Home for Dinner 03

Home for dinner

3

Sara

If there was one thing Sara prided herself on--other than her cum laude thesis and the eighteen months of sleepless nights it had cost her --it was her ability to remain stone-cold in any situation. Calm. Controlled. A master of the unreadable expression, the measured breath, the perfectly timed blink behind her sleek, rectangular, glasses. The kind that hid more than they revealed.

That skill had carried her through thesis defenses, hostile Q&As, and the most brutal interviews of her life. But here, in the glass-and-steel belly of Venora Hart's empire, it felt like her greatest asset and her only armor.

The office hummed with low voices, murmured directives and the click of stilettos on marble. As a fresh graduate, she'd landed what should've been impossible: Product Development Assistant for Hush, Hart's main male lingerie line.

Her team, all women, all veterans of Venora's vision, had welcomed her with sharp smiles and sharper minds.

"So you're the grad student who cited Hart's 'Aesthetic of Power' in her thesis," Jade, the lead designer, had said on her first day, sliding an iPad, a digital pen, and a sheer lace prototype across the table. "Cute. Now prove you can apply it."

And God, working with them was exhilarating.

They were brilliant, ruthless, and exactly the kind of women Venora Hart surrounded herself with and Sara loved them for it. She only wished to see the CEO in person more. The CEO who never descended from her penthouse office, who never mingled in the cafeteria, who only saw you if she demanded it.

Sara had only seen her once since being hired, a fleeting glimpse of black stilettos and a voice like smoked velvet as Mrs. Hart swept past her in the atrium. It wasn't enough. That woman had rewritten her brain with a single Forbes cover quote years ago.

"Power isn't seized--it's surrendered. And the true test of a woman's strength is whether men beg to kneel in front of her."

She had every interview Mrs. Hart ever gave saved in a private playlist. She could recite the CEO's philosophy on power, control, and the art of making men want to kneel verbatim. She had highlighted, annotated, and dissected Venora's words until they felt like scripture. And now all she had to do was prove herself worthy of that job title, even though the pace of the office was merciless.

Emails marked URGENT arrived at 2 AM. Fabric samples needed approval yesterday. The summer line featuring premium Japanese microfiber had to be finalized in four months, and Sara was expected to contribute at least one original design to the collection.

She lived in the glow of her iPad, eyes glued to the 3D modeling software during coffee breaks, researching tensile strengths of luxurious fabrics before bed, cross-referencing Venora's old interviews for hidden design cues. Few months to prove herself and present the summer line? Easy. She'd survived on three hours of sleep and spite before, this was nothing.

She thrived on it.

Except for a tiny, minor distraction.

At first, she hadn't noticed. The euphoria of the new job, the power humming in the air, the way the entire company moved like a well-oiled machine under Venora's unseen hand, had been too intoxicating. Then, piece by piece, it crashed into her awareness.

The distraction was in the details.

It was in the way the male secretaries arched their backs when reaching for high files, dress shirts riding up to expose the dimples above their belts.

It was in the way every male intern's shirt sleeves were rolled just a little too high, their forearms on display as they carried mood boards to meetings.

It was in the way their voices changed when Mrs. Hart's name was mentioned, a hush, a reverence, a barely concealed shiver of fear and want.

It was in the way they all stepped aside in the hallways, if a woman was there.

It was in the way Mav, the front desk attendant, whose only job seemed to be looking devastating in a waistcoat, fetched sparkling water for visiting executives. He had a habit of tilting his head just so when spoken to, his dark lashes casting shadows over his cheekbones as he listened.

It was in the way Benny, her department assistant, would race Rob, the sample courier, to bring Jade her morning latte, their biceps flexing as they jostled for position outside the design studio, their voices dropping to hushed, competitive whispers.

"I got it--"

"No, let me--"

"She prefers mine, she said so last--"

The way they both froze when Jade finally emerged, their spines straightening, their fingers tightening around the cup like an offering.

It was in the way they looked at her too. Like they were waiting to see what she would demand of them.

The air itself smelled like seduction and submission. Or was it just her imagination? But Sara could swear it she could taste it on her tongue, metallic and sweet.

It was maddening.

She had clenched her jaw so hard her molars ached. Drank water until her stomach sloshed. Cleared her throat like she was choking on the tension. She would not break. She would not let her gaze linger on the way Benny's shirt clung to his shoulders when he bent over the printer, or how Rob's fingers trembled just slightly when handing her a fresh sample.

She was professional. She was composed.

She was lying to herself.

And that wasn't even the worst of it all.

Because nothing--nothing--could have prepared her for the true test of her composure.

Her personal Hell on earth arrived one sunny morning in the form of the models.

So many.

So perfect in their own devastating ways.

It was like standing before a buffet crafted by some cruel, horny god--each one more tempting than the last, arranged for her torment.

Her throat went instantly, painfully dry.

In addition, the department of product and design, in all its sleek, modern brilliance, had no fitting rooms.

Not a single one.

The realization struck her like a physical blow. The models, six of them, would be stripping down to nothing in the middle of the open-plan office. Right there. In front of everyone.

That was the cruelest joke of all. Because this wasn't some illicit fantasy, this was work. She knew her role was tactile, intimate, testing fabrics against skin, adjusting waistbands on live models, translating Venora's vision into something men would ache to wear. But she couldn't imagine she would be around completely naked, perfect men.

Sara's eyes flickered subtly around the department, searching for any sign that this wasn't just... routine. But no. The senior designers barely glanced up from their screens, their fingers flying across keyboards with practiced indifference. The product manager, a stern woman in her fifties with razor-sharp cheekbones, was already barking measurements at the models like they were particularly attractive pieces of furniture.

This was normal.

This was everyday.

The realization sent an electric jolt down Sara's spine. These godlike men stripping down to their skin, their perfect bodies on display like some Renaissance painting come to life, this was just Tuesday at Hart Company. The casual way her female colleagues handled them, adjusting waistbands with clinical precision, pinning fabric to bare hips without so much as a hitch in their breathing. It was dizzying.

With all the self-composure she could muster, which, after years of academic rigor and personal discipline, was considerable, Sara schooled her expression into one of detached professionalism. She adjusted her glasses with one steady hand, the other clutching her iPad like a lifeline.

She had a job to do.

And today, her task was collaborating with the tailors to oversee the fitting of Jonah, tall as a young god, with tousled dark curls and a boyish smile that could melt steel. Jade loomed behind her, arms crossed, watching with the sharp-eyed scrutiny of a woman who could end careers with a sigh.

Jonah approached her with utter indifference to his own nakedness, moving with the easy confidence of a man who knew his body was art.

His grin deepened as he stopped before her, close enough that she caught the warm spice of his cologne.

"They told me you'd be overseeing my fitting, Miss Allitt," he murmured, rolling the "tt" in her surname like he was savoring it. His voice was smooth, low, inviting.

"How do you want me?"

On your knees. Face up. Eyes locked on me.

But of course, she didn't say that.

Instead, she adjusted an invisible hair on her forehead, her expression cool, detached, utterly unimpressed, even as her pulse hammered in her throat. She did not let her gaze dip below his collarbone. She did not acknowledge the way his bare chest rose with each breath. She was professional.

"Here, under this light," she said, gesturing to the marking tape on the floor. Her voice was flat, clinical, the verbal equivalent of a raised eyebrow. "We need to assess how this material behaves on male hips." She might as well have been discussing tax returns.

Jonah's smile didn't falter. If anything, it grew, amused. "However you need me, Miss Allitt," he purred, stepping into place with exaggerated care.

Jade's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Stop posing and stand straight, Jonah. We're not photographing you for a catalog."

Sara's gaze was methodical as it swept over the delicate panties clinging to Jonah's hips. The fabric, sheer black and expensive, was supposed to be the focus. The fit, the stitching, the way it draped, that's all she allowed herself to assess.

Not the way it strained against his thighs.

Not the way the lace hem bit into the taut skin of his waist.

And certainly not what it barely concealed.

She refused to touch him. Instead, she wielded her iPad stylus like a surgeon's scalpel, its sleek metal tip hovering just above his skin as she indicated adjustments.

"This seam needs to sit higher," she said to a tailor, tapping the air near his hipbone. "It's buckling here. Please, turn Jonah."

Jonah moved, focusing on her and ignoring all the people around him, arching his spine in a slow, feline stretch that made the panties pull even tighter. "Like this?" he murmured, tilting his head with feigned innocence, his voice syrup-sweet.

