Code of Conduct: An HR Passion Play

Code of Conduct: An HR Story

Part 1: Professional Conduct

There are rules here. Most of them written. Some of them whispered. But the ones that matter -- the truly forbidden ones -- are made of glance and gesture. A soft voice. A too-long pause behind a closed door. They live in the space between professionalism and need. And in our office -- in that gleaming, too-quiet HR department on the twelfth floor -- those unspoken rules hum like live wires.

Her name was Monica.

She was my manager. Had been for six years. Tall. Latina. Curves that made the earth tilt slightly toward her when she walked. Her scent -- faint coconut, something warm -- had lived in my dreams more nights than I cared to admit. She was control in heels, diplomacy in lipstick. When she looked at me across a meeting room, my blood forgot to circulate properly.

I'm Richard. Early thirties. People call me Rich, or sometimes -- for reasons both unfortunate and persistent -- Dick. The nickname started when Tracy from Customer Service overheard me correcting my own typo in an email. "Dick move," I'd muttered under my breath. Tracy, of course, ran with it.

Tracy. I'll come back to her.

But first -- Monica and me.

I had started there young. Not fresh out of school, but close enough to still keep business cards in my desk like they meant something. Monica had taken me under her wing from day one -- kind, patient, a little playful. Back then, she treated me like a younger brother. She'd ruffle my hair in meetings, rib me gently when I blushed too easily. I didn't mind. I admired her. Wanted to be the kind of HR partner she was -- firm, confident, and never flustered.

In time, I found my footing. Earned some small wins. Then bigger ones. Became someone she could rely on, the only other HR voice on-site for nearly five years. We built things together -- programs, trust, rapport. She mentored me. Pulled me into stretch projects. Told me I had good instincts. And, somewhere along the way, the dynamic shifted.

I had a rough breakup -- messy, draining. She'd had a few of her own. She was there for me through mine. I tried to be there through hers. It was the gym that helped me keep my head straight, and after a while, Monica noticed.

"Richard," she said one afternoon, as I held open her office door, "You have the nicest arms."

It shouldn't have meant anything. But it did.

I'd always respected her. Thought she was beautiful, of course -- anyone would -- but something about the sisterly haze around her began to lift. I'd sit across from her during budget meetings and catch myself admiring her feet in heels. That turned into glancing -- subtly, then not -- down her blouse when she leaned forward. I was half a foot taller than her, even when she wore stilettos, so the angle invited constant curiosity. Curiosity became routine. And Monica in heels... well. What they did for her hips. Her posture. Her ass. My judgment.

I stopped sneaking glances and started seeking them. I began rating my mornings by her blouse, her skirt, her shoes. And I swear -- I swear -- she started dressing with an audience in mind.

Last year, when we finally got approval to hire a coordinator, I ran point on the search. Monica helped, of course. Offered input, joked that I had a type. She especially enjoyed helping me justify the final candidate -- a bubbly, distractingly leggy blonde named Lily. Monica gave me hell for weeks. But always with that smile.

Then her father died.

She cried with me in her office. Then in the hallway. Then in my arms. She curled into me on the break room couch one night when everyone else had gone home. I held her as long as she needed. Longer.

I started dating again. Monica... inserted herself. Playfully, at first -- asking names, prodding for photos, voting on their qualifications like it was a panel interview. But when I grew fond of someone, she pivoted -- suddenly setting me up with other women, dropping compliments just a little too loudly near attractive coworkers. I'd have to tell her, gently, "Monica, I'm actually seeing someone right now. Her name's--"

Didn't matter. Monica would pout and change the subject.

I began noticing a pattern: the worse my dating life, the brighter her mood. When I was single, she was sunshine. When I had options, she got a little sharp. Not mean -- just... invasive. Interested. She even started asking about sex. I never had much to tell her. I hadn't exactly rounded second base with any of them. Lately, not even close.

The truth? Neither of us had been on a real date -- much less gotten laid -- in at least six months.

And in that silence, that space, something unspoken had grown thick between us. Something warm. Something dangerous.

At that moment, I was watching Monica adjust the hem of her pencil skirt as she sat beside me in the small glass-walled HR interview room. It was Wednesday. 4:17 PM. The floor was mostly empty, golden light spilling across the beige carpet in lazy stripes. We were interviewing Henry Albrecht, a mild-mannered warehouse coordinator, about a complaint he had filed earlier that week. Something about Tracy, naturally.

Monica folded one leg over the other. I heard the sound of her stockings graze like a match being struck.

"Thanks for coming in, Henry," she said with her usual warmth. "We know this isn't easy."

Henry nodded, face flushed. "I, uh... I appreciate it."

I shifted slightly, trying to adjust myself beneath the table. Monica's perfume hit me again. I wondered if she noticed.

"Why don't you walk us through what happened?" she said. "In your own words. And don't worry about being too... delicate."

She turned slightly toward me as she said that. It was subtle. But not lost on me.

Henry shifted in his chair. "Well, it started about two months ago... Tracy started dropping by my station a lot. Wearing stuff that, I mean--she can wear what she wants--but..." His voice cracked. "She asked if I wanted to... 'handle her packages,' which I know sounds--"

"And this was a euphemism?" Monica interrupted, gently.

Henry nodded.

"It's okay," she said. "You can be specific. It's important for context. What did you think she meant?"

"By package? I think she meant, her... uh..."

"Her body," Monica finished. Her finger drew circles on the table. "To handle her body," she keyed something on her tablet and glanced sideways at me again. I saw she'd tilted it for me to read:

'Sounds hot'

I caught the flicker behind her composed expression -- a smile? Yes, but warmer also. Like flame behind frosted glass.

I felt a stir. I cleared my throat. "Did she touch you?"

Henry hesitated. "Once. Kind of brushed past me. Backed into me, if I'm honest. Said I should 'watch my load.'"

"And this was a euphemism, as well?" Monica invited. This was her having fun.

Henry blustered, "Well, isn't it? She backed into my... pelvis."

"So load may have meant your genitals?" Monica made a small, thoughtful noise in her throat, keyed another phrase to tilt for me:

'Lucky guy'

She uncrossed her legs. Crossed them again. The movement sent a ripple through her skirt, up the curve of her thigh. I stared. For just a second too long.

She knew.

And worse -- she let me.

Tracy had joked once at the holiday party that "HR girls are just as filthy, they just know how to type it up in legalese." Monica had laughed a little too long at that. Later that same night, I had caught Tracy whispering in Monica's ear. Something that made Monica cover her mouth, shaking with laughter. Her eyes had met mine after -- lingering, playful, almost guilty.

Tracy and Monica were friends. Different styles -- Tracy all cleavage and chaos, Monica measured and molten -- but friends nonetheless. The kind of women who drink sangria and overshare. The kind of women who knew what power their voices carried, especially when they spoke just a little too loudly within earshot of someone like me.

Henry finished his story, and Monica thanked him, her tone soft but clipped. She tapped a few notes into her tablet, then glanced up with that patient, practiced look she gave people who'd said nearly enough.

"Was there anything else?" she asked.

Henry hesitated. His ears went pink. "Yeah... one more thing, maybe. It was last week. She came down to the loading dock. Asked me if a drop shipment had arrived yet. I pointed to the pallet, and she walked over -- kind of swayed over, actually -- picked up the box like she needed to prove something."

He cleared his throat. "She set it on my station, right in front of me. Said it was 'too damn hot back here' and started fanning herself. With her blouse. She wiped her brow with the hem -- lifted it all the way up. I mean... I saw her stomach. All the way up to--" he gestured vaguely at his chest, too embarrassed to finish. "She wasn't wearing a bra."

Monica's lips pressed into a tight line. "She exposed her breasts to you?"

"Not... well, I could not see everything. Not her... um..."

"Nipples," Monica said and nodded, making yet another note for me:

'Not so lucky'.

I lifted an eyebrow, knowingly, but it was a trained response when we were in mixed company. Between ourselves, my response would be a smile or wink, but this, too, would be rehearsed, a cover, designed to conceal the rise in my blood pressure.

Her voice, when she spoke, was velvet-wrapped steel. "Thank you, Henry. We'll follow up on this."

She scheduled a check-in, voice cool, efficient. I barely heard a word. My brain was fogged, flooded. Frustration clouding arousal.

He left. The door clicked shut.

And Monica did something that made me ache.

She sighed. Deeply. A long, slow breath that lifted her chest in a way that made me forget everything I had ever learned about sexual harassment training.

"Poor guy," Monica said, her voice silk hiding a thorn. "Want me to let Tracy keep this going? At this rate, Henry's next interview should really turn up the heat."

"Very professional," I joked.

"He just doesn't know how to handle attention. Then again... most men can't handle Tracy's boobs."

I huffed a dry laugh. "No comment."

She angled her head toward me, sly. "Jealous, Dick?"

The nickname on her lips sent a jolt through me. She hadn't used it in weeks. Not since the day Tracy asked in front of the entire break room whether I "lived up to the name."

I glanced at her. Let the silence bloom just a second longer than necessary. "Sure. I mean... men like boobs."

Her smile spread -- slow, feline. "That they do."

I held her gaze then. "Some more than others. Depends on the woman, I guess."

She watched me -- really watched me -- and for a second, it felt like the air got warmer.

Her fingers curled around the edge of her tablet, not typing. Not moving.

"I see," she said softly, almost to herself.

Then she stood, smoothing her skirt with practiced ease, like she hadn't just heard the echo of something riskier beneath the surface.

But she was smiling.

And it wasn't the kind of smile you gave a colleague. She left me, sitting there and with a sudden ache.

---

Back at my desk, Lily was sorting through onboarding packets. In that tight black skirt, her legs were a kind of sin. Shapely, smooth, crossed in a way that invited speculation. She was kind, sweet even. Laughed at my dumb jokes. Probably thought I was harmless.

That day, I wasn't harmless.

"Need help with anything?" I asked, standing behind her.

She turned, bright smile. "Actually, yeah--can you look at this I-9 form? The guy filled it out in green pen."

I leaned in. A little too close.

She didn't move.

I glanced down. Just a glimpse. The top button of her blouse was undone. A triangle of pale skin, black lace beneath, and that negative space of cleavage that was positively charged.

I felt my control slip. Just a fraction, as I took a breath. It had been building for weeks -- the tension, the heat. I hadn't touched myself in days, which was heroic considering the thoughts that followed me home. Thoughts of Monica in that wine-colored dress. Of Lily bending to pick up a pen. Of Tracy saying something absolutely filthy in Monica's office, while I pretended to take notes.

