The vacation was still three weeks away, but Maya had already checked out.
It wasn't the white sand beaches of Tulum or the all-inclusive resort with the swim-up bar that occupied her mind—not yet, anyway. It was the way Julian had looked at her across the conference table that morning, his dark eyes lingering a beat too long on the exposed curve of her collarbone. It was the way his voice had dropped an octave when he'd leaned in to point at something on her screen, close enough that she'd caught the clean, cedar-and-citrus scent of his cologne mixing with the stale office air.
It was the way her body had responded—a warm, liquid pull low in her belly that had nothing to do with the quarterly projections and everything to do with the fact that she hadn't been touched properly in months.
The office was quiet now, the fluorescent lights above her cubicle buzzing their familiar, irritating hum. Most of her colleagues had already fled for the weekend, their computers dark, their coffee mugs abandoned in the breakroom sink. Maya should have been among them. Her own bag was packed, her keys resting on the desk beside a half-empty bottle of water. But she'd lingered, telling herself she needed to finish one last report.
The truth was simpler and more dangerous. She'd stayed because she knew he would.
Julian was the company's new creative director, hired six months ago to revitalize their flagging brand. He was fifteen years her senior, with salt-and-pepper hair that he wore slightly long, and a build that suggested he still played the rugby he'd mentioned in his introductory email. He was smart, intimidatingly so, and he had a reputation for being exacting. But in the weeks since they'd been assigned to the same project, Maya had discovered another side to him—a dry, self-deprecating humor, a genuine curiosity about her ideas, and a gaze that seemed to see straight through her professional composure to the restless, wanting woman beneath.
She heard his footsteps before she saw him—the measured, confident tread of leather soles on industrial carpet. Her heart kicked against her ribs. She kept her eyes fixed on her screen, fingers poised over the keyboard as if she were deep in concentration.
"Burning the midnight oil?" His voice was low, intimate in the empty space.
Maya looked up, affecting surprise. "Oh. Julian. I didn't realize you were still here."
He leaned against the fabric-covered wall of her cubicle, arms crossed. He'd loosened his tie and rolled his sleeves to the elbow, revealing tanned forearms dusted with dark hair. "I could say the same about you. It's Friday. Don't you have somewhere better to be?"
"Not really," she admitted, and then, because she felt bold in the dim, humming quiet, added, "Unless you count my empty apartment and a pint of Ben & Jerry's."
His mouth curved. "A wild night."
"The wildest."
A beat of silence stretched between them, charged and expectant. Julian's gaze drifted from her face to the desk, to the framed photo of Maya and her sister at a wine tasting, then back to her. "I wanted to talk to you about the pitch. The one for the wellness client."
Maya's pulse quickened. They'd been working on it together for weeks, late nights and shared takeout containers, their knees brushing under the table in the small conference room. "What about it?"
"I think we're close. But something's missing." He pushed off from the wall and took a step closer. Another. Now he was standing at the entrance to her cubicle, and she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "It needs more… intimacy."
The word hung in the air, heavy with implication. Maya's mouth went dry. "Intimacy?"
"The brand is about connection. About being present. About touch." He reached out and, very deliberately, brushed a strand of hair from her face. His fingertips grazed her cheek, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver cascading down her spine. "We need to feel that in the campaign. Don't you think?"
Maya couldn't breathe. She could smell him now—that cedar and citrus, underlaid with something warmer, muskier. Her body was responding on a primal level, nipples tightening beneath her silk blouse, thighs pressing together beneath the desk. "I… yes. I think you're right."
Julian's thumb traced the line of her jaw. "You're very good at your job, Maya. You know that?"
"I try."
"You do more than try. You're the most talented strategist on this team. But that's not why I stay late." His voice had dropped to a near-whisper, rough and honest. "That's not why I'm standing here right now."
The confession sent a jolt of heat through her. She should have been cautious. He was, technically, her superior. The HR implications alone were enough to make a sensible woman push back her chair and bolt for the elevator. But Maya was tired of being sensible. She'd spent two years in a relationship that had slowly withered into roommate status, followed by eight months of celibate self-discovery that had mostly involved a lot of yoga and a vibrator she'd named after a Viking. She was ready for something real. Something with a pulse.
"Why are you standing here, Julian?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.
He answered by closing the distance between them. His hands came to rest on her shoulders, warm and solid, and then he was bending down, his mouth hovering inches from hers. "Because I can't stop thinking about you," he said. "I can't stop thinking about the way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. Or the way you laugh when you think no one's listening. Or the way you look in this blouse."