The stylus pressed lightly against the small of his back, a cold, impersonal point of contact, and he jolted, just slightly, as if shocked by the chill of the metal.

"Don't overcorrect," Sara said flatly. "Just stand naturally."

But naturally was a joke. Every shift of his weight, every roll of his shoulders, was performative. A silent 'look at me' disguised as compliance. When she gestured to the waistband with her pen, he sucked in a breath, letting the fabric cling even more obscenely.

"Here?" he asked, tracing the edge himself with teasing slowness, his fingers a hair's breadth from where hers hovered.

Sara didn't flinch. "Yes. That's where it's puckering."

Jade, still lurking behind her, snorted. "Stop milking it, Jonah. You're not getting a raise for being extra."

The fitting was going on for too long. Sara didn't know how the tailors put up with his attitude.

Jonah was impossible.

Every adjustment Sara made, he shifted. Every pin that was placed, he "accidentally" flexed. His posture was too studied, like he was performing instead of obeying.

And then her patience snapped.

"Keep your hands right there!" She ordered raising her voice, stern, brooking no argument. Her pen pressed firmly against his hipbone, guiding him into position. "Don't. Move."

A hush fell over the immediate space.

"Yes, Miss Allitt." Jonah stilled instantly, his body locking into place like she'd flipped a switch. But his eyes. God, his eyes.

They darkened, his pupils swallowing the hazel in them as he stared down at her, his lips parting just slightly. He looked at her like she'd struck him. Like she'd rewarded him. Like there was nothing in the world he wanted more than her next command.

For a heartbeat, Sara forgot how to breathe.

The moment the fitting was over, Sara excused herself with a clipped, "I need coffee."

She never made it to the break room.

Her heels clicked a sharp, staccato rhythm down the hallway before she veered sharply into the nearest bathroom, locking herself in the farthest stall. The door shut with a too-loud click. Her forehead thumped against the cool metal of the stall door. Her breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, her chest rising and falling too fast.

"Fuck."

Her hands fisted at her sides, knuckles bleaching white with the force of her grip. Her thighs squeezed together, the fabric of her skirt straining as she pressed her legs tight.

The thin silk of her panties clung to her, soaked through with proof of what she wouldn't admit, what she couldn't acknowledge.

Jonah had made her wet.

With his obedience. With the stupid way his breath had hitched when she'd snapped at him.

She wanted to scream.

Instead, she inhaled deep and recomposed herself.

One breath. Two.

By the third, her expression was smooth, unreadable again.

She stepped out of the stall and faced the mirror.

The woman staring back was flawless.

Not a strand out of place, her strawberry-blonde hair parted with surgical precision, pulled back into a severe, military-grade low ponytail. Her sleek glasses sat perfectly balanced on the bridge of her nose, hiding any lingering heat in her gaze.

She splashed cold water on her face, the shock of it grounding, and straightened her blouse.

No hint of weakness.

No trace of want.

That night, Sara couldn't stop thinking about Jonah's eyes.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the wand on her nightstand, its smooth silicone already warm from how often she'd gripped it tonight.

The second she flicked it on, the vibration thrummed through her, a low, insistent pulse against her clit that made her back arch off the bed. Too much. Not enough. She bit her lip hard enough to bruise, her other hand sliding up her body to roughly palm her breast, her thumb dragging over her nipple.

Jonah on his knees.

Jonah's mouth between her thighs.

Jonah's hands bound behind his back with the panties he was wearing for the fitting, because she wanted him helpless.

The images flashed behind her eyelids, sharp and filthy, and her hips jerked up into the wand's relentless pressure. She could see it, him straining against the bonds, his cock hard and leaking, his voice ragged as he begged.

"Please, Miss Allitt..."

Her orgasm ripped through her so fast it stung, her thighs clamping around the wand as she came with a choked gasp, her toes curling into the sheets. The wand stuttered against her, drawing out the aftershocks until she had to yank it away, oversensitive and shaking.

For a long moment, she just breathed, staring at the ceiling as her heartbeat slowed.

Then, with a disgusted groan, she flung an arm over her eyes.

Fuck.

She hadn't even lasted a minute.

***

The Ice Queen

Sara hated the way her body had betrayed her, weaving fantasies of the model at her. But most of all, she hated that, somehow, it had given her the breakthrough she needed.

By dawn, she was already hunched over her iPad, fingers flying across the screen as she sketched furiously. The idea had come to her in the hazy space between dream and wakefulness, a radical departure from the usual blends. She was going to focus her research for her own innovative design on new materials that were both elastic and resistant.

She arrived at the office with her headphones in, her entire being locked onto her research.

Benny's smirk as she passed him? Ignored.

The coffee waiting on her desk with a note scribbled in an infuriatingly elegant handwriting?

"I didn't find you in the coffee room yesterday. --J"

She crumpled it without reading it twice.

She had work to do.

Sara was lost in the numbers, tensile strength comparisons dancing across her iPad screen, her low ponytail swaying with each hurried step as she marched toward the elevator. Her mind was a whirlwind of lab-grown silk proteins and adhesion rates, her fingers twitching with the urge to adjust her calculations.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding.

She stepped inside without looking up.

The cool, mirrored interior reflected her distracted expression: lips slightly parted, brows knit in concentration, the blue glow of the screen casting sharp angles across her cheekbones.

Ground floor. Just get lunch. Refuel. Keep working.

But her thumb hovered over the iPad instead of the elevator panel.

A throat cleared, deliberately polite.

"Which floor, Miss?" The male voice asked.

Sara mumbled, "ground," without looking up, her stylus darting across a graph.

A hand reached past her to press the button and something in the air shifted.

Perfume.

Not the cheap, overpowering stuff some of the models doused themselves in. This was leather and something floral, jasmine, maybe.

Her gaze flickered downward, unwillingly distracted, tracing the polished leather of black stilettos of the third person in the elevator, then up the line of tailored slacks. Crisp beige shirt. A gold brooch glinting at the collar that was worth more than her annual salary.

Her breath hitched.

Slowly, as if moving through syrup, Sara dragged her eyes upward.

Red-brown lips, perfectly painted.

A sharp jawline, softened only by the barest hint of a smirk.

And then, those sharp eyes.

Venora Hart stared down at her, one eyebrow arched.

Sara's own eyes widened to saucers, her iPad nearly slipping from her suddenly numb fingers.

Holy shit.

She was alone in an elevator with the woman who had haunted her dreams, her thesis, her career and she hadn't even noticed.

Sara was in an elevator with Venora fucking Hart. And her personal assistant, William, but that didn't count.

Her mouth opened--to apologize? But Venora's voice cut through the silence first, velvet-wrapped steel.

"Miss Allitt. Is Jade overworking you?" She said with the barest lilt of amusement beneath the polished tone.

Sara's spine straightened instinctively. Years of effort. Years of sacrifice. She would not fuck this up by playing the flustered dumbass. In one fluid motion, she lowered her iPad, tilted her chin up, and met Venora's gaze with a look of cool, unshakable professionalism.

"My apologies for not greeting you, Mrs. Hart. I was engrossed in my research on natural materials for the summer line." Her voice didn't waver. "Textiles that have never been explored for lingerie. Pure avant-garde. That's why it requires every waking minute."

Venora's gaze didn't so much as flicker. The elevator hummed softly, the only sound in the thick silence between them. Then, a chime. The doors slid open, revealing the sleek marble expanse of the lobby.

"Interesting."

The word hung in the air like smoke. Venora flicked two fingers toward William, who moved with the precision of a well-trained shadow. In one fluid motion, he stepped forward, presenting her with a perfectly folded tailored jacket, black and structured. He draped it over Venora's shoulders without a single wasted movement, his posture stiff with deference.

Sara couldn't help but notice he smelled like her.

Not just a hint, not just a trace. Drenched. As if Venora's perfume had seeped into his skin. He orbited her like a planet caught in a gravitational pull, his every motion calibrated to her presence. A well-groomed puppy awaiting its mistress's next command.

With a silent nod from Venora, William melted into the lobby crowd, disappearing as seamlessly as if he'd never been there at all, leaving them alone.

Venora turned back to Sara. "Come have lunch with me, Miss Allitt. I want to hear more about this little project of yours." Not a request.