I didn't realize I was staring until Lily shifted slightly, blinking.

"Everything okay, Rich?" she asked.

I blinked hard. Nodded. "Yeah. Sorry. Zoned out."

She gave a soft laugh, but her smile dimmed just a little.

Then I heard it -- the subtle heel-click behind me. Monica.

"Richard," she said, tone level. "A word?"

She waited until we were just inside her office, then shut the door with an unhurried precision that felt more meaningful than it should. She didn't sit.

"You know," she said, arms folding loosely across her chest, "I believed you about liking boobs without you having to prove it in real time."

I went red. "I wasn't--"

She lifted a brow. "You weren't. Of course not. Just zoning out inches from Lily's chest while standing close enough to smell her chewing gum."

I opened my mouth. Nothing useful came out.

"I guess that answers the question of which boobs more than others for you, Dick."

That stung, but she softened it with the faintest smile. Still, her voice stayed firm.

"Lily's sweet. Maybe too sweet. And she's clearly fond of you--enough that she'd never complain. Which is exactly why you shouldn't test the limits of what's appropriate. Not unless you're aiming to invite a harassment suit from someone else."

I nodded. Genuinely chastened. And a little humiliated.

Monica exhaled through her nose, then checked the time.

"The day's over. I'll walk Lily out, make sure everything's fine. You wait five minutes, then go home."

I nodded again. "Okay."

Her hand lingered on the doorknob. "And Dick?"

I glanced up.

"No more boobs until you get home."

She didn't wait for a reply.

The door clicked shut.

And I was left alone with the buzz of fluorescent lights... and a body that was still very much aware of hers.

Part 2: Dress Code Violations

I'd needed to cool down after Monica's sharp reminder. The drive home that night was quiet--windows down, music on, letting the evening air clear my head. She'd told me to keep my thoughts boobless, and I tried. Back home, I went through my usual routine: a workout, a quick shower, and a movie. The tension eased enough that the need I'd felt just hours earlier--breasts on the brain and a bulge in my pants--had dissolved.

So, I didn't masturbate overnight, and I regretted that restraint by the morning.

Monica arrived dressed for a "good day"--heels with a gleaming buckle, a skirt that hinted at curves without revealing too much, and a crisp blouse that caught the light just right. Her hair was pinned up neatly, and she moved with the calm, confident grace that made the office seem smaller and hotter all at once. She barely glanced my way.

She was tied up in meetings most of the day, and I had enough busy work to keep me away from both her and Lily. That made for a calmer, nothing of a work morning--a quiet limbo.

Only in the afternoon, when I had to type up the notes from Henry's interview, did my arousal slowly rekindle. My thoughts drifted unbidden to Tracy's loose blouse, to the flash of her underboob, and the other fine sets of breasts that consumed me the previous afternoon.

I printed the report and stood, folder in hand, ready to file it away.

That's when I ran into Lily.

She stood on one foot in the records room, the other raised awkwardly behind her as she rubbed her ankle. One drawer of the lateral file cabinet sat askew. A folder had slipped out and burst open on the floor like a paper flower.

"Shit," she muttered, wincing.

"You okay?" I asked, stepping closer.

She glanced back, smiling sheepishly. "Hi, Rich. I tried to kick the drawer shut. Guess I forgot I wore the cute shoes today."

She had. Strappy nude heels, ankle clasped in a dainty gold ring. Her legs--always a weakness of mine--seemed longer in this light. The hem of her skirt had ridden dangerously high as she leaned over, exposing the curve where thigh met ass. A thin line of lace peeked from beneath.

I froze for a second too long.

She reached for the scattered papers. I dropped to a crouch beside her, heart pounding, fingers working the file tabs.

Our arms brushed. Her scent was citrus and warm skin. I dared a glance--her blouse was loose, and the line of her back dipped down in a curve that made me ache. She caught my eyes lingering--just briefly.

Breaking the silence, Lily sighed, "I should probably just wear flats."

I cleared my throat, trying to keep it light. "Um, sure. Some similarly cute ones, I guess," I said, adopting an overly academic tone, aiming for a dry joke rather than a compliment.

She shook her head with a playful smile, then extended her leg fully in front of me, balancing gracefully on her heel.

"No flats are nearly as cute as these," she said, voice low, teasing, and just a little daring.

My breath hitched. I felt a flush rise up my neck as my gaze traced the long line of her calf, the gentle flex of muscle beneath smooth skin, the subtle sheen where the light caught just right. Heat pooled deep and stubborn, a familiar ache growing as I swallowed hard, gulping while she held my gaze. I shifted my arm subtly, angling it to hide the sudden, unwanted evidence of my arousal.

"Well... I can't say I know much about women's shoes," I admitted, my voice catching a little, breath uneven.

Her eyes sparkled, amused and a little wicked. "I'd be happy to give you a lesson sometime. Maybe... if you ever wanted to join me on a coffee run?"

I tried to suppress a gulp, but failed. I processed the invitation while the curve of her smile deepened, and I felt something shift inside me--an ache sharpening, a tension I couldn't easily shake.

Then Monica was there--leaning in the doorway, watching me practically drooling over Lily for the second afternoon in a row.

She didn't say anything, either. Just gestured with a curl of her finger.

Come with me. Now.

---

Back in her office, the door clicked shut. She didn't offer me a chair. Just stepped around the desk, face unreadable.

"I'm surprised at you," she said finally.

My stomach dropped. "Monica--"

"No." She raised a hand. "You're better than that. You're not some intern. I walked Lily to her car yesterday, and she told me she thought you were interested in her."

"Really? But I--"

"I told her you may have had a lapse, and I asked her to remember our policies about interdepartmental relationships. She's young. She's new. You're the professional. You're supposed to set the example, but you're sending exactly the wrong message."

She walked toward me. Slowly. Deliberately. And then she extended her leg to the side, back arched, one hand gripping her desk for balance--as if easing into a sultry floor routine. Her hips tilted with purpose, shameless and sculpted, as though inviting correction. "If a woman does this," she said, lingering in the position, "You don't just gape like a teenager." Her heel pivoted slightly, adjusting her balance and pushing her hips back just enough for the fabric to stretch tight across her ass. A perfect curve, framed by the cinch of her skirt and the high arch of her heel. She didn't need to look at me to know I was staring.

"You keep your cool," she said lightly, returning to her poised position. "Eyes forward. Hands still. That's how you stay professional. That's how you earn trust."

I nodded. Or tried to.

Then, as she walked back around her desk, she glanced down at her blouse and, with an absent flick of her fingers, undid one more button.

She didn't comment on it. Didn't even look at me.

She just leaned into the desk, and bent forward -- slowly -- as if reaching for something, one hand braced beside the keyboard.

"The same applies if a woman does this," she said. Her eyes raised to mine, but her blouse parted just enough to reveal the full swell of her breasts, framed by a soft black bra, satin maybe, the curve and center bow more visible now. Her cleavage deepened and pooled as she leaned, more than just a teasing glimpse -- this was full, unapologetic invitation.

My mouth went dry.

My eyes dipped. I knew I shouldn't -- Christ, I knew -- but the slope of her chest, the subtle press of lace into skin, the dip into darkness between...

I couldn't breathe.

"You keep your eyes on hers," she said smoothly, still bent. "Not here."

I tried. God, I tried.

She straightened slowly, blouse shifting again to contain the view, releasing my eyes as from a spell, and returning to me from her side of the desk.

"I know it's hard," she added, voice syrup-thick now, "Men like boobs, so naturally you're curious. You have to wonder what they feel like."

My gaze snapped to hers, startled and raw.

Her smile unfurled like smoke. "There it is."

She stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth of her body. Her voice was low, coaxing. "But we're not talking about just any man, are we? And your curiosity is not about just any woman, is it? Maybe it's Tracy. Maybe it's Lily..."

She leaned in, her lips near my ear.

"... Or maybe it's me."

I could feel my pulse in my fingertips.

"That's the problem, isn't it?" she whispered. "You're not melting for a stretch. You're melting for my stretch. For the way I wear heels. For what you imagine when I lean too far over a desk."

She circled behind me then, slow and fluid, fingertips trailing delicately across my shoulders.

"You want to be a professional. The kind of man women trust, Richard," she murmured, voice almost affectionate. "Not the kind who forgets how to speak when I loosen one button too many."

Her thigh brushed mine as she stepped beside me again. I didn't dare move.

"But if you're going to lose yourself..." she added, low and sharp, "Then at least admit who you're losing yourself over."

I swallowed. "I didn't mean to--"

She cut me off with a look and a smile that curled at the edges.

"Oh, I know exactly what you meant. And I know you were eager to follow me in here the second I crooked my finger."

She walked to the door, placed a hand on it, then glanced back -- all calm power and wicked certainty.

"So don't pretend I'm not... helping."

Her eyes traveled the length of me, pausing just long enough to know the effect she'd had.

Then, almost sweetly:

"Get your head straight. You're mine."

Then she was gone, leaving me breathless and painfully hard again--caught between guilt and something far, far darker.

---

Monica left not long afterward, and as the afternoon quieted into evening it was all I could do to try and clear my head. I still felt her breath on my neck, her voice like ribbon wound tight around my cock.

But then came Lily. That whole scene in the records room.

Her skirt, her stretch, the arch of her back. The moment her ass flexed under thin fabric as she reached for the fallen files--and I knelt, stupidly, helpfully, right behind her.

I saw too much.

And I liked it far too much.

Which is how I ended up alone in the office after hours, sitting behind my desk, breathing like I'd run a mile. I held in my hand a glob of lotion I snuck from the pump on Lily's desk, scented of course.

The building was quiet. The others had gone. Even Monica's door was dark and still, though I could still feel the heat of her possessive whisper in my ear.

"You're mine."

I shifted in my seat, thighs twitching. My slacks had been tight for hours, my arousal refusing to fully retreat since Monica's little 'coaching session.'

And then Lily's voice, again, floating through memory:

"I wore the cute shoes today."

The image hit me fresh--her leg extended that second time like a marvelous display piece. Her invitation to admire.

To give lessons.

I slid my chair back slightly and reached under the desk, slowly unzipping. My fingers wrapped around the thickness of me, already hard from memory alone. The lotion triggered a discomforting chill, provoked a wince. Still, that faded as slowly I rubbed it over myself, biting my lower lip and leaning back with a creak.