His fingers found the top button. "May I?"
Her nod was barely perceptible. But it was enough.
He undid the first button slowly, then the second, revealing the lacy edge of her nude bra and the swell of her breasts. The cool office air kissed her skin, raising goosebumps. Julian's eyes darkened, pupils dilating. "You're even more beautiful than I imagined."
"You've imagined?" The question came out breathless.
"Every night for the past three months." He dipped his head and pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat. Maya gasped, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders. His mouth was hot and insistent, trailing a path of open-mouthed kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, to the upper curve of her breast. His tongue flicked against her skin, tasting her, and she arched into him involuntarily.
"We shouldn't," she managed, even as her fingers tangled in his hair.
"We should," he countered, lifting his head to look at her. His expression was serious, almost solemn. "I'm not looking for a hookup, Maya. I'm looking for you. But if you want me to stop, say the word and I'll walk away right now."
She held his gaze. The office hummed around them, an indifferent mechanical heartbeat. Somewhere two floors down, a janitor was probably emptying trash cans. The world was still turning, still spinning on its axis, and she was standing in a cubicle with her shirt half-open and a man she'd been fantasizing about for weeks asking her to make a choice.
"I don't want you to stop," she said.
Julian smiled—a real smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look younger. "Thank God."
He swept the papers off her desk with one arm, sending pens and a phone charger clattering to the floor. Maya laughed, a surprised, slightly giddy sound, and then he was lifting her onto the desk's edge, his body settling between her spread thighs. His mouth found hers, finally, and the kiss was everything she'd imagined—demanding and skilled, his tongue sliding against hers while his hands roamed her back, her waist, the curve of her ass.
She moaned into his mouth, her fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. She wanted to feel his skin, to know if the chest beneath the fabric was as solid as it looked. It was. Pebbled with hair, warm and broad, his heartbeat a steady thrum against her palm. She traced the lines of his abdomen, the ridge of muscle below, and he groaned, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against hers.
"You're killing me," he rasped.
"Good."
He pushed her blouse off her shoulders, letting it pool on the desk behind her. His gaze swept over her—the lace bra, the flat plane of her stomach, the pencil skirt that had ridden up to mid-thigh. "Fuck," he breathed. "You're incredible."
"So are you." She reached for his belt.
He caught her wrist. "Not here," he said. "Not like this—on a desk, with the cleaning crew a floor away. I want to take my time with you. I want to do this properly."
Maya's entire body throbbed with thwarted desire. "Then where?"
"My office. It has a door that locks."
—
His office was at the end of the hall, a corner space with windows that overlooked the parking garage and a leather sofa that had seen more late nights than Maya wanted to think about. Julian locked the door behind them, then turned to her with an expression that made her knees weak—all hunger and tenderness, a dangerous combination.
"Come here," he said.
She went willingly, stepping out of her heels, padding across the carpet in her bare feet. He met her halfway, his hands finding her hips, pulling her flush against him. The hard length of his erection pressed into her belly, and she rocked against him instinctively, earning a guttural sound from deep in his chest.
"Bed," he said, nodding toward the sofa. "Now."
She lay back on the leather, her hair fanning out, and watched as he undressed. He was methodical about it, unhurried, holding her gaze the entire time. He unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall. Unfastened his belt, unzipped his trousers, pushed them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, thick and ruddy and curved slightly upward, and Maya's mouth watered. He was proportional to his height, long and substantial, and she wanted him in her mouth, wanted to feel the weight of him on her tongue.
"Like what you see?" There was a hint of vulnerability in the question, buried beneath the confidence.
"Very much." She sat up and reached for him.
He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Lie back. Let me take care of you first."
He knelt on the floor beside the sofa, which somehow made the moment more intimate, more reverent. His hands moved to her skirt, sliding it up over her hips, then working it down her legs until she was clad only in her bra and a scrap of matching nude lace. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties and drew them down slowly, deliberately, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.
Maya's breath caught as he exposed her. She was already wet—had been since the moment he'd touched her cheek in the cubicle—and the air against her slick folds made her shiver.
"Beautiful," he murmured, and then his mouth was on her.
The first stroke of his tongue made her cry out, her hips bucking off the sofa. He spread her with his thumbs, licking up the length of her slit in one long, torturous movement, then circling her clit with the tip of his tongue. Maya fisted her hands in the leather cushion, her head thrashing from side to side.
"Oh God—Julian—right