The restaurant was the kind of place that had silverware and crystal glasses on linen so white it hurt to look at. They ordered some unpronounceable fish draped in gold leaf and wine that tasted like liquid arrogance.

And Venora listened. Actually listened.

As Sara spoke, the CEO's gaze never left her face. Those razor-sharp nails drummed once, twice against the tablecloth. A server tried to refill their water; Venora silenced him with a glance.

Sara returned to the office with a restless, humming energy. And beneath it all, Venora's final words looped in her skull like a mantra:

"Next week. My office. Show me."

Sara updated Jade with clipped efficiency, her voice steady even as her muscles coiled with tension. The moment the meeting ended, she called for Rob to fetch her the samples she needed.

He arrived at her desk in under three minutes, his breath slightly uneven from taking the stairs two at a time. "Right away, Miss Allitt," he'd said, like it was a vow.

Now, he stood before her again, the requested sample in hand, but his gaze was fixed on her with something so far away from professionalism.

"Can I do anything else for you, Miss Allitt?"

A beat. His voice dropped, roughened.

"Anything."

She didn't imagine the emphasis. Didn't miss the way his tongue flicked over his lower lip as he said it, pink and wet and inviting. Her fingers twitched at her sides with the sudden, violent urge to grab two handfuls of that perfect ass, to dig her fingers in and see if it was as plump and firm as it looked straining against his slacks.

Her mouth watered. Just one touch. One quick squeeze to satisfy this relentless craving. She could almost feel the heat of him through the fabric, the way his muscles would tense under her grip.

No. What she wanted - what she needed was simply an end to this torment, this constant distraction from her work.

The words dissolved in her throat as Rob stepped closer.

"You seem tense," he murmured, his voice a low purr. "I've been told I'm very good with shoulder massages."

He took her silence as assent, circling her desk with grace. His hands, broad, warm, unfairly skilled, settled on her shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knot at the base of her neck.

"Oh--"

The sound escaped before she could stop it, a soft, involuntary sigh as his fingers worked into the tightness there. His touch was firm, kneading the tension from her muscles with slow, practiced circles.

His thumbs dragged lower, his palms radiating heat through the thin fabric of her blouse.

"Am I doing good, Miss Allitt?" The question was a velvet stroke against her already fraying resolve.

Control. She needed control.

Her grip tightened around her iPad pen, the plastic creaking under the pressure.

"That's enough."

Her voice was steadier than she expected.

Rob stilled instantly, though his hands lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary, his fingertips brushing the nape of her neck.

"Go grab me a coffee, please," she added, gesturing vaguely toward the break room without looking at him.

She didn't trust herself to meet his eyes, not when her pulse was still hammering.

Sara took another deep breath, letting the familiar hum of the office ground her, the rhythmic clack of keyboards, the distant murmur of meetings, the occasional sharp laugh from Jade's corner. This was her reality. This was work. Whatever momentary lapse she'd had with Rob's hands on her shoulders was just that, momentary. A test of her professionalism. A fluke.

Except... glancing around, she could see that she was the only one wrestling with this particular brand of distraction.

The other women moved through the space with effortless authority, their focus unshaken by the parade of beautiful, eager men orbiting them. Their focus never wavered, not when a male intern knelt to retrieve a dropped file, not when a fit model lingered a little too close under the guise of "needing direction." They indulged. They took.

She had seen Jade's fingers trail down the spine of a model, her grip tightening possessively on his asscheek. He had arched into the touch, his breath hitching, without speaking a single word.

And Mary from Marketing, she had always her hands on her assistant's hips, calling every male intern sweetie, because it was too much of an effort to learn their names.

Even the other junior designers had their favorites. The interns all preened under their scrutiny, loving the attention, their postures straightening when a woman's gaze lingered. It was normal here, almost expected?

And why on Earth did they all have to be so fucking beautiful? Not only the model, but every intern, every single assistant. It wasn't fair.

Maybe she was the problem, thinking about professionalism too much.

Enough.

She needed that coffee and it was still nowhere in sight.

She pushed back from her desk with more force than necessary, her chair rolling sharply behind her. If Rob was going to take forever, she'd get the damn coffee herself.

The break room door was half-closed when she reached it, the muted sound of voices giving her pause just before she crossed the threshold.

Rob and Benny, gossipping again.

She should have walked away. She knew she should have. But the raw, frustrated edge in Rob's voice froze her in place.

"I have a fucking hard-on, and you're laughing!" Rob's whisper was strained, almost desperate. Benny's answering laugh was loud, unrepentant, the sound of a man who had zero fear of being overheard.

"I don't see the problem. Go back, bring Ice Queen her coffee, and oh, I don't know, maybe bend over a little extra when you hand it to her. Show off what you're packing."

Rob's voice was lower now, rough with frustration. "You don't understand. She sighed, Benny. And I--fuck. I got hard instantly. It's embarrassing! And her skin, oh my god, it's so soft."

Sara's lips twitched. Ice Queen. It was ridiculous. Flattering. And, admittedly, a little thrilling to realize all this time, she'd been agonizing over her self-control, convinced her professionalism was crumbling under the weight of their teasing and they hadn't even noticed.

Benny's responding groan was dramatic, exaggerated, but there was a thread of genuine envy beneath it. "I'm actually so jealous. She hasn't acknowledged me once. Just those icy stares, those fucking sexy icy stares. Those fucking arctic-blue eyes that look right through your clothes like you're already naked on her desk." A pause. Then, petulant. "She can poke me with that pen of hers anytime she wants. Hell, she can use the whole damn iPad for all I care. I bet she's the kind of woman who leaves you walking funny with your thighs shaking, having to call in sick the next day because you can't fucking sit straight."

Sara's breath caught.

Rob's next words were a strangled whisper. "Fuck, Benny, shut up! If she so much as grazes my ass - fuck, even if her pinky finger brushes lower than my hipbone by accident, I'm gonna fucking lose it like some untouched college kid. What do I do? What do I do!"

Sara suppressed a smile and clicked her heels against the marble floor as she entered. "Handing me my coffee, maybe?"

The effect was instant.

Benny and Rob froze like rabbits in a spotlight, their heads snapping toward her in perfect unison. The flush that spread across their faces was comically vivid. Rob's fair skin turned scarlet from his collarbones to the tips of his ears, while Benny, still managed to glow like a stoplight.

For a heartbeat, they just stared, mouths slightly open, eyes wide with a mix of horror and awe.

Rob's arm shot out like a piston, shoving the coffee cup toward her so fast it sloshed over the rim. He didn't speak. Didn't breathe. Just held it out like a sacrificial offering, his fingers trembling slightly around the cardboard sleeve.

"Thank you." And then she was gone, leaving them in stunned silence.

Yeah. That had been funny.

A week had flown by in a haze of caffeine and last-minute adjustments. Sara had somehow pulled together a working prototype and a decent presentation for Venora, but the pent-up energy thrumming through her veins was too much to ignore. The night before her big meeting, she needed to let go.

That's how she found herself at The Velvet, Venora's high-end strip club, a place where the boys were prettier, the drinks stronger, and the privacy absolute.

Tonight's show was one of her favorites: "Soft Mochi & Dripping Honey: The Keys to Paradise."

Mochi and Honey weren't actually twins, but they might as well have been: both lean, muscular, and unfairly gorgeous. Mochi had soft pink hair, tousled just right, while Honey's was a bright, absurd yellow, styled in the same careless-sexy way. Same height, same playful smirk, same way of moving that made it impossible to look away.

Sara settled into one of the plush booth near the stage, her disguise in place, a purple wig and colored contacts, just in case.

A waiter approached, a thin, pretty boy with sharp cheekbones and a practiced smile. "Your usual, Miss?"

She nodded, and he returned moments later with a gin tonic. "Enjoy the show," he murmured, before disappearing into the dim light.

Sara took a slow sip, letting the burn steady her nerves.

The lights dimmed.

The music swelled.

And they appeared.

Mochi and Honey stood frozen in the center of the stage, their bodies drowning in absurd, decadent costumes.

The stage lights dimmed to a deep, sugary pink, the air thick with the scent of vanilla. The music was low, slowed, sensual.

Mochi was a walking candy shop disaster. His wrists bound by licorice rope cuffs, his neck draped in loops of rock-hard candy necklaces that clicked when he moved. A giant lollipop-shaped codpiece covered his hips, the plastic sheen glinting under the lights. His pink hair was dusted with something glittery, making him look like he'd been rolled in powdered sugar.