Lily's legs. Monica's cleavage.

God, Monica's cleavage.

The way the silk of her blouse had parted just enough to frame the swell of her breasts like a gift wrapped in lace. The press of satin against skin, soft and full and high, daring me to guess the weight of them in my hands. That impossible line of shadow between them -- deep, warm, hypnotic -- like the mouth of a secret that wanted to swallow me whole. I'd felt it in my gut when she bent forward. A pulse low in my spine, heat licking the backs of my knees.

The scent of heat between them. The image looped. My breath turned ragged.

And then I heard footsteps.

I froze.

The door opened.

"Rich?"

Lily.

I yanked my chair forward, heart thundering, still exposed and throbbing beneath the desk. She didn't notice--at least, not at first.

"Oh! So you are still here," she said, startled. "Thought I saw your car downstairs."

I cleared my throat. "Yeah--just... catching up on some employee records."

She stepped closer, peering curiously at the rear side of my monitor.

"Late night. You okay?" she asked, then moved as if to step around the desk.

"No!" I said, too loud. "Just--uh--don't trip over the charger cable. It's a mess down there."

She stopped, blinking. Then smiled again, amused.

"Okay, okay. I wasn't going to snoop. It smells nice, like my... did you try my hand cream?"

"Yeah, sorry, very dry here. Hope you don't mind."

"No, of course not. I love this stuff," she leaned against the edge of her own desk, lifted the tube and set it back down. Then she adjusted her weight onto one leg. "My foot's better, by the way."

I swallowed.

"Oh?"

"Mm-hmm." She extended it again, slowly, deliberately, her heel dangling by a thread from her toes. The flex of her calf tightened like a bowstring. She rolled her ankle--graceful, languid--and with the motion, her skirt inched higher. Just a breath of thigh. The faintest shadow beneath.

"It's all better now," she said with a wink.

My hand gave an involuntary twitch beneath the desk. I squeezed myself, too slow to be satisfying. The lotion--her lotion--made a wet sound like a kiss under the hum of the fluorescents.

"Glad to hear it," I said, my voice rasping.

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing just slightly. Then she turned, her hips swayed, and she reached across her desk to open the drawer on the opposite side. Right then Lily's ass tilted toward me like a curse. Round, perfect, tight against the stretch of her skirt.

I stroked again. Even slower this time. The slick noise of it turned grotesque. I swallowed hard, loudly--whether it was a spit or groan, I couldn't tell.

She pulled a battered paperback out from her drawer, holding it up like a prize, "Forgot this," she said sweetly.

She reached for the HR Department door, pausing just long enough to throw me a glance over her shoulder.

"Night, Dick," she said, voice lilting like a secret. Dick. That may have been the first time she'd called me that.

Then she vanished, the door clicked behind her and the silence returned--but it wasn't the same. It buzzed now, electric with leftover scent and vision, with her voice still curling in the air like smoke from a match.

I didn't move.

I couldn't.

My breath came out in a slow, shuddering gust as my hand resumed its rhythm, almost involuntarily. I leaned back in my chair, eyes fluttering closed, her leg flashing again behind my lids. The heel slipping from her foot. The pale inner thigh, that magnificent ass. The knowing look she gave--half-innocent, half-accident, and all of it wicked.

But beneath it all, it was Monica's voice that returned. "Maybe it's me..." The swell of her breasts... "what they feel like..." the depth of her cleavage. Above all, though, her possessive purr:

"You're mine."

And I broke.

The wave rose fast and hot, curling my toes as it crested. I bit my lip, groaning into the back of my throat, stomach tight, thighs tense. The first pulse hit the inside of my untucked shirt--warm, thick, obscene. Another followed, then another, each a sweet, aching punctuation to the fever I'd tried and failed to sweat out.

I let it ride out. No guilt. Just breath.

And when it was over, I slumped forward, dazed -- body drained, heart pounding, mind awash in legs and perfume, pencil skirts, round asses, plunging necklines, goddess breasts and office rules I no longer remembered how to follow.

I wiped off with a tissue from the desk drawer, dropped it into the bin, and sat there, breath shallow, feeling more alive than I had in days--and more doomed.

Part 3: Performance Review

By morning, I was guilt-wrung and raw. My orgasm the night before hadn't cleared my head so much as scrambled it further. Monica's voice still echoed in my skull, wrapped around Lily's stretch and smile.

Unsettled as I was, and with the weekend pressing close like steam behind glass, I decided avoidance was my safest strategy. Lily made it easier. She worked a 9/80 schedule, and this was her Friday off--no wide eyes, no bending to file, no innocence sharpened by suggestion.

The rest fell to me.

My first email of the day was a chirpy invitation to Happy Hour. I deleted it without a reply, as if the very idea of standing around with coworkers might burn the skin off my bones. I sat through Finance's monthly report-out in the large conference room--an odd place for HR, but a perfect excuse to miss Monica's morning arrival.

I saw her once, briefly. A single corridor meeting: her heels clicking toward me, her eyes unreadable, her voice soft but firm as I murmured a too-formal "Good morning." I didn't look back. I couldn't afford to.

After that, I anchored myself at my desk. Cases, reports, documentation. I buried myself in backlogs and spreadsheets, skipped lunch, resisted coffee, and blinked past the hour--trying to grind the ache out of my system, trying not to replay the moment her mouth brushed my ear and claimed me.

Mine.

The word still didn't sit still. It ran wild through my bloodstream, twisted beneath my skin, pulsed just beneath the edge of decency. I didn't dare picture her blouse, the way it had opened for me--because the image came anyway, unbidden, cruel in its clarity.

By two, I thought I'd survived. Her office door remained shut. The hallway quieted. End-of-week lethargy was settling in, the kind that lulled even the busiest floors into a hush. A few early leavers were already packing up, and I let myself believe I might slip away unnoticed.

I began composing lies. Plausible ones. An out-of-town friend. Taking my car to the shop. A last minute guy's night. Anything that might spare me another minute alone in that office with her. Anything that might keep me from doing what part of me so desperately wanted.

But I should have known better.

A ping across my Instant Messenger.

Monica (2:04 p. m.):

> Midyear check-in. Come by?

I almost pretended to miss it. Almost. But the dots were still typing.

Monica (2:04 p. m.):

> Sorry, last-minute, but it's time sensitive, Richard. Now, please.

I inhaled, straightened my shirt, and went.

--

"Hi there. Come in."

Monica's voice was gentler than I expected. She sat upright behind her desk, a few printouts spread before her, iced tea half-finished. Sunlight slanted through the blinds, striping her blouse in soft lines.

I stepped in. "How's your day?" she asked. I tried and failed to grasp the contrast, after claiming me last night, today she sounded almost... nurturing.

"Good. Productive."

"You're always productive," she gestured for me to sit. I took the chair across from her. "And that's a good segue to your Midyear Review," she flipped through a printout.

I blinked. "It's... June already?"

Her smile twitched. "Time flies when you're learning to keep your hands to yourself."

That pulled a flush to my neck, but she moved on before I could respond.

"It's a little early. I'll do Lily's on Monday, but Olivia asked me to accelerate them. Yours, in particular."

There it was. A quiet thread of tension ran through her voice on that last name. I leaned forward slightly. "Why?"

"She's asked about you," Monica said, pen tapping her notes. "Not just in passing. She's noticed you in some of the talent reviews, the 9-blocks. Your engagement on that cross-functional panel stood out."

I tried not to show surprise. "You told her about that?"

"Of course." She looked up now, with her familiar, amused smile, "You really think I wouldn't? Dork," her oldest jab, she'd probably called me that from my very first week as her employee. "I told her you've been showing promise."

A pause. Her eyes didn't blink.

"And that I was developing you."

My breath hitched slightly. The double meaning was impossible to miss. But I kept my voice level. "Thank you."

She resumed scanning her notes. "But here's the thing. With visibility comes scrutiny. And we've had a few... slips."

I tilted my head.

"Your focus, Richard. You're smart, thorough, and quietly competitive. But sometimes your attention isn't where it should be."

I swallowed. "Are you referring to Lily?"

A small smirk. "I'm referring to patterns. Twice this week you've had... lapses."

I held my ground. "My project delivery's been solid. The prescreen workflow is nearly automated. I onboarded two vendors without a single follow-up."

"True," she said, still reviewing. "All reasons why Olivia is looking at you. You're impressive."

I flushed at that, but then she reached for a red pen, and her body tilted forward--just enough.

That's when I saw it.

Her blouse--already tailored--shifted at the collar. Two buttons undone. Not Casual Friday. Strategic.

And what lay beneath was exactly my vision when I'd exploded in my chair after hours. The dusky suggestion of lace, plum-colored and delicate, clinging to the generous curve of one breast. Full, high, and impossibly soft-looking, it rose with her breath, the fabric lifting just enough to hint at weight and warmth. The same exquisite slope I'd summoned up for those final frantic moments with my fist clenched below the desk.

A calculated mirror of yesterday evening. Intentional.

My body surged with memory, and something more dangerous--possibility.

"Eyes up, Richard."

Her voice sliced through the heat. She hadn't looked at me, but her tone left no room.

I blinked and dragged my gaze back to her face.

"If this is part of the evaluation," I said carefully, "Maybe aim for tests I have a chance of passing."

That made her pause. She looked up then--studied me.

A long, slow inhale.

"Oh," she said, voice cooler now. "But that's the point of development, isn't it?"

I leaned forward, not blinking. "Eventually, development leads somewhere."

Something flickered in her expression. Surprise, maybe. Or pleasure.

Then she clicked her pen closed.

"Well," she said, straightening. "Thanks for indulging me."

I rose, heartbeat a slow drum in my chest. Her tone had returned to business, but the air between us still buzzed--charged with everything we hadn't said.

"I'll finish writing this up over the weekend," she said, smoothing her skirt as she sat back. "We'll revisit next quarter. Unless Olivia fast-tracks you."

"Thanks," I murmured, reaching for the door.

"I need to speak with Tracy about this situation with Henry in thirty minutes," she added, almost as an afterthought. "I'd like you to observe. It won't take long--I know half the building's heading to Happy Hour."

"Oh. Okay." I hesitated. "I'm actually skipping drinks tonight."

She tilted her head slightly. "Hmm. Okay."

