. He was older, wiser, the CEO of their small world. But standing there, with his tie askew and his hair ruffled, he looked just as vulnerable as she felt.
“I’ll be there,” she said, folding the paper and tucking it into her bra, next to her heart. “I’ll always be there.”
He smiled, a full, genuine smile that reached his eyes, and for the first time in three years, Sarah felt like she wasn’t just his assistant anymore. She was the woman he wanted.
And the cabin was waiting.