Honey was worse. Far worse.

His outfit was a mockery of modesty. He had on a cropped baker's jacket with "Eat Me" stitched across the back in looping frosting-font, his thighs wrapped in striped stockings that ended in garters made of twisted red vines. A giant donut cuff squeezed his bicep, the fake sprinkles digging into his skin.

The crowd howled.

A recorded voice purred over the speakers: "Once upon a time, two naughty desserts locked themselves in the Candy House... To go out, they must find the Key to Paradise. But oh no! They forgot where they hid it..."

Mochi blinked, his big, fake-innocent eyes widening. "Brother! We're trapped!"

Honey gasped, clutching his chest. "But the key! We--we must've hidden it... on each other?"

The music shifted, melting into something slower, a slurtry, sensual pulse that moved like liquid heat.

Mochi went first.

His fingers, delicate and practiced, tugged at Honey's jacket buttons, one by one. Each pop of fabric revealed another inch of golden skin, Honey's breath hitching just loud enough for the front row to hear.

"Is it... here?" Mochi murmured, slipping his hand into the jacket's inner pocket. His fingertips danced along Honey's ribs, making him squirm.

The crowd screamed.

A woman in the front tossed a bill onto the stage. "Take it off!"

Honey bit his lip, nodding. The jacket hit the floor.

Now shirtless, Honey retaliated. His hands went to Mochi's candy necklace, snapping the strands with a sharp tug. The beads rained down Mochi's chest, catching in the waistband of his ridiculous lollipop briefs.

"Maybe... here?" Honey whispered, dragging a finger along the waistband.

Mochi whined, high and pretty.

Another bill landed onstage. Then another.

They rolled their bodies into the sensual wave of the music, hips swaying in slow, hypnotic circles.

Piece by piece, the costumes fell. The garters snapped free, Honey's stockings rolling down his thighs with agonizing slowness.

Mochi dropped, his knees spreading wide as he arched back to expose the smooth plane of his stomach, the faint trail of hair leading lower. His fingers dragged up his thighs, teasing.

Honey mirrored him, but with a twist. His back arched like a cat in heat, his ass pressing out as he bent over, the curve of his perfect, round cheeks outlined under the thin fabric. He glanced over his shoulder, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, his eyes locked on the women in the front row.

Sara's thighs pressed together instinctively.

Honey peeled the donut cuff from his bicep, the sugary glaze leaving a faint, shiny ring on his skin. He brought it to his lips, sucking the sweetness off his own wrist with a hum.

Mochi followed, unwinding the licorice ropes from his wrists, the candy stretched and sticky from his body heat. He let it dangle from his teeth, his eyes fluttering shut as he moaned around it, a sound that went straight to Sara's core.

Soon, they were down to just their underwear, tight, straining briefs that left nothing to the imagination. The stage was littered with bills, the air thick with perfume and desire. The spotlight painted their bodies in gold and pink, highlighting the sheen of exertion on their skin, the way their chests rose and fell with each breath.

Honey pouted, running his hands over his body in exaggerated frustration.

"Where is it? I can't find the key!" His voice was a whine, a playful plea, his fingers slipping under the waistband of Mochi's brief, teasing, searching.

Sara, flushed and aching, couldn't stop herself.

"It's in Mochi's panties!" she called out, waving a bill high in the air.

The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers.

Honey's eyes lit up, his grin turning wicked as he zeroed in on her.

"Then this lucky lady can come on stage and look for herself," he purred, stepping back with a flourish. "I can't reach it!"

Sara's pulse roared in her ears. The heat between her legs was too much, the throb of want too persistent. She stood, her legs only slightly unsteady, and let the waiter guide her up the steps.

The moment she reached them, they enveloped her. Mochi's hands were on her hips, Honey's breath was warm against her neck.

Honey's fingers traced her wrist, guiding her palm up the hard plane of Mochi's abs, over the dip of his hip. "See how tense he is?" Honey murmured, his lips brushing her ear. "Poor thing needs your help."

Mochi shivered under her touch, his skin hot, his muscles flexing as her fingers skimmed lower. Honey pressed a candy between her lips, something sweet and tart, the sugar dissolving on her tongue as he chuckled.

Then, his hand were over hers, guiding her around Mochi's ass, the curve firm and perfect under her palm. She sighed, kneading lightly, earning a soft groan from Mochi that sent a thrill down her spine.

Finally.

No guilt. No duty. No carefully constructed professionalism to uphold. Just touch, hot skin under her palms.

"Deeper," Honey urged, his voice pleading.

Her fingers slipping beneath the waistband, tracing the curve of his ass until--there. A small key, attached to a delicate chain that connected to the base of his cock ring and the glint of an anal plug beneath the fabric.

A woman in the front row wolf-whistled. "So lucky!"

Sara's cheeks burned, but her fingers didn't falter. She unhooked the key with a deft twist, the metal cool against her skin. Mochi gasped, his hips jerking forward just slightly, just enough, before Honey caught him with a laugh.

"Thank you!" Honey crooned, pressing a kiss to Sara's knuckles. "You've set us free!"

Their hands were everywhere as they guided her back to her seat, a touch to the small of her back, a brush of lips against her hair.

Back on stage, they finished the show on their knees, crawling to the edge to press candy into open palms, to let women card fingers through their hair, to kiss wrists and whisper "goodnight, gorgeous" like each one was the only woman in the room.

Sara sank into her seat, her skin buzzing, the taste of sugar and sin still on her tongue. The air clung to her, her neck damp with sweat, her thighs pressed tight against the ache between them.

It wasn't enough.

But god, she was happy.

The Velvet always did this to her, left her loose-limbed and greedy, her nerves singing, her blood thick with want.

She exhaled, slow, through her nose and signaled for another drink. Then, she could be back to be the Ice Queen at office, tomorrow.

But for now... she let herself watch the way the waiter's shoulders moved under his waistcoat and how perfect his ass was as he walked away.

***

Miss Allitt

Venora Hart's meetings defied convention, and her design approval process broke every corporate norm.

The designer team work only ever reached Venora's hands under two conditions: privacy, and presentation. She demanded every design be presented privately in her office, no committees, no conference rooms, and on occasion, with her own private runway show going on.

For her meeting, Sara had chosen her armor carefully: tall, tailored trousers in espresso-brown wool, a structured jacket that cinched at her waist, and her hair pulled back into its signature low ponytail, severe, professional, untouchable. The outfit brought out the gold in her strawberry-blonde strands, made her look taller, sharper. Like someone who belonged in Venora Hart's office.

And yet, the moment she stepped inside, her carefully constructed composure slightly faltered.

Venora sat behind her massive desk, those amber-brown eyes already dissecting Sara before she'd even spoken a word. But that wasn't what made Sara's pulse stutter.

There was someone under the desk. She was sure of it.

She couldn't see them of course, it was just the faintest rustle of fabric against Venora's legs. But she knew.

And Venora knew she knew.

The CEO's lips curled, just slightly, as if amused by Sara's forced neutrality.

"Proceed, Sara." After that lunch she was just Sara. Not Miss Allitt. A quiet intimacy. A silent acknowledgment.

Sara launched into her presentation with precision, her voice steady as she outlined the revolutionary potential of lab-grown spider silk proteins, their tensile strength surpassing steel, their biodegradability, their potential to redefine sustainable luxury. She cited studies. Projected cost analyses. Even included a comparative stress-test video that showed her prototype material enduring three times the strain of traditional synthetics before showing the slightest wear.

Venora listened, her expression inscrutable, her fingers occasionally tapping the desk in a rhythm that matched neither the presentation nor the subtle, hidden movements beneath it.

"Bring in the model."

The door opened, and Jonah stepped inside, dressed in the prototype briefs Sara had designed.

The white fabric clung to him like a second skin, the iridescent sheen of the lab silk catching the light with every movement.

"This is just a prototype," she stressed, her tone deliberately clinical, her gaze fixed on Venora's face and nowhere else. "The final version will have no stitching, different colors and a modified waistband."

What she didn't say was that Jonah had only worn it once before today. She had avoided multiple fittings to spare herself his particular brand of distraction and she was praying it would be enough.

Venora's finger lifted, a single elegant command. A slow, circular motion. "Turn."

Jonah obeyed instantly, rotating on the spot, the prototype fabric pulling taut over his ass.