I took another step, then stopped. My fingers hovered at the handle. "Monica--what you said yesterday--"

"Now's not the time," she said, too quickly. Too calmly.

My mouth opened, but nothing followed.

She softened, just enough. "Go get some water," she said, eyes returning to her monitor. "Cool off while you can. You know how Tracy can be."

---

Tracy was Monica's friend--though "friend" seemed too bloodless a word for their easy intimacy. For the way Monica's hand lingered on Tracy's shoulder in the elevator. For the knowing glances that passed between them like smoke, unnoticed by everyone except me.

Tracy was... untethered. Where Monica ruled with velvet and quiet control, Tracy floated, untamed. She was petite, with a button nose and a halo of frizzy brown hair that refused to obey any style other than chaos. Just a touch older than Monica, though she dressed like she'd never aged out of undergrad--too short dresses, no stockings, legs bare no matter the season. She had breast implants she flaunted unapologetically, and a habit of standing too close when speaking to taller (most) men, as if daring them not to look. Sly, knowing grins. She worked in customer service, technically--but most days, she seemed to drift above it. Emails got answered when she felt like it.

And by the time I returned from the water cooler, she was already in Monica's office. Laughing. Bending.

I suddenly missed Lily. With the new hire gone there was no innocent buffer. No wide-eyed presence to check Tracy's provocations.

I remembered when I first joined. Tracy had tempered herself, at least a little. But Monica's influence had emboldened her. Made her reckless. Even around me. Maybe especially around me.

And none of it made things any easier... for me.

I was called in under the pretense of sitting in on a misconduct interview--Tracy's name had surfaced in a harassment complaint, which she found hilarious.

"Henry's cute," she said, sitting cross-legged in the guest chair across from me, tugging her skirt down with theatrical futility. "But if he got uncomfortable just from my saying so, it's a miracle he survived high school gym."

"Let's take this seriously," Monica said, though her tone was warm. Protective. Almost indulgent. Then, with a glance my way: "He's saying you flashed him, Tracy."

"What? I did no such thing."

"Oh no?" Monica arched a brow. "He painted quite a picture--for me, and for Richard. Maybe you forgot some underwear?"

"Please." Tracy laughed. "This is so HR Monica. Don't fall for it, Dick."

She leaned toward me, voice dropping. "If I said, 'Hank has something I wanna yank' right now, she'd have to write me up. But if I say it over margaritas in an hour?" A wink. "She'll be crying into my shoulder!"

Monica didn't rise to the bait. She didn't have to. "I think Richard knows me well enough to draw his own conclusions."

I met Monica's eyes long enough that she looked away. I did know her well enough, and I believed Tracy.

Tracy knew, too. She smirked, sensing the edge. "Okay--ten bucks says Henry's packing heat. Come on, Monica. Dick. You in?"

I offered a long, dramatic sigh, tipping my head back like she was exhausting me.

"Cut it out," Monica said, her voice still even, but her tone sharpened just enough to mark the boundary.

Tracy only grinned wider.

"So, Tracy," I said, doing my best HR voice. "You seem very... comfortable here."

Tracy turned her gaze back to me and smiled, wickedly.

"Comfortable until I'm not, right, Mon?"

Monica shifted in her seat, but her eyes danced.

"Remember after that girls' night?" Tracy said, tilting her head. "That guy from the rooftop bar?"

"Oh God," Monica muttered under her breath.

"I could barely walk the next day," Tracy continued with glee. "You had to have my shift covered. I told them it was cramps, but you knew it was him. Tall, quiet, with that little curve to his cock? Lord."

My mouth went dry. I sat frozen as Tracy's attention slid back to me, her smile sharp and sugar-sweet.

"Not many men can give a ride like that," she said, licking her lower lip absently. "Left me sore for days! Something to aspire to, Dick."

My name cracked in the air like a whip.

Monica made a sound--part sigh, part scold--but didn't stop her.

I lost my composure.

It had been too much--Monica's teasing ownership, Lily's tempting stretch, and now this open dare from Tracy.

I let the silence breathe for a beat. Then:

"Who says I need to aspire?" I said. "Some of us already know how to leave a mark."

Tracy blinked.

Monica sat up straighter.

The silence was immediate. And then Monica let out a slow, soft laugh--low and dangerous. Tracy's smile widened, impressed.

"Well, well," she said. "Monica, I didn't know you kept fire under that collar of his."

"He doesn't usually talk like that," Monica said, though her eyes never left mine. "Maybe he needs coaching more often."

My pulse thundered. I didn't know if I'd crossed a line or simply leapt into some new and terrible game. But I knew the temperature in the room had spiked. My skin prickled under my shirt. My cock stirred again--already.

Monica sighed. "We'll follow up on this next week."

Tracy stood to leave.

"Well," she said, sliding her bag over one shoulder, "Dick, maybe you can give Henry some tips before I look him up again."

She winked at Monica, "See you for that margi." The door shut behind her and the air trembled.

Monica stood up slowly, walked to the door, and locked it with a soft click.

Then she turned.

The air in the room grew heavy. Charged.

"After everything we just discussed about focus, that," she said, folding her arms, "Was not what I expected from you."

"I--" I started.

"Quiet."

She took a step toward me. Then another. Her heels tapped softly against the floor like punctuation. She came to rest against the front edge of her desk, directly in front of mine.

"You're clearly... distracted," she said.

I couldn't argue. Not with my heart thudding like a bass drum in my throat.

"Tracy gets a rise out of everyone," she continued, arching a brow. "But throwing down a boast like that... Tracy won't forget it." She turned and stepped back to the near edge of her desk before adding, "And neither will I."

I opened my mouth--unsure what I meant to say--but then she bent one leg slightly, letting her skirt shift higher, the soft slide of fabric revealing a clean, elegant line of thigh.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," she went on, half to herself. "You've always had that look."

She turned away--not coldly, but thoughtfully--and leaned back against her desk, one hand resting beside her, the other brushing a crease from her skirt. Her opposite leg extended slightly, languid and purposeful, echoing Lily's stretch the day before. But Monica's was slower. Measured.

"You used to stammer when I called your name," she said. "Now you're saying things like that. I really have developed you, haven't I?"

My eyes dropped before I could stop them--down her leg, to the subtle shadow where it disappeared beneath her skirt. She saw it.

"Years I've caught you staring--quick glances, quiet breaths. I always wondered if you were just shy. Or if you were... holding something back."

She stepped closer, her voice dropping.

"So you think you're ready for women like Tracy? Like me?" she murmured, eyes narrowing. "After all these years of buttoned-up glances and swallowed sighs... I've wondered what kind of heat a good boy like you is hiding. And after that little boast, maybe you're right. Development has to lead somewhere."

She leaned in, one hand on the back of my chair, the other lifting slowly to adjust my collar--her fingers brushing my throat.

"Are you hard right now?"

Monica didn't wait for my answer.

"Do you touch yourself when you think of me?" she asked, this time more softly. Not teasing. Not angry. Just... curious.

She tilted her head as if she'd already watched me, already imagined the shadows of my breath tightening in some lonely room after hours--my hand moving slow over skin while her name tumbled through my clenched jaw.

I could have lied. Should have. But she returned to her chair and leaned back with that maddening elegance, her blouse still open just enough to suggest warmth and the faintest sheen of skin, and I knew there was no use pretending.

"Yes," I whispered.

Something bloomed in her eyes. Not shock--Monica rarely looked surprised--but pleasure. Power.

Her voice remained even. "In the office?"

A beat. My throat dry. "Yes."

"And when was the last time?"

I hesitated.

She smiled. "Don't worry. I know it was last night." She met my eyes and dared them to tell her different, "Would've been the night before if I hadn't sent you home."

A long silence stretched between us. Not awkward--never awkward with Monica--but hot, thick, full of all the things we hadn't said and could no longer unsay.

Her eyes dropped, slowly, to my lap.

"Yes, you're hard."

There was no use denying it.

She stood. Again. This time slower. She walked to the window behind her, pulling the blinds shut. One by one, click by click, the office disappeared behind privacy.

Then she turned, heel sliding against the floor, lightly, tortuously, scraping like fingernails over a sunburn.

She crossed back to me--not hurried, but purposeful--and stood behind my chair. I felt her breath before her voice.

"You've wanted this for a long time," she murmured near my ear.

I nodded, helpless.

"Then we'll do it right."

Her hand slid down my shoulder. Over my chest. Slow. Testing. As if she could read my pulse with her fingertips.

"Hands behind the chair," she said.

And I obeyed.

I'd imagined this before--more nights than I could count.

But nothing in my most fevered fantasies had prepared me for the sight of Monica lowering herself to her knees on the soft beige carpet of her office, the door locked behind us, her eyes fixed on mine like a dare.

"This doesn't leave this room," she said softly, fingers sliding into my waistband.

"It will never leave my mind," I whispered.

She smiled.

Then she freed me.

Her warm breath ghosted over the head of my cock, and my legs went stiff on either side of her. She didn't touch me--not at first. Just stared. Her eyes traced the length of me once, her lips parting slightly--not in shock, but appreciation. A slow, private smile tugged at one corner of her mouth.

She watched me twitch and throb in the open air. Her lipstick was a deep wine-red, and I wanted it smudged across my skin.

"You're already trembling," she said, almost to herself. "You've been thinking about this for too long."

She leaned in.

The first touch of her tongue was barely there--a soft lick along the underside that made me groan. Then she opened her mouth and took me in, slow and deep, her lips wrapping around the head like a seal.

"Oh my God, Monica," I gasped, grabbing the arms of my chair.

Her rhythm was slow at first, maddening. She sucked me with precision, teasing the tip with her tongue before sinking deeper. Her hand wrapped around the base, twisting gently in counterpoint to her mouth. Each time she took me farther, her throat flexed, eyes still locked on mine. She wanted me to see. To remember every second.

My hips rocked forward, involuntary.

She didn't stop me.

She encouraged it--moaning softly around me, the vibration shooting through my spine.

I reached down, fingers slipping into the waves of her dark hair. Her scalp was warm, her body steady. She let me guide her, let me fuck her mouth slowly--only her hands bracing herself on my thighs kept me from losing control completely.

"God, you feel so good," I breathed.

One hand slid from my thigh to my shaft. She pulled herself back just enough to speak.

"You taste like need," she whispered. Then engulfed me again.

I wanted to last. I tried. But I'd been on edge for too long. The memories of her voice, her skirts, that breathless sigh in the interview room--it all crashed over me like a wave.

"Monica--fuck--I'm close."

She didn't stop. She moaned again--deeper this time--and the sound shattered me.

I came hard, groaning her name, hips pulsing. She stayed with me the whole time, swallowing me down, hand stroking gently as I spilled into her mouth.

When she finally released me, there was a small smear of lipstick at the corner of her lips.

She brushed it away. Then stood. Adjusted her skirt.

"You've been patient," she said, straightening her blouse. "You earned that."

I was breathless, stunned. "You're... incredible."

She laughed softly, eyes flicking to the softening length between my legs. "Oh, I love every inch of you, Richard. But let's be clear--if you really want to leave a mark, you'll need to last longer than a few minutes of mouth worship."

I flinched, but her voice was warm, indulgent.

"Still," she added, smoothing her skirt with a final tug, "I'll allow it. Years of tension make for quick finishes. Next time... we'll see if you can live up to your boast."

She crossed to the door, heels clicking softly against the floor. Her hand paused on the lock. Then she glanced over her shoulder with a gleam in her eye.

"I'm sorry we'll miss you at Happy Hour" she said, "But I'd say you've already had one."

The lock clicked open, and she grinned from the doorway, "Have a good weekend, and do your best not to spend all of it thinking about me."

And she was gone.

Part 4: Succession Planning

Monday came with heat under my collar and something harder pressing at my slacks. All weekend I'd thought of Monica--her voice curling around my name, her tongue curling around my need, the taste of her teasing, and the aches she'd still left untouched.

This time, I wouldn't wait for her to command me. I stepped into her office before the morning's coffee had cooled, locked the door, and kissed the air between us with a look that said everything.

"I want you," I said plainly, my voice low. "Today. After hours. Right here on this desk."

She blinked. Then smiled--slow, syrupy. I saw the pulse in her throat, the way her hand drifted to the edge of her chair. I moved in closer, took her hand, placed it over the bulge that throbbed for her.

"Jesus, Richard..."

"I've been hard since I woke up. Thinking about you. I'm thinking about you now."

Her lips parted. Her fingers didn't pull away. But as her breath quickened, something shifted--she stood, her hand on my chest now, more shield than invitation.

"Olivia's in town."

My mind didn't catch up fast enough.

"She's here? Now?"

Just then, of course, the door clicked open. Olivia.

She paused. Assessed the distance between us. Monica's hand on my chest. My hand still retreating from her hip.

Monica, flawless in crisis, didn't flinch. "Richard and I were just going over that sensitivity case."

Olivia was slender in the way a knife is: lean, honed, meant to cut. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back into a severe twist, the kind that made her look older than she probably was--though I guessed she'd gone gray early and decided to own it. Fifty, maybe. Still striking. But certainly not in the way Monica was. Observing us now, she raised one brow. "Very hands-on, I see. Monica, I'll be waiting in the conference room."

The door had barely clicked shut behind Olivia before Monica exhaled--shoulders slumping, her eyes narrowing at me like I was both the problem and the prize.

"You're lucky I can lie," she said, brushing her hands down the front of her skirt as if smoothing the evidence off her body.

"I'm hard," I replied, because I was, still--ridiculously so--and maybe I wanted to push her. "And you're the reason."

Her glare held, but her lip curled too. "Sit down before you lose your job."

I sat, but I watched her the way a starving man watches his last piece of bread get wrapped back up and placed on a shelf.

"Olivia's not someone we want to test," she added. "And she's watching."

That reality crept in slowly as I returned to my desk. Still, all through the late morning, I caught Monica's silhouette through her frosted glass--one leg crossed high over the other, or her blouse shifting as she reached for her phone. She was back in control. But she'd seen me unspooled now. She'd felt me, full and firm in her hand. That didn't go away.

I tried to work. I made it through one harassment policy draft and two innocuous emails before Lily floated into the office, her skirt short and flirty again, a coffee in hand that wasn't hers.

"For Monica," she chirped, walking right past my desk. "She said she didn't have time."

I watched her go--hips swaying with no shame at all. She knew I was watching. Knew exactly how tight her blouse was over her chest. She even paused before knocking, glanced back at me with that tiny grin she gave when she knew I was off-balance.

The coffee delivery gave me an idea.

---

At 2:15, I knocked on Monica's door with a deli iced tea--her favorite, heavy on the mint. I didn't wait for permission. I walked in like I had every right to, shut the door behind me, and placed the sweating cup directly on her desk.

"I'm not apologizing," I said.

"I didn't ask you to." She took the drink, met my eyes over the lid as she sipped. "But thank you."

The air was still. She kept typing for a few moments, like she was determined to play the adult. But the weight of my gaze was too much. Her fingers slowed on the keyboard.

Finally, with a sigh: "You're not going to get through today like this."

"Then send Lily out for more coffee and let's lock the door."

She jerked back slightly, eyes narrowing. There was fire in her expression--but it wasn't all disapproval. Shock, yes. And a flicker of thrill. Even a brief, instinctive glance at the door, like she considered it. But then came the reprimand.

"Keep pushing like this," she said, cool but flushed, "And everything you want will slip right through your fingers."

I took one more step. "Let me show you where I'll slip my fingers."

"Richard," she whispered, shifting in her chair. She wasn't breathing evenly anymore. I could hear the rhythm of her breath, shallow but rapid.

"You're right, I'm not going to get through the day," I said. "I need to touch you."

Her eyes flicked down--at my hands? My hips? I don't know. She looked back at my face, stern but slightly flushed.

"Stop," she said. "My boss is in this office. Your boss is telling you to get a hold of yourself. And if you can't, then go to the men's room."

I couldn't help the smirk. "Is the HR Manager telling me to jack off at work?"

"That would be a less risky idea than trying to fuck your boss during business hours, don't you think?"

She stood then--slowly, legs uncrossing, rising with a grace that turned into warning.

"We're both good at putting out fires, Richard," she said, "But not that good. Don't start one we can't control."

I turned to leave, but she called after me.

"And wipe that smirk off your face before you bump into Olivia. She's meeting me in ten."

I left the room, hard, electrified, but not victorious.

At 3:30, I saw Olivia leaving Monica's office. She looked effortlessly commanding--business suit, leather bag, red lipstick like a warning sign. She paused when she saw me by the copier.

"Richard?" she asked.

I nodded. "Yes, Director Hayes."

"Monica's been singing your praises since I arrived. Would you be open to joining us for dinner tonight? I'd like to hear more about your growth path."

"Oh," I said. "I thought it was just--"

"She won't object to my inviting you." Olivia's eyes sparkled. "Come. Six sharp."

As she walked away, I caught a slight look back from Monica in her office--less sparkle, more stormcloud.

I stepped into Monica's office as Olivia disappeared down the hall.

"Dinner is her idea?" I asked.

"I told you--she's watching. She expects to see potential. Not... this." Monica gestured between our bodies. "It's not a date. And it's not a game."

"I got it."

"You'll sit across from me," she said. "No touching. No eye-fucking. No theatrics."

I raised a brow. "What if you start it?"

She didn't answer that--just rubbed her temple.

"Seriously," she said. "If you can't behave, we'll both regret it. This could be good for you, or very, very bad."

"I'll be good."

"You better."

At 5:30, Lily was at the I-9 cabinet again--skirt higher than it had any right to be, leg extended as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. Her blouse clung faintly from the afternoon heat, and a tendril of hair had come loose, curling softly near her throat.

She was trying to kick a drawer closed with her toe. "Still smarts," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

"You should be off your feet," I said, standing from my desk.

She turned, surprised but smiling. "I'm fine, Rich."

"I'll help you with the cart," I offered, already stepping toward her. She bent slightly to gather a folder--her skirt pulling higher with the motion, revealing the soft curve beneath--and I felt myself heat.

"Of course you will," came a sudden voice behind me.

Tracy.

She had just entered from the hallway, holding a phone and a coffee she probably didn't pay for. Her voice was deliberately low, but loud enough for me to hear.

"That's the look of a Dick who wants to make sultry little Lily sore," she said under her breath, the way you'd pass along a dirty joke you assumed was safe. "Right, Mon?"

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Monica had appeared behind Tracy, her expression a stony contrast to the teasing tone that had just hit the air. Her voice cracked like a whip:

"That's enough."

Tracy blinked. "Mon--"

"No. That's enough, Tracy," Monica said, louder. "Any more like that and I'll put it in writing. I mean it."

The words weren't playful. Not maternal. This wasn't friends in a break room. This was the HR Manager, publicly drawing a line in red.

Tracy stiffened, face blanking. "Understood."

Monica didn't look at her again. Her eyes found mine--steady, unreadable.

"Get your things. We're going to dinner."

I hesitated. Was this a rescue? A reprimand? A test?

She saw the flicker of confusion in me and held it, calm and cold.

"I really don't want to repeat myself, Richard."

I swallowed. "Yes, ma'am."

---

The restaurant was candlelit and discreet. Olivia ordered wine before we sat. She sat first, I took the opposite side. Monica, though, she nudged me to move deeper into the booth and despite her instruction slid right beside me, and closer than necessary. Much closer.

Halfway through Olivia's monologue about development paths for promising HR generalists, Monica excused herself and went to the restroom. It was the first time I actually heard Olivia's advice, and almost enough to take it to heart. Bread arrived right before Monica returned.

Monica smiled politely, and even added her own affirmations of Olivia's suggestions. I joined Olivia in breaking off some focaccia to nibble.

Maybe another minute passed, when I felt Monica touching my hip beneath the tablecloth. My hand met hers. She pushed thin textured fabric, like a warm napkin, into my palm and withdrew her hand, clasping both hands together above the table and asking Olivia something I couldn't hear.

I couldn't hear, because all the blood in my body had raged into the bulge in my underwear.

Monica had placed her midnight blue panties in my hand.

I stopped chewing. I'm surprised the bread didn't fall out of my mouth, I was so slack-jawed, staring at her. She seemed to ignore me, but then interrupted. "I'm sorry, Olivia, but I think maybe some olive oil dripped on your blouse."

"Oh my," Olivia said, and before she could inspect herself Monica had stood and helped her up, pointing toward the bathroom.

Monica glanced toward the servers on her return to the booth, and seeing them occupied by other tables, calmly seated herself beside me. Her hand slid into her blouse with purpose, and what she revealed made me forget the restaurant entirely.