Venora's gaze flicked to Sara, sharp as a scalpel.

"If you want to understand how it fits a man's body... ask him to turn around and bend."

A beat. A smirk.

"So bend, dear."

Jonah exhaled, slow, but didn't hesitate. He folded forward, his spine curving gracefully, his hands braced on his thighs as he lowered himself.

"Deeper."

Jonah obeyed, his head nearly brushing his knees now, his ass on full display, round, firm, the material clinging obscenely.

Venora leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepled. "Well, Sara? Does his ass look good to you?"

Sara's throat tightened. She forced herself to look--really look-- at Jonah's body, the way it crumpled at the crease of his thighs, the way it bunched around the waist. The fit wasn't good.

"No," she admitted, her voice steady despite the heat crawling up her neck. "It's pulling all wrong. I'll fix it."

Venora's laugh was low, dark.

"This company isn't built on fabric, Sara. It's built on the way people look when they wear it and the way people look at them." She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. "And right now? That ass doesn't look particularly appealing."

A beat. A silent verdict. "Jonah, darling, go change."

He straightened, his face flushed, before he disappeared behind the office door.

Venora waited until the door clicked shut behind him before turning back to Sara.

"I like your idea," she said, her voice dropping, serious now. "But it needs more work." She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the desk, her gaze unbearably direct.

"What are you afraid of, Sara? You are smart. You have the power." A pause. "Use it." Her nails tapped once against the polished wood. "Stop stalling. Stop refraining your ideas and what you really want to do with that fabric. There's something right in front of you that wants to be grabbed."

Another tap.

"Take it."

Sara nodded and tuned but froze mid-step.

"You know employees get 25% off at The Velvet. Tickets, drinks..." Venora added. "It'd be a shame not to use your benefits, Sara."

Venora knew.

"I'll keep that in mind."

The rest of the afternoon was a waste.

Sara sat at her desk, her notes blurring together, her coffee going cold as Venora's words looped in her skull. She dissected every syllable, every pause.

By 5 PM, she'd gotten nothing done. By 6 PM, she was biting her lip raw. By 7 PM, she was home, sprawled across her bed, re-evaluating everything.

Monday came, and it was a completely different story.

Sara had a new resolve, and the universe decided to test it that same day, when Jonah appeared at her desk.

He was dressed in jeans that clung to his thighs and a white t-shirt at least two sizes too small, the fabric straining over his chest and biceps, looking like a walking provocation.

"You don't have a fitting today, Jonah," she said, her voice cool, fingers still tapping away at her keyboard.

"I know," he replied, leaning against her desk with that infuriating smirk. "I'm here because I wanna help you, Miss Allitt." A wink. A deliberate flex of his arms.

She arched a brow, unimpressed.

"No, really!" he insisted. "Mrs. Hart must really like you. And you're damn good at your job, otherwise, trust me, I'd have heard about it by now." He lowered his voice,"as a model that has worked for a lot of presentations, I've seen the way she tears into people. Fists on desks. Retrocessions..." His gaze flickered over her face. "But you? She's taken you under her wing. That means you're not just good at your job, you're exceptional."

A pause. Then, his voice become softer, his breath grazing her ear as he stepped behind her. "Let me be your muse, Miss Allitt."

Sara didn't answer immediately. Instead, she let Jonah's words, and his proximity, settle over her.

The weekend had been spent in deep reflection, not just about Venora's words, but about her own hesitation. Why resist the advantages laid before her? Why deny herself the tools others wielded so effortlessly?

Venora didn't resist the adoration of the men around her. She didn't agonize over whether it was "professional" to have someone under her desk, whether for relaxation or entertainment. She simply existed in her power, unapologetic, every pore of her radiating control.

And Sara was done resisting. She had spent too long letting the adorable men of the office be a distraction.

No more.

"It's a shame not to use your benefits."

These men, these willing, eager men, were just waiting to be helpful, and used. They could be her tools to do a better job.

"You know what, Jonah?" she finally said, turning in her chair to face him fully. "I could use your help."

His eyes lit up.

"Are you ready for some late hours?"

"Yes, Miss Allitt," he replied instantly.

"Then come back after the 4 PM meeting."

The last meeting of the day had been short, and almost everybody was long gone, leaving only her and the lead designer. The conference room air hummed with tension as Jade leaned back in her chair, studying Sara with the same calculating gaze she used to evaluate fabric samples. "Let me tell you something about Venora," she said, tapping her manicured nails against the table. "She knew your first presentation wouldn't be successful. Yet she approved your project anyway."

This wasn't the criticism she'd expected.

Jade continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "That woman didn't build this empire because she likes to hire failures. She built it because she recognizes potential before anyone else sees it." A knowing smirk. "Even when it's buried under nerves and rookie mistakes."

Jade stood, gathering her materials. "Your prototypes? Flawed." She paused at the door, throwing one last glance over her shoulder. "But your vision? That's why you're still here."

The door clicked shut behind Jade, leaving Sara alone. She returned to her desk, her mind racing, not with doubt anymore, but with purpose.

And that's exactly how Jonah found her, in the empty office.

She didn't look up when he approached. Didn't soften her tone. Just pointed to the prototype draped over her chair and said:

"Strip down. I'm redoing the whole design, and you're trying this on now."

Jonah's smirk was instantaneous. "Woah, Miss Allitt. Didn't expect you to be so... direct."

He reached for the hem of his too-tight shirt, peeling it off with agonizing slowness, every inch of toned abdomen revealed like he was unwrapping a goddamn present.

"Jonah." Her patience had already run out.

His grin widened. "Miss Allitt, when you say my name like that, it just makes me want to go slower." A teasing pause. "Don't you like the show?"

Her eyes locked onto his. "Lose. It."

A beat.

"Yes, Miss."

The shirt hit the floor.

Sara stood, her iPad pen still clutched in her hand like a weapon. She stepped forward, the tip of the pen pressing against the button of his jeans.

"This too."

No hesitation. No stammer. Just command.

Jonah did so, shucking off his jeans in one smooth motion, leaving him in nothing but simple white briefs that did absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he was enjoying this far too much.

"How do you prefer me?" he purred, turning slightly, flexing his back muscles before rolling his shoulders, putting his ass on full display as he leaned back toward her.

Before, Sara would've looked away. Would've bitten her tongue, clenched her fists, resisted. But now she let herself look. Let herself take in the carved lines of his torso, the way his thighs tensed when he shifted his weight, the stupid, infuriatingly perfect curve of his shoulders.

She pressed the cool metal tip of her pen to the base of his spine, guiding him where she wanted him.

"Stay. Still."

Jonah, of course, didn't obey.

Instead, he bent forward over her desk, his arms braced on the surface, his back arching. "Don't you like me better like this?"

Sara exhaled sharply through her nose.

She moved.

One hand fisted in the fabric sample, the other gripping his hip hard enough to dig her nails in as she yanked him upright.

"I said stay still. I need to take notes to give to the tailor."

Jonah's breath hitched, but his grin didn't fade. "Or what?"

Sara leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous hum. "Or I'll make you."

"Promise?" he breathed, his pupils blown wide.

Something in Sara's expression shifted, sharpened, like a blade finally unsheathed.

Without ceremony, she threw the prototype at Jonah's chest. "Put it on."

Jonah didn't smirk this time. Didn't tease. He just obeyed, shucking off his briefs in one smooth motion, the fabric pooling at his feet as he stepped into the new design.

Sara didn't watch. She turned her back to him, not to give him privacy but to retrieve the strip of fabric she'd discarded earlier, the one that was too stiff, too resistant, not elastic enough for wearability.

She dragged an office chair toward him, the wheels screeching against the floor. Then, with a firm press of her palm to his shoulder, she forced him down onto it.

Jonah landed with a soft oof, his eyes wide, his cock already half-hard just from the way she'd manhandled him.

She didn't give him time to adjust.

In one fluid motion, she wrenched his arms behind the chair, his wrists pressed flush against the small of his back. The strip of fabric wound around them tight, the material biting into his skin just enough to refrain his movements.

"Miss--" His voice cracked, almost a moan, his body arching slightly against the bindings.

She ignored him, reaching for another scrap of fabric, this one softer, wider.

"No, please," Jonah whined, his hips shifting restlessly. "I wanna see you--"

"Shut up."

The fabric came down over his eyes, knotting securely at the back of his head.