Her breasts--full, golden, framed by lace as blue and dark as the panties--lifted and strained under her lingerie as she whispered, "You need to touch me."

My hands moved before I could think. One palmed the swell of her breast, the other slipped down from her neck and dove into the dark plunge of her cleavage. The softness under my fingers undid me. I had dreamed of this--nights alone, hard and aching, picturing the weight of them, the bounce of her curves beneath those buttoned-up blouses. I had stolen glances for years, stared too long in meetings, lost focus in interviews because her breath caught and her chest rose.

And now--God. They were mine.

I kissed her collarbone, the curve where neck met shoulder, then lower, where my lips pressed against the edge of silk. Her skin was molten suede, rich with heat and temptation, the perfume of her arousal barely masked by the fragrance on her wrist. I pressed harder, desperate to feel more, to mold her flesh into my palms, to trace the line where lace met skin. My fingers trembled with the pressure of restraint--it wasn't enough. I wanted to drag the fabric down and feast on her like I had in every restless fantasy.

She panted, fingers brushing my hair back as her eyes flicked to the bathroom.

And just as suddenly, they widened.

I didn't have to look. I knew Olivia was returning.

Monica gripped my wrist, pulled my teeth from their tender grasp of lace-covered nipple, and with breathtaking precision, began buttoning her blouse. Her voice brushed my ear as she sealed the last button.

"Show me where you'll slip your fingers."

Her breath smelled like Cabernet. I hadn't even realized she'd been sipping. My hand slipped under the tablecloth again, where her thighs parted for me. Her skin was fire and silk. I moved upward, brushing the tender fold where thigh met hip, and felt the impossible wet heat that waited for me.

I swallowed. Carefully, I traced my fingers to the soft seam of her sex. Her legs shifted, widening, granting me access.

Olivia sat across the table and asked, "How do you feel about succession planning?"

I barely heard her. My entire body was in my hand. In Monica's body.

But Monica answered, smooth as ever. "Richard's an excellent candidate. Ambitious. Observant. Knows when to wait... and when to act."

Olivia nodded. "Tell me more."

Monica didn't blink. "He has a very talented touch with delicate matters. Never rushes. He learns the terrain before advancing. He knows how to handle pressure."

My fingertips slipped deeper. I found the place where she pulsed. She was open, needy. I circled slowly, keeping rhythm, watching her throat work around a breath.

"Clearly, you've impressed Monica," she said to me. I forced a smile. "How would you say you take direction and prioritize?"

"I think I've shown agility," I said, though at the moment, I was mostly grateful for the finger dexterity drilled into me during years of childhood piano lessons--now tested beneath the table, deep between Monica's thighs.

Monica nodded--perhaps too eagerly. "Oh yes, Richard has an instinct for direction. With barely a word, he always finds the right spot."

I moved in rhythm with her words. She was speaking to Olivia, but her thigh trembled. Her hips shifted--just slightly--toward my fingers.

Her voice wavered. Just once.

I started stroking her clitoris. Light. Deliberate. A pattern I knew would build her slowly. She picked up a breadstick, chewed idly. Her knees tightened around my hand and then loosened again. Under the table, she clenched, softened. A storm gathering, disguised in perfect posture.

"So, Richard," Olivia turned her gaze to me. "Where do you see yourself in two years?"

My hand didn't stop. But I made my mouth move. "Ideally... still working with Monica, if maybe more as a peer. There's still a lot I could learn from her. I think there's... a lot more I could explore."

Her body spoke in a language only my hands could translate--whispers of that silk and fire, pulses that echoed in the quiet between us.

Monica choked.

Olivia raised a brow.

Monica waved a hand, coughed again, reached for her wine. "Sorry. Bit of a tickle."

Her eyes met mine. Red-rimmed. Dazed. But smiling.

And beneath the table, she was still pulsing against my fingers. I curved two inside her and pressed gently, massaging the place I knew would tip her over.

"Mm-hmm," Monica managed.

It was the only sound she made as she came. Her orgasm was internal--a low quake hidden in the grace of her bearing. Only I felt it. The pressure of her inner walls. The hot spill over my hand. The shiver that passed between her ribs.

"You look flushed," Olivia said.

"The wine," she explained. She sat straighter and reached for her glass. "Olivia, tell me more about your East Coast teams."

I withdrew my hand. Wiped it calmly with my napkin. My heart was a war drum.

But Monica? She leaned just slightly against my shoulder, pressed her thigh tight against mine, and whispered without looking at me:

"You're developing wonderfully."

---

I assumed she'd want more.

After all that--the way her body melted around my fingers, the way she clung to control and then gave it up so completely--I thought I'd follow her home. Or she'd follow me. Or we'd find an excuse to slip away, finally.

But Olivia cornered her outside the entrance, offering me a pleasant farewell. Still, I waited, watching from my car, erection pulsing dully in my slacks. They stood close, voices low. Monica's hand touched Olivia's elbow--lightly, familiarly.

When Olivia finally walked deeper into the parking lot, Monica began to follow her. She stopped and looked at me across the lot. She didn't wave me over. She just held my eyes and tilted her head--an elegant dismissal.

Go home.

I did. Eventually. But I couldn't sleep. Couldn't settle. I lay in bed for hours, my body burning from the heat she'd stirred but left unanswered.

I thought the hardest part was over.

It wasn't.

Part 5: Conflict Resolution

The office felt like a punishment. Not for any one thing, but for everything. The carpet was too clean, the thermostat too cold, and the woman I wanted far too close to be so utterly unreachable.

Since Monday night's dinner, since the thin lace of Monica's panties clenched in my fist beneath that linen tablecloth, we hadn't been alone for more than minutes. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her. That sly tilt of her lips as she pretended nothing was happening. The staccato shudder of her breath under my touch. Her legs parted wide beneath the table, heels hooked behind the legs of our booth. My boss, my tormentor, my reward. And yet, nothing.

Tuesday had been consumed by Olivia's all-hands meetings. Wednesday had evaporated in preparation for Thursday's high-stakes video conference. Monica had been everywhere but with me -- in Olivia's shadow, in meetings, her calendar packed so tightly it looked like a tombstone.

And I'd been left circling the memory of her. Every night, every morning, alone in the dark with nothing but the ghost of her mouth, the echo of her hips. I'd taken the edge off more times than I could count, and each time it left me emptier--hungrier.

By Thursday, I was done waiting.

I cornered her outside the copier room late that morning, my voice low, my pulse reckless.

"Another day of nothing?" I asked, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice.

She turned, sharp in her slate-gray pantsuit, blouse cut a shade too low for a director-level call -- and yet perfect for driving me to the brink.

"Olivia's still here, Richard," she said, without warmth. "This presentation is the reason we have jobs."

"So we can spend them suffocating in dry meetings while pretending we didn't--" I glanced down the hallway, then back at her, "--didn't almost fuck each other blind in the parking lot?"

Her eyes flicked over me, and for a beat, she looked like she might relent. But then her lips thinned.

"Tonight," she said. "After she leaves. No more interruptions."

I folded my arms. "You've said that twice now."

Monica took a step closer, her perfume wrapping around me like a noose. "You think this is easy for me?" she whispered.

Her eyes lingered on my mouth, then flicked back up with infuriating poise. "I have Olivia on my calendar from morning to night. I don't even have time to think about anything else."

She adjusted the lapel of her blazer -- unnecessarily -- and for the briefest moment, her fingers brushed the hollow of her throat, as if cooling a pulse.

"This isn't the moment. And I'm not going to throw away years of work just because you're impatient."

"Then what do I do in the meantime?" I hissed, jaw clenched.

Her reply was fire and ice: "You wait. Like a good boy."

And then she walked away.

I stood there, painfully hard, fury bubbling under my skin. Wait? I had waited. I was still waiting. And right now, across the room from me, Lily -- distractingly pretty, endlessly flirtatious Lily -- had smiled at me and bent just a little more than she needed to, to toss something into her waste basket. Her tight skirt hiked just high enough to be considered dangerous.

That's when the idea struck. Petty, childish, doomed.

But I didn't care.

If Monica wanted to make me wait, maybe she'd like a little reminder of who else had my attention.

Lily was wearing the nude stilettos again -- the ones with the ankle strap that always seemed to highlight her calves and cinch the whole line of her leg upward like punctuation. She leaned against her desk with one knee bent, her ankle cocked just so. An innocent enough pose, unless your blood was boiling.

I stood slowly and approached her workstation. "Lily?"

She turned toward me, cheerful as ever, her blouse loose but the way it tugged against her chest anything but unintentional. "Hey, Rich. Need something?"

I kept my tone casual. "Actually... weird timing. You offered me a footwear tutorial the other day, and now Monica has me revising the dress code. I was curious how shoes like those affect support."

She tilted her head, "Aw, so no coffee together?" Normally, I'd flush, but I found myself utterly immune. She squinted at my bland non-reaction, shrugged, and said, "Okay, sure, let's look."

She lifted her leg slightly and bent to unbuckle the strap, fingers dainty at the clasp. "Some heels need the strap so they don't fly off -- if you're walking fast or the heel is really high like these."

The heel clacked softly as she set it beside her chair, now standing in just a sheer stocking. She wiggled her toes.

"See? Without it, you can kind of slip out."

She demonstrated, lifting her arch, calf flexing -- the line of her leg tightening like a bowstring.

I prayed the desk was just high enough to hide me. There was definitely more of me to hide.

"Thanks," I said, my voice rougher than I meant.

Lily smiled. "No problem. Want me to model the other type, too?"

"Yeah," I said, too quickly. "I mean -- sure. If it's not weird."

"Not weird," she laughed. "You asked."

She pulled a shoe out of her drawer, then stepped back slightly and planted her foot up on her rolling chair, knee bent. Her skirt slid just high enough to send a warning signal through my brain -- which I ignored.

"These ones don't have a strap," she said, twisting her foot to show me the heel. "So it's all about balance."

I leaned slightly over the divider, pretending to inspect. But what I saw was the curve of her thigh, the flash of bare skin between garter and hem.

My body betrayed me -- a full, pulsing swell pressing against my waistband, and into her desk. I shifted, rubbing myself into it, and braced a hand against its edge.

Lily looked up with a teasing little smile. "You okay?"

"Mm-hmm." I stared straight ahead, pretending to focus on her foot while my eyes struggled not to roll back into my skull.