Jonah pouted, his bottom lip jutting out in protest, but his cock betrayed him, twitching against his thigh.

Sara smirked. Then she touched him, with curiosity, with a need to explore and feel.

The tips of her nails scraped down his throat, tracing the hammer of his pulse, the dip of his collarbone, the rigid plane of his sternum. His breath hitched, his abs jumping under her touch as she dragged lower, lower to his inner thigh.

Jonah jolted, a choked sound escaping him as her nails raked over the sensitive skin there, so close to where he ached.

She watched, fascinated, as his cock stirred against the confines of the prototype, the fabric straining with every uneven breath he took. Slowly, she traced the shape of him through the material, her nails catching on the damp spot already forming at the tip.

Jonah whimpered.

His hips rolled, seeking friction, but she denied him, pulling her hand away just as he thrust forward.

"Fuck--"

She did it again.

And again.

Each time, her touch lighter, more teasing, until Jonah was shaking with it, his thighs trembling, his cock thick and flushed against the fabric.

"Please--"

She ignored him.

Instead, she peeled the prototype down just enough to free him, her fingers wrapping around his length in one firm stroke.

Jonah cried out, his back bowing, his hips jerking into her grip.

Hot.

Hard.

She squeezed, her thumb swiping over the leaking head, spreading the wetness down his shaft as she worked him in slow, ruthless strokes.

Jonah was babbling now. "Miss Allitt, fuck, please, just--"

But Sara wasn't listening.

She was studying him.

The way his cock jerked in her hand.

The way his hips stuttered, desperate for more.

The way his mouth fell open, his breath coming in ragged gasps as she played him like an instrument.

And when his thighs tensed, when his stomach clenched, when his voice broke on a sob--

She stopped.

Pulled her hand away. Left him hanging on the edge.

Jonah whined, high and desperate, his cock twitching, his body straining against the bindings.

"Miss Alliiiitt!"

His body was a masterpiece of desperation.

His thighs trembled, every muscle pulled taut as he strained against the restraints binding his wrists, his stomach clenched, the defined ridges of his abs flexing with each ragged breath. A thick vein pulsed along the length of his cock, flushed dark and dripping against his stomach.

"Please--please, please--"

His voice was raw, wrecked, his words dissolving into a high, keening whine as Sara calmly walked back to her desk, settling into her chair with her iPad in hand.

His hips jerked, fucking uselessly into the air, his cock twitching as he chased friction that wasn't there. Sweat beaded along his temples, his hair sticking to his forehead, his chest heaving.

Jonah's pleading wasn't a distraction. It was inspiration.

The way his breath hitched on every "Miss", the way his cock leaked against his stomach, the way his thighs quivered with every denied thrust--it was better than any playlist.

"I have the best view, Jonah." She tilted her head, studying him like a sculptor examining marble. "Why would I do anything about it, mh?"

Jonah whimpered, his cock throbbing, his entire body tense with unspent need. His hips bucked again, his cock jumping, and a fresh bead of pre-come welled up at the tip.

Sara focused on the 3D model on her iPad like that, while Jonah squirmed in the chair.

His head finally lolled back, a groan tearing from his throat as his hips jerked uselessly, "pleaseee!"

She ignored him and when she was satisfied with her work, she set her iPad down, took off her jacket and rolled her sleeves up to her elbows. Her gaze raked over him, restrained, blindfolded, achingly hard in that office chair.

She didn't rush.

Instead, she let her fingers trail down her own body, savoring the way Jonah's breath hitched at every rustle of fabric, every soft sigh she didn't bother to suppress. Her blouse clung to her curves as she palmed her breast through the silk and then over the waistband of her skirt.

She reached the damp lace of her panties, and finally the slick, swollen heat between her thighs.

The first touch was electric.

Her pussy was soaked, her clit swollen and throbbing under her fingertips. She circled it slowly, biting her lip as a soft moan escaped her, just loud enough for Jonah to hear.

"Oh god--" he choked out, his hips bucking again against nothing.

She dragged two fingers through her slick folds, gathering the wetness before pushing inside with a filthy, squelching sound that made Jonah's cock jerk.

"Miss Allitt--please--" His voice was wrecked, his thighs trembling. "Let me help you, let me--"

She cut him off with a sharp "No."

Her fingers curled inside herself, her thumb rubbing tight circles over her clit as she watched him.

"Just be pretty," she murmured, her voice thick with pleasure.

Her fingers worked faster, her other hand gripping the edge of the desk as pleasure coiled tight in her belly. Jonah heard it all. The slick, filthy sound of her fingers plunging in and out, the wet slap of hand against wet skin, the way her breath stuttered when she circled her clit just right. All of it.

Her back arched, her thighs clenched, her cunt pulsed around her fingers as pleasure ripped through her in waves as she came.

Sara pulled her hand away, glistening and sticky, and smirked.

She rose, smoothing her skirt back into place with her clean hand before stepping toward him. With a single tug, she loosened the fabric covering his eyes, revealing his blown pupils, his flushed cheeks, his mouth already slack and begging without words.

"Open."

Jonah obeyed instantly, his tongue already pressing against his bottom lip in anticipation.

She shoved her wet fingers into his mouth without ceremony, watching his eyes roll back as he sucked them clean with obscene, hungry noises.

His tongue lashed between her knuckles, his teeth grazing lightly in plea for more, harder, deeper.

Sara curled her fingers, dragging them along his tongue before pulling them out with a filthy pop.

"Good boy." She said, her voice dripping with dark approval as she unbuckled the last restraint. Jonah collapsed forward from the office chair, his knees hitting the plush carpet with a heavy thud. His chest heaved, lips glistening as he stared up at her with undisguised hunger, that pretty-boy mouth of his hanging open, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

"You deserve it straight from the source," she murmured, hooking a finger under his chin to tilt his face up. His breath hitched, hot against her thighs.

Then, she guided him down with a firm hand between his shoulder blades, pressing him flat onto the office carpet until he was sprawled beneath her, his back against the floor, his cock straining obscenely against his abs.

Sara didn't hesitate. She hiked up her skirt, the fabric pooling around her hips, and hooked her thumbs into the sides of her panties, dragging them aside just enough to bare her swollen, cum-dripping cunt.

Jonah's groan was filthy, his hands twitching at his sides.

"Ah-ah," she chided, pressing a foot to his chest to keep him pinned. "Hands stay where I can see them."

She lowered herself onto his face, her thighs bracketing his head, her weight settling fully against his mouth.

Jonah didn't need instruction.

His tongue lashed out, broad and flat, dragging from her entrance all the way up to her clit in one obscene, wet stroke.

"Fuck--!" Sara gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair, yanking him closer.

Jonah obeyed like his life depended on it.

His tongue plunged inside her, cleaning the remains of her last orgasm and fucking in and out with rough, messy strokes before curling upward, pressing hard against that sweet, spongy spot inside her that made her see stars.

"Oh my God--!"

She rocked against his mouth, her hips rolling in time with his tongue, her thighs trembling as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in her gut, she was already ready for a second one. Jonah's nose bumped against her clit, the pressure perfect, and she ground down harder, chasing it, using his face like her own personal toy.

The sounds were disgusting--wet, sloppy squelches, Jonah's ragged breaths, her own broken moans bouncing off the office walls.

His hands finally snapped up, gripping her thighs to steady her as she rode his face.

"Yes--right there, don't stop--!"

Jonah growled against her, his tongue flicking faster, his lips sealing around her clit to suck.

"AHH--!"

Her second orgasm hit like a freight train, her back arching, her cunt clenching around nothing as she came hard, her juices flooding Jonah's mouth, dripping down his chin, his neck, marking him.

He didn't pull away.

He lapped at her, greedy, swallowing every drop like he was starved, his tongue still working her through the aftershocks until she shoved him off, panting.

Jonah collapsed back, his face glazed, his lips swollen and shiny with her. "Thank you, Miss Allitt."

***

Since that evening, Jonah's lips had been close to Sara's clit more than once, his tongue working her over with a filthy dedication. Late nights at the office, after everyone else had gone home, had become far sweeter than she'd ever anticipated. She was close to finishing her project now, just the final details left. The material was perfected, the design flawless. All that remained was deciding on the color.

And then there was Rob.

The boy had left her coffee on her desk again without a word, without even looking at her. Again.