"So yeah," she said, lowering her leg with a click. "Not exactly OSHA-approved, but cute wins some arguments."

Monica's door creaked open like the elevation of a guillotine blade. Her eyes sliced across the room.

Only Monica could make suspicion clear in her voice, yet stripped of any of the accusational tone that might alarm Lily, "What are you two doing?"

"I'm just talking Richard through some types of heels, to help with your dress code updates," Lily said, brightly.

"Oh, of course. Richard," she said, matching Lily for brightness. "Can I see you?"

---

The door shut behind me before I'd fully entered.

"You want to explain that little performance?" she snapped, not bothering to mask her fury.

"What performance?"

"Oh, please," she seethed. "Should I draw you a diagram of how many inches of leg you were drooling over?"

"I asked a work question," I said, aware of how weak it sounded.

Monica stepped closer, her blazer crisp against her figure, her breath hot. "You're really going to make me spell it out?"

"Spell what, Monica? C-R-A-Z-Y? That I'm losing my fucking mind over you?"

Silence. She didn't deny it.

Instead, she turned on her heel and marched out of her office, the echo of her heels like gunshots. I followed.

"Where are you going?" I hissed.

"I need air."

"Then take the elevator. I'll ride with you."

She jabbed the down button with a venomous precision. "Don't flatter yourself."

The doors opened. We stepped inside.

We descended in silence, a tension so thick I could have carved my name in it. Monica stood beside me, arms crossed, jaw set. The floor lights blinked: L7... L6...

"You think I like this?" I muttered. "Watching you walk away over and over again? It's doing wonders for my sanity."

She turned, furious, her mouth a soft snarl. "You don't get to play the victim -- not while you're flirting with Lily like a horny intern."

The elevator reached the bottom. Neither of us moved. The doors opened. Closed again.

We were alone.

I reached for her hip.

She stared at the wall ahead -- her chest rising, her lip caught between her teeth -- then slammed her palm against the "Up" button like she wanted to break it.

The elevator jerked into motion. The jolt pushed my hand against her.

Something in both of us cracked.

Her back hit the mirrored wall first. My hands found her hips, pushing her blazer up. My fingers fumbled at the button of her pants. She groaned, low and furious, grabbing my collar and yanking me into her mouth -- all teeth and heat and fury.

"Not waiting anymore," I growled.

"I shouldn't let you," she gasped, biting my lip. I felt her searching for my fly. "We'll be caught. We'll be--"

She freed my manhood. I hooked her pants and panties and dragged them down past her ass. She gripped the rail behind her and spun around, heels still on, chest heaving.

"I don't care," I said.

She looked at me in the mirror -- wild, half-undone, her hair falling from its clip.

Neither of us said another word.

The moment I entered her, her body arched like it had been waiting for me for years. Her moan was muffled by her own wrist, bent against the glass. She arched, taking me deeper, and the whole elevator trembled with us. Her nails raked the mirrored wall. My hips slammed into her ass, again and again, lost in the momentum of days of denial. The obscene sound of it echoed, masked only by the dull drone of the elevator's movement.

I punched the emergency stop. This time, the jolt slammed us together -- my cock driving so deep she yelped. Her head dropped back to my shoulder, her breath hot and ragged in my ear. "Oh my god, Richard..."

A crackle -- the intercom light blinked. "Maintenance here. Elevator's not responding to call. Please confirm you're inside."

Monica's eyes went wide.

"Shit."

She took another breath and another hard thrust. "Stop," she told me, but in resignation. Then she fumbled behind her, slapping at the panel with shaking fingers, hair wild in her face. She smacked the Door Open button until it registered. The elevator lurched, shuddered, and resumed climbing.

"Put it away," she hissed.

I barely managed to pull out before the doors opened. My cock still slick with her, pressed flush against my thigh under my slacks.

She straightened her clothes with trembling hands, yanked her pants back up, and fixed her hair just enough to pass.

Her expression was fury and desire, barely contained.

"I have our department's most important call of the year in three minutes," she breathed.

And then, just before stepping out: "Don't think this..." she started, but words left her as she left me.

As I watched her walk away, her body shaking as wildly as mine, the elevator doors shut again, sealing me inside with a dull hiss.

---

Alone in the humming metal box, the taste of her still lingered in my mouth. My slacks clung wetly to my skin.

I had fucked her.

I had finally fucked my boss -- right here, on company property, against a mirrored wall, her blazer shoved up, her gasps echoing between the seams of the emergency panel. I'd heard her moan my name like it was torn from somewhere deep, somewhere private, the way she'd bucked back against me like she'd been starved.

And still... I hadn't finished.

Conquest without climax was like storming the gates of paradise, only to find myself trapped in its lobby.

My cock pulsed, half-hard and angry, as the elevator descended. Someone must've called it. A short man in a rain-slicked jacket stepped in, gave me a look, then stared straight ahead. I wiped my brow, the air still thick with sweat, perfume, and sex.

The man cleared his throat. "Little humid in here, huh?"

I didn't respond. I might've grinned. Or growled.

He got off at the tenth. Lucky him.

The doors closed again. I slammed the button for twelve.

It wasn't just desire anymore.

It was gravity. It was inevitability.

It was the war cry of a man who had touched something he couldn't let go.

The elevator dinged, opened. The twelfth floor yawned wide and quiet before me.

I marched toward HR -- not to resume work, not to play coy, but to finish what we'd started.

She was going to be mine. Entirely. Completely.

And this time, no fucking interruptions.

---

Monica's office door was shut.

Of course it was. This was it, the video conference. Olivia would have joined from another office on the executive floor, delivering mandates and expectations with that syrupy authority that always made Monica stand taller, act colder. Another obstacle between us.

But not for long.

"Lily," I called, already tugging at my collar, scanning for her usual blur of energy. "Monica said she needed an energy boost to survive this meeting. Could go out for coffee?"

Her voice floated out from the interview room. "One sec!"

She emerged a moment later, tablet in hand, a little flustered, her cheeks slightly flushed. She looked at me like I was both a lifeline and a warning.

"I can't go," she said quickly. "I'm taking a complaint from Henry."

"Henry?" I asked, stepping closer, my mind catching up in pieces.

Over her shoulder, I spotted him--sitting in the guest chair inside the interview room, stiff-backed and pale, fingers kneading the brim of his baseball cap.

Lily lowered her voice. "He says Tracy groped him. In the breakroom. I didn't know what to do, so I... I called Tracy. Told her to come here."

"What?" I snapped, louder than I meant. "Why would you--"

She blinked. "I thought we could talk through it together. Like, mediate--"

I took a breath that hurt on the way in. The one person who should not be coming to a meeting with Henry.

"It's okay," I said, raising a hand, softer now. "But you need to get Henry out of here. Right now. Before he or Tracy see each other."

She hesitated. "Out where?"

"Coffee run," I said, already moving past her. "Take him with you. You'll both feel better after."

Lily nodded, understanding blooming behind her wide, mascara-dark lashes. She turned on her heel, scooped her coat from the back of her chair, and called gently into the interview room. "Hey, Henry? Come with me for a bit. We're getting coffee. You like lattes, right?"

He nodded, confused but pliable. A few moments later, they disappeared toward the elevator.

And the moment the doors closed, the air in HR changed.

I stood alone in the quiet, surrounded by empty desks and empty rooms. All empty, except one.

I looked at Monica's closed door.

Then I opened it.

---

The door clicked shut behind me.

Monica didn't look up at first. She was seated at her desk, one leg crossed tightly over the other, blazer immaculate, hair pinned just so--everything about her screamed composed authority. But the edges betrayed her. A wrinkle in the collar. A pearl earring slightly askew. She was flushed. And when she did look up, her eyes widened--not in surprise, but anticipation.

"Richard," she breathed, fingers flicking over the trackpad, still mid-call.

I stood over her desk, looked down. Split screens filled her laptop: Olivia in one, stiff-backed in a crimson blouse from the floor above. A few other directors. Nothing important--just our careers, our reputations, our lives.

Without another thought, I reached over and killed the camera.

Monica sucked in a sharp breath, but didn't object. Not when I stepped behind her. Not when my hands slid beneath her blazer, over her shoulders, down her blouse.

"Are you insane?" she hissed, even as she leaned into my touch. "We're going to be fired."

But I was already lowering my mouth to the curve of her neck, dragging her lanyard down so I could bite the skin beneath it.

She slapped the mute button.

Her gasp wasn't for the call anymore.

"You can't--" she tried, but her voice was melting, her hips rising involuntarily against the desk.

"If I waited any longer," I muttered while nibbling her bronze skin and undoing my belt, "You're right, I can't..."

"Olivia--"

"She's still talking." I pushed Monica's chair back and guided her around the edge of the desk. She half-resisted, but her heels clicked forward until she reached the edge. She didn't protest again.

I pulled her up.

Her pants came down like a sentence.

Her panties tore like paper.

Then I bent her over--her palms flattening against her own desk, scattering pens and HR folders to the floor. I entered her from behind--her body folding over the glossy surface like it belonged there, spine curving in surrender.

A gasp tore from her throat, caught quickly in her palm as if instinct could contain it. Her other hand slammed onto the desk, fingers splayed wide, knocking over a framed certificate. She arched beneath me, hips shifting with greedy precision as her body adjusted around me--hot, tight, soaked through her own need.

I gripped her hips, both hands wrapping around that divine curve, and pulled her back into me. Deep. She groaned.

Her breath started catching, shallow and fast. Her thighs flexed against me, and her fingers curled hard around the desk edge. She was unraveling--fast. And then...

"Already?" I growled low in her ear, feeling the tremble run through her thighs, the flutter that told me exactly how close she was. "You're about to come already?"

She tried to form words, but only a strangled gasp came out--more breath than sound, the kind that came from being overwhelmed.

I leaned in, lips grazing the base of her neck. "I'll allow it," I panted, echoing her smug little line from the office floor last week, when my own control had cracked beneath her tongue. "Years of tension make for quick finishes." I pressed harder. "You gonna come before the meeting's over, Miss Ramirez?"

She shook her head, barely. A no that meant yes.

Her breath hitched again--sharp, uncontrolled. Her thighs started to close on instinct, but I forced them apart, angled deeper. The sound that came from her then wasn't human. A pleading moan she didn't have time to mute, as her body seized, clamped down on me. She was coming--hard. Shoulders shaking, chest pressed to the desk, hips jerking back to take every inch.

"How many HR policies do you think we're violating?" I spat the question.

She didn't answer.

She couldn't.

I wanted to taunt and tease, yet I felt I was in heaven, riding on a cloud, and I knew it would evaporate beneath me the moment I lost focus.

Monica's own focus returned. "Wait, the meeting!" She gasped.

"Our meeting isn't over," I said, my eyelids squeezed shut in ecstasy.

"Olivia," she said, pushing against me, and suddenly I heard Olivia's voice calling her away from me.

"Monica?" came the dulcet tone. "Monica, did we lose you? Hold on, I'll try her employee."

Her eyes fluttered. "She's asking for me--what do I do?"

"You're busy," I grunted, thrusting deeper. I pulled her blazer down from her shoulders, she let it slide off of her arms.

Through the door, I heard my desk phone. Several rings, then it stopped. I rammed myself into her, reaching with a hand to unbutton her disheveled blouse. Lily's phone began to trill.

"She's going to send someone," Monica warned, though hastily unbuttoning with me as she panted. "Richard, she's going to come down here--"

"God you feel good," were the only words I found, as I pulled off her blouse, basking in the glow of so much skin.

"Richard," she rasped, each syllable lost between lust and panic, "Get off, or get off of me!"

"Make you sore," I boasted, burying my face in her hair. I was lost in her--gripping the plush curve of her ass, bending low to kiss her spine. I didn't care if the whole boardroom saw us. I just needed to be inside her, to finish what she'd started in that damn elevator.

The HR department door opened.

Tracy's voice rang out, casual but loud: "Where is everybody?"

Monica's eyes widened.

"Shit," I whispered.

Before either of us could move, Tracy did a quick knuckle rap on her friend's door and stepped into the office.

And froze.

"Oh my God--"

A blink. Then a slow, wicked grin. "You didn't lock it."

"Tracy!" Monica exclaimed.

Tracy slammed the door behind her and gaped at Monica prostrate between me and her desk, naked except for the jade lace of her brazier. Tracy looked me straight in my glazed over eyes.

I'd slowed to a gentler rhythm, "A little privacy?" I asked, and I unsnapped that brazier, let it tumble to the desk. My hand slipped around Monica's chest, at last fully devouring those breasts with my hands. After the most satisfying squeeze, I found her nipple, and gently began tight circles to match my thrusting.

Tracy pried her eyes away, but then almost casually remarked, "Um, little Lily is walking this way. Ooh, what's my Henry doing with her?"

"Get rid of them!" Monica moaned, "Please! I'm... I'm..."

"Oh, girl, you're gonna O! Okay, okay, hold on, I'll think of something." I watched Tracy, she began to breathe harder, and fan her face vigorously with both hands, and then she was...

Crying.

Tracy began to sob. Loudly. She shouted, "I made a mistake, okay! I just wanted him to notice me. I want Henry so bad, Monica, you couldn't understand!" She glanced out the window. She mustered another terrible cry, then lowered her voice, "It's working, she's sending him away, and there's no way Lily comes in here now!" Her eyes settled back on our bodies, and she quipped, "Can't say the same for you, Mon."

I realized Tracy's spectacle had distracted me. Monica began to grind back into me. She looked over the shoulder, and her whisper was a beg, "Richard."

I plowed back into her, making her fall forward onto the desk and moan, but my hands found her again. I cupped both of her breasts, raised her body up closer to mine, smelled her, sensed her, and sent my shaft in search of those most sensitive places my fingers had found days earlier. The intensity of Monica's moaning and panting became so feverish, and much too loud, and if I sensed as much in rabid heat, I could only guess what could be sensed by someone outside.

My eyes met Tracy's, and seeing the raw lust in her eyes channeled into a hand between her thighs was almost too much for me. She shook her head, chanting, "Go, Dick, go!"

I called over Monica's frenzied ecstasy, "Lily!"

Tracy didn't seem to think much, but when she did, she thought fast. Her eyes widened, watching her friend, and feeling the spasms around my cock I could picture Monica open-mouthed, eyes closed, giving in, truly about to cry out.

Tracy snatched the torn panties on the desk and stuffed them into Monica's mouth just in time to muffle an orgasm that otherwise would surely have sent me over the brink like a siren song.

My boss collapsed, heaving on the desk while I rode on. "Very impressive, Dick," I heard, "That's what I call an orgasm!"

"That's her second," I panted.

"Jesus."

I tried to take in my next breath so slowly. Then I said, "I don't know how much longer I can last... boss." I slid my length from her.

"You... oh, Richard..." she whimpered at losing me.

"I just know," I breathed, "I want to look into your eyes when..."

She seemed to understand. She pushed herself up, reaching back for me.

Finally facing each other, she gazed at my erection, but then her eyes floated over the rest of me--pants around my ankles, bottom buttons of my shirt undone but the rest a sweaty rag about my torso. Between rough breaths, she said, "Take off your clothes."

I smirked, then ripped my shirt open, buttons popping across the room. She managed an exhausted smile and muttered, "Dork."

She looked up at me, breath shallow, lashes low. Her hands found my arms--ran slowly down them, as if reacquainting herself with something she'd long admired in silence. Then she leaned in and kissed me.

It wasn't what I expected. Not frenzied or greedy. Just warm. Lingering. A kiss that tasted of quiet gratitude and long-harbored affection. Her lips moved against mine with the softness of a promise she hadn't known she'd make.

Then, just as my heart began to ache from the tenderness of it, her hand slipped between us and curled firmly around my still-throbbing length. She broke the kiss with a breathy laugh, eyes dark with mischief now.

"Finish what you started," she whispered, already backing toward the desk, taking me with her. I shoved her keyboard onto the floor, stepping on it while I helped her lean back and slide onto the desk. I paused to admire her body, finally all of it completely mine.

I looked over Monica's shoulder at Tracy. Her eyes were slits, her skirt hiked up like a belt, and her hand aggressively rubbing her clitoris through red panties. She shook her head, "What are you waiting for? Don't you dare stop on my account!"

I spread Monica's legs, and my manhood spread her lips. She moaned, and I groaned, the primal glory of a conqueror mixed with the exquisite pleasure of knowing how I'd pleasured her, the joy of joining with her at last, after so long, and of course the avarice for my own satisfaction soon to come.

Her body trembled beneath me, her hair loose now, lips parted, panting. Tracy being Tracy stood up for a full view of us, slickened, sliding together perfectly as if through precision engineering.

Then, "Oh shit, Mon!" My eyes darted to Tracy, who could see through the edge of the blinds. "It's your boss!"

I gaped. I tried to pull back, but Monica clenched me to her. "No," she gasped. "I don't care. We're not waiting anymore. Fuck me, Dick. Just fuck me."

And I did. Picking up speed, I began to churn up all the ejaculatory energy I'd earned the last however many sex-filled minutes, hours, years. I mean, if I was about to lose my job...

Monica regained some erotic poise, her breathing pacing with me. Her eyes locked with mine.

"Oh..." Tracy sighed, "That's my queue. Hell if this isn't the best sex I've ever..." she drifted, pulling her skirt back into place, and that's when the theatrics returned. "I can't believe you're writing me up. It's a work relationship! Is that against the law?" A sniffle wasn't enough, she coughed up a snort of lament.

A knock at the outer door.

"Monica?" Olivia's voice. "May I assist?"

Monica took a deep breath, and I withheld myself long enough for her to force her most professional snap, "Tracy, he's telling us this isn't what he wants. I'm sorry, Olivia--I'll need a few minutes with this employee!"

And in that breath--those few fragile seconds--I nearly pulled away.

Because it wasn't just sex anymore. It wasn't just the thrill or the risk or even the ache that had been hollowing me out for weeks. It was her. Monica. My brilliant, impossible boss, the woman who had shaped my career and bent my body in the same breath. The woman whose voice cracked when she came, but never in a meeting. Who could level a boardroom with a glance--and now might lose everything because I couldn't keep my hands to myself for one more hour.

My hands shook, fingers hovering at her hips, ready to let go. To say stop. To wait.

But then she turned her gaze to meet mine--flushed, fierce, still glowing from her last orgasm--and whispered like a vow, "Don't you dare leave me now."

I don't think I could, no matter the guilt that might follow. Thank heaven for rescue.

With terrifying boldness, Tracy opened the office door, planting herself fully in the threshold, and tearfully she shouted at Olivia, "Henry feels the same way! He just doesn't know how to express it!" She then slammed the door and locked it.

"This is completely unacceptable!" Monica called, her voice icy stern. Her eyes, though, were moist and soft, and her fingers caressed my lower abdomen tenderly. She nodded for me, and with an ache at the mountain of pressures upon us both, I continued.

Tracy whispered feverishly, "She's taking Lily and closing the HR door!" She belted out another melodramatic cry, for good measure.

I nodded and then placed my hand on Monica's sex, finding her clitoris, and I began playing with it in tune with my thrusts.

"Oh!" She yelped. I'd broken right through that oversexed poise. She began to coo, her hand lazily scraping at my torso.

The coo mounted, and I felt that churn in my testicles.

"Monica..."

Her legs clasped around my waist. She began to cry out as I succumbed to mad, mindless bucking. She lurched forward, yanked me down to her, and swallowed my climactic cries with a drenched, open-mouthed kiss.

I looked straight into her eyes. My boss. My mentor. My friend. My lover. And I emptied myself into her while we both wailed in absolute nirvana.

It took a minute for our convulsing to cease. Then breaking a sudden eerie quiet, Tracy slowed her own frantic gasping long enough to ask, "Seriously, Mon. How do I join this department?"

Monica didn't say anything, but with my face planted between her bare breasts I thought I heard her smirk.

"Might be some open positions after this," I mumbled. "Do you think we still have jobs?" I asked, although with my mouth mushed between sweaty boobs I'm not sure how either of them understood me.

"Between me and your boss, you've got two of the best bullshitters to spin the story. Still, I'm definitely getting suspended. Mon, you better cover my rent this time."

"I'm not sure I can stand up," Monica whimpered.

"I believe that now! A little sore, girlfriend? Dick, wow, you can really work that dick! I call next ride!"

"No," Monica started.

"I'm hers," I finished. I pushed myself up at the elbow, long enough to see her. She looked into my eyes--not as my boss, or even my lover.

Just Monica. Just Richard.

I slipped back onto her chest. She caressed my hair, fingernails scraping my scalp with light affection, "Yes, you are."