Bringing her coffee wasn't even in his job description as a sample courier, but ever since she'd caught him gossiping about her with Benny, Benny had completely disappeared from her sight and Rob had become adorably avoidant.

If she was in his immediate vicinity, his cheeks would bloom that delicious pink blush, and he'd scurry away like a startled rabbit. He'd change corridors. Refuse to take the same elevator. Yet he still brought her coffee every single day, as if it were a sacred duty.

It was amusing.

And today was no exception, his cheeks flushed that soft, pretty pink, his eyes stubbornly fixed on the floor as he set the cup down and turned to leave.

Sara watched him go, her fingers tapping idly against her desk.

Maybe the panties should be that exact shade of pink.

"Rob." Her voice stopped him mid-step, his shoulders tensing like a deer in headlights. "Can you bring me a sample of a lighter color?"

He nodded vigorously, still refusing to meet her eyes, before practically bolting from her desk.

Sara took a break, stretching her legs, refilling her water, letting her mind wander back to Jonah's mouth... But when she returned to her desk, she found the wrong sample waiting for her.

She looked for him everywhere. The sample room. The break area. Even the damn supply closet, half-hoping she'd catch him pressed between shelves, but no luck.

Then, finally, she spotted him slipping out of the men's bathroom, his head down, his steps quick as he tried to make his escape.

Not this time.

Before he could change direction, Sara was on him, her hand slamming against the wall beside his head, her body caging him in before he could react.

Rob froze, his back hitting the wall as his wide, startled eyes met hers.

"Wrong sample, Rob." Her voice was low, a hum of amusement.

"I--I'm sorry, Miss Allitt, I thought--"

"You thought wrong."

She didn't move. Didn't give him an inch. Just let him squirm, his blush deepening to a dark, feverish red as her gaze raked over him.

"Why do you keep bringing me coffee, Rob?" she murmured,

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "B-Because you like it."

A slow, predatory smile curled Sara's mouth. "And why do you keep acting like a scared little mouse?" Her free hand slid down, fingers digging into the firm curve of his ass through his slacks, squeezing just hard enough to make him jolt. "Clenching up like you've got something stuffed up this tight little ass of yours."

Rob's eyes blew wide, his lips parting on a shaky exhale. "I--I don't--!"

"No?" Sara tilted her head, her heel grinding into the floor as she stepped forward, forcing him back toward the men's bathroom. "Then prove it."

The bathroom door slammed shut behind them, the lock clicking into place as Sara shoved Rob into the first stall. Sara had him pinned face-first against the door, his palms splayed flat against the steel, his entire body trembling like a live wire.

"Miss Allitt--!"

"What was that you said?" she asked, her lips grazing the shell of his ear as her hips pressed flush against his ass. "That if I ever grabbed you like this, you'd cum instantly?"

Rob's throat worked, a strangled noise escaping him. "I'm--I'm sorry, I shouldn't have--"

"Shouldn't have said it?" Sara's hand slid down between them, cupping him through his pants--and Christ, he was already rock-hard, his cock twitching against her palm like it had a mind of its own. She squeezed, just enough to make his knees buckle. "But you like it."

"I'll let you in on a little secret..." She leaned in, her teeth scraping his pulse point. "I've wanted my hands on this ass since day one." A sharp squeeze emphasized her words, making him gasp. "Wondering if I'd look too cringe if I asked you to offer it up as a private sample."

Rob's breath came faster, his back arching slightly into her touch as she yanked his pants.

His pants and briefs were dragged down to his thighs in one sharp motion, baring him. He jolted, his cock jerking against his stomach, his hole clenching around nothing, already flushed, twitching, begging for something to fill it.

"Ah--! Ngh--!"

Sara smacked his ass hard. "That won't do," she hissed, hooking her fingers into the waistband of her panties. "Anyone could walk in and hear you."

In one smooth motion, she peeled the lace down her thighs, balled them up, and shoved the damp fabric into Rob's open mouth. His moan was instantly muffled, his tongue pressing against the material like he wanted to taste her through it.

"Better."

Her hands returned to his ass, kneading the flesh roughly before spreading him wide, exposing his quivering pink hole

"Look at you," she murmured, dragging a single fingertip down his cleft, just barely teasing over his entrance. Rob jerked, a desperate, choked noise ripping from his throat as his cock leaked against the door. "Already shaking for it. You want it that bad?"

Rob nodded furiously, his hips canting back, seeking.

Sara laughed, low and dark. She slipped two fingers in his tight, fluttering hole without warning.

Rob gasped, his back arching as she pushed inside, his muscles clamping down around her knuckles.

Sara didn't go slow. Didn't give him time to adjust. She fucked him with her fingers, curling them just enough to make his knees buckle.

He couldn't speak, not with her panties stuffed in his mouth, the lace damp with his spit. But the way he pushed back against her hand said everything.

"Think you can take a third?"

She didn't wait for permission. His body fought for a second before giving in, his moans muffled around the fabric in his mouth as she scissored him open.

"So fucking greedy," she taunted, her free hand gripping his hip hard enough to bruise. "Bet you'd come just from this, huh?"

Rob's thighs trembled. His cock was dripping, his breath coming in ragged pants.

Sara crooked her fingers and that was all it took.

He came with a broken groan, his release splattering against the door as his body clenched around her fingers, milking himself through it.

Sara smiled satisfied, as she pulled out, wiping her fingers on his thigh.

"Are your nerves better now?"

He nodded weakly, his chest heaving, his legs still shaking.

"Good." She stepped back, adjusting her skirt like nothing had happened. "Then fix yourself up. Bring me the right samples. Clean my panties properly, cold wash and return them to me when the office is empty."

Hours later, the office had long since emptied, the hum of computers and chatter replaced by the low thrum of the ventilation system and the occasional creak of Jonah shifting under Sara's scrutiny. Golden streaks of sunset had faded into the deep blues of evening, casting long shadows across the design floor, shadows that clung to the sharp angles of Jonah's hips as he stood half-naked in her new design.

The door clicked open.

Rob hesitated in the doorway, a small box clutched in his hands, Sara's freshly laundered panties. His eyes darted from her to Jonah, shirtless and smirking, then back to her.

"I--uh--" He gestured lamely toward the exit. "I'll just leave these here and--"

Sara didn't look up from her iPad. "Where do you think you're going?"

Rob froze. "Home...?"

Her stylus paused. "Stay. Here."

Rob's throat bobbed.

Sara set her tablet aside and stood, circling Rob like a predator sizing up prey. "You're going to model for me too."

"I--I'm not a model," Rob stammered, his usual confidence crumbling under her focus. He wasn't built like Jonah, no towering height, no sculpted shoulders that could carry a runway. But that was the point.

"Exactly." Sara's fingers plucked at the collar of his shirt. "These designs aren't just for Adonis-tier models. The target buyer is boys like you. Come on, Jonah, help him."

Jonah's smirk was instantaneous, wicked. "Yes, Miss Allitt."

His hands were on him, peeling off his shirt with painful slowness. And God, did Jonah milk it.

Every button undone with slow fingers, every inch of skin revealed like he was unwrapping a present. His smirk never faded, his eyes locked onto Sara's the entire time.

She didn't look away. She let herself enjoy it, the way Jonah's fingers lingered on the other man's waistband, the way he dragged the fabric down his hips just a little too slow, just a little too suggestive.

It reminded her of Mochi and Honey at The Velvet, of how they'd stripped each other on stage, all teasing touches and knowing glances, their bodies moving in perfect, sinful sync. But this? This was better. Because this time, she was in charge.

The shirt hit the floor. The pants followed, pooling around Rob's ankles as Jonah kneeled to help him step out of them. His fingers traced the waistband of the other man's briefs before finally tugging them down.

"Like what you see, Miss Allitt?" Jonah teased.

Sara watched, captivated, her iPad pen twirled absently between her fingers as she took in the sight.

She reached for her design. "Put this on," she ordered, handing it to Rob.

Rob's fingers brushed against hers as he took the garment, his breath hitching just slightly, enough that Sara noticed. She didn't react. Just watched, arms crossed, as he stepped into the underwear.

"Perfect," she murmured, circling him like a predator. "Now walk for me. Turn. Arch."

He obeyed, each movement fluid, deliberate, his body moving exactly as she directed. She was proud of herself, her design was perfect.

"Thank you for your help, Jonah. I'll see you tomorrow for the presentation." With that Jonah changed into his clothes and left them alone.

The second they were alone, Rob's flirty demeanor resurfaced a bit. "So..." He leaned against her desk, his thighs spreading just enough to be obscene. "Do I look good in it?"

Sara laughed, low and throaty. "Wow. A little fingering is enough to reset you back to your old self? No more a scared mouse?"

Rob's grin turned sheepish. "I was afraid I was gonna get fired for what I have said with Benny. Or humiliated. It has happened to an intern before and I--"

Sara plopped in her chair, leaning back, her eyes dragging over him with open appreciation.

"No, Rob. I'd never do that." Her voice dropped, "Why would I wanted someone with an ass like this fired?"

Her fingers curled in a slow gesture, beckoning Rob closer. He moved instantly. The second he was within reach, Sara's hands were all over him, kneading the firm globes of his ass, nails biting into flesh, her teeth sinking into the curve where his thigh met his cheek. He groaned, his cock straining immediately.

With one hand still gripping his ass, Sara reached into one of her desk drawer, where she had hidden lube, condoms and a sleek, black strap-on.

Rob's breath hitched.

"Do you want to know what I really want to do with you?" Her voice dripped low.

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he nodded.

She stood. "I want to fuck you," she murmured, her breath hot against his ear as she squeezed his ass again, "long and hard, until you're sobbing."

Sara pressed the strap-on against him, letting him feel the weight of it before rolling the condom on with agonizing slowness. "I want you to ride me," she continued, her free hand sliding around to grip his cock, stroking him just enough to make him whimper. "Up and down, taking every inch, until I cum from the friction against my clit."

Rob groaned, his knees trembling. "Oh God--yes, please--"

Sara's fingers trembled--not from hesitation, but from anticipation--as she unbuckled her pants and lubed her black silicone cock. The leather strap harness suited her, it clung to her hips perfectly.

"Lose the underwear," she ordered, her voice low, edged with command. Rob didn't hesitate.

With a firm hand on his hip, she guided him face-down over her desk, his ass on full display. She took her time lubing him up, circling his rim with teasing pressure before pressing a single finger inside.

"Ah! Miss--!" His gasp was filthy, a broken, punched-out sound that made her clit throb.

She added another, working him open. "Mh--AH!" She worked him open with rough, efficient strokes and only when she was satisfied she withdrew her fingers.

She settled into her office chair, the leather creaking under her weight as she spread her legs. Rob didn't need instruction--he climbed into her lap with eager desperation, his thighs trembling as he positioned himself over the strap, his hole fluttering around the tip. Sara gripped his hips, her nails biting into his skin as she guided him down, inch by torturous inch.

"Ahhhh!"

The stretch was exquisite, the way his body resisted just enough before yielding completely. Sara's clit throbbed against the base of the strap, the pressure just shy of what she needed.

"Ride it."

Every drop of his weight sent delicious friction grinding against her clit through the harness. Every ragged breath he took echoed in the silent office. Every squelch of lube, every slap of skin on skin, every whimper he tried and failed to stifle, was a spike of pleasure fore her.

"Am I--ah!--doing good?" Rob panted, his thighs trembling as he bounced tentatively.

Sara's answer was a snarl. She dug her fingers into his hips and forced him down harder, faster, the chair creaking under their combined weight.

"Harder."

Rob obeyed instantly, his back arching as he drove himself onto her with reckless abandon. Sweat slicked his spine, his muscles straining as he fucked himself desperate on her cock, his own erection bouncing untouched between his legs.

That angle was perfect. That friction was perfect. "Like that--fuck, just like that," Sara hissed, her nails leaving crescent marks on his hips.

She could feel the moment he lost himself, his rhythm faltered, his thighs shaking as he neared the edge. But she wasn't done with him yet.

"Don't you dare stop," she growled, yanking him down harder, forcing him to take every inch. Her clit needed more. "Faster!"

Rob's head fell back, a broken whine tearing from his throat as he obeyed, fucking himself on her strap like his life depended on it.

Sara's clit throbbed, needy and swollen under the harness. She didn't care about Rob's exhaustion, about the way his muscles quivered under her grip. She wanted to cum, and she'd use him to get there.

"Ngh--fuck, take it," she growled, pistoning into him with relentless force, her clit bumping against the base of the strap with every thrust. Her hips moved erratically, chasing her own pleasure.

"Miss Al--AHHHHH!" Rob's moans pitched higher, his body tightening around her as she fucked him through his own climax, his cock pulsing untouched between them, stripes of cum painting his stomach. But Sara wasn't done.

"Not yet," she snarled, hands locking onto his waist, forcing him down onto her as she chased her own release. His oversensitive whimpers only spurred her on, the heat coiling low in her belly until--

"Fuck--!"

Her orgasm ripped through her with a guttural groan, her hips stuttering as she ground him against her, milking every last second of pleasure until her thighs shook.

When she finally stilled, Rob collapsed forward, his sweat-slicked chest heaving against hers. The chair was a disaster--fabric wrinkled, leather streaked with sweat and lube, the air thick with the scent of sex.

Sara exhaled, satisfied, her fingers trailing through the mess between them before giving his ass a sharp, possessive smack.

***

The final presentation day came.

Jade had pre-approved her new design that morning with a rare nod of satisfaction,"just add some color options, add some samples. But don't send Rob, he called in 'sick.'"

Sara smirked but said nothing. She had bigger things on her mind. When she stood before Venora, her confidence was radiating like a supernova. She had never been more certain of anything in her life, the tailors had done an amazing job and her project was flawless.

And she was about to prove it.

With the precision of a surgeon, she walked Venora through every detail of the seamless construction--no stitches, no seams, just pure, uninterrupted fabric that clung to the body like a second skin.

Then, she turned toward the door and called for her model. "Jonah."

Jonah stepped in, he had on a model's robe, loose and unassuming. When he let it slide from his shoulders, the new design was revealed.

Sara had completely abandoned the idea of a brief, instead she choose a dust pink slip. Silken, seamless, so perfectly fitted it looked painted onto Jonah's skin. Every muscle, every curve, every sinful dip of his body was accentuated, the unmistakable outline of his cock was barely restrained by the liquid-drape fabric.

Venora stood with her arms crossed, her sharp eyes tracking his every movement as he executed a slow walk, hips rolling, shoulders back, the slip shifting with him in a way that made the design's brilliance undeniable.

"Bend. Grab your ankles." Sara instructed.

Jonah obeyed without hesitation, folding forward in one smooth motion, his fingers curling around his ankles, his ass now on full display. The slip stretched with him, the fabric flexing but never straining, framing his perfect, toned cheeks.

Venora's lips curled.

Sara stepped forward, her fingers trailing along the waistband before dragging down the center, demonstrating how the material moved with his body. "No bunching, no riding up. Just pure support."

Then, without warning, she hooked a finger under the fabric at his balls, pressing up firmly to showcase the snug fit. Jonah's breath hitched, but he didn't move, didn't speak.

"Perfect containment," Sara added, as if discussing a mannequin.

Venora joined her, her touch just as savoring. She pressed a fingertip against the slip where it hugged his asshole, testing the give of the fabric before applying more pressure until the tip of her finger sunk into the heat of his hole.

Neither woman acknowledged Jonah's sharp inhale.

"Impressive," Venora mused, withdrawing her finger.

Sara smirked, then hooked two fingers into the waistband at the back of the slip and pulled it taut before releasing it with a sharp flick.

SMACK.

The smack was obscene, louder than it had any right to be, ordinary slips didn't make that sound, it cracked through the room like a whip. The slip clung to his skin for a second before snapping back, the echo lingering in the air.

Jonah's shoulders tensed, his knuckles whitening around his ankles, but he stayed silent.

Venora's eyes darkened.

"The sound is delicious." She caressed his asscheek before ripping the slip even harder, yanking it further back before letting go--

SMACK.

Even louder this time.

Jonah shuddered, he bit down on his lip, hard, his thighs trembling slightly, but he held his position. Not a sound. Not a protest.

Venora's smile was vicious.

"The summer collection will be a success with this," she mused, her fingers trailing over the reddening skin of Jonah's ass, admiring their handiwork. "How many strikes it can take before the fabric wears?"

Jonah's breath hitched.

"You could ask the Marketing Team to launch a contest," Sara suggested.

A rich, dark laugh spilled from Venora's lips, "I knew I was right to trust my instincts about you. You're a great addition to the team, Sara."