I was only supposed to be her assistant.
Nothing more.
My role at Sinclair & Wilde came with a crisp dress code, NDA paperwork, and a corner desk that overlooked the glossy skyline of downtown Chicago. The office floor was pristine, the employees sharp, and at the very top of it all sat Elena Sinclair the CEO, legend, and my boss.
She was the kind of woman that made people forget what they were saying mid-sentence. Tall, dark-haired, and devastatingly composed. Her voice could cut glass. Her heels announced her presence like a countdown.
And yet, the first time she really looked at me I felt it in my knees.
I told myself it was admiration.
Professional awe.
But that lie crumbled the night she invited me to her home for a "private debrief."
Her penthouse was like her: sharp lines, cool tones, understated luxury. The elevator opened directly into her living space. Jazz played low in the background. Wine was already poured.
But what caught my attention wasn't the layout, or even Elena lounging on a leather settee.
It was the woman beside her.
Curled barefoot, legs tucked under her, sat a woman with honey-gold curls and eyes so green they made your mouth dry. Her smile was warmer than Elena's, more disarming, but no less confident.
"This is Olivia," Elena said, rising to take my coat. "My wife."
Wife.
I blinked.
Olivia extended her hand. "She's even prettier than you described."
I laughed nervously. "I thank you."
Elena arched an elegant brow. "Sit. Drink. We're not at the office anymore."
We talked. About work. About travel. About the fact that Olivia was a painter and often modeled for her own pieces. The wine flowed easily, and so did my guard. Somewhere between the second glass and Olivia showing me one of her abstract canvases, I forgot this was the woman married to my boss.
Or maybe I didn't forget.
Maybe that was why my pulse thudded like it did when Olivia leaned in to whisper something, and her breath warmed my collarbone.
Maybe that's why I didn't pull away when Elena stood behind me, fingers brushing my spine.
"She's shy," Olivia said gently.
"She's curious," Elena corrected.
"And very quiet," Olivia teased.
"I'm not sure what's happening," I said, not moving an inch.
Elena's voice was a whisper: "You're being invited."
There was a pause. Weighted, waiting.
"You can say no," Olivia added, sincere. "Truly. But if you're wondering what it's like to be the center of a storm…"
She reached for my hand.
"…we'll show you."
I said yes.
God help me, I said yes.
The bedroom was moody and warm, candlelight casting gold across dark navy walls. I stood at the edge of their bed like a nervous schoolgirl, unsure of what to do with my hands or my breath. Elena was already undoing her silk blouse, her eyes never leaving mine.
Olivia came behind me, her fingers gentler, more coaxing, as she eased my zipper down.
"Don't be afraid to be worshipped," she said into my ear.
What followed felt like being unwrapped not just physically, but emotionally. Elena's kiss was slow and deliberate, like she was mapping my mouth. Olivia trailed kisses along my shoulder blades, soft sighs leaving her lips with every inch of skin she uncovered.
They didn't rush.
They devoured.
Elena's hand guided my thigh over hers, her voice low and commanding. "Look at her," she said, nodding toward Olivia, who had slipped out of her own robe and was crawling up the bed like a siren.
I did look.
And I couldn't look away.
We moved like one body, three parts of a single desire. Elena's touch was expert, firm and exploratory. Olivia's was soft and lingering, more curious than greedy. And I was caught between them, gasping their names, fingers tangled, skin flushed, too full of sensation to form sentences.
At one point, Olivia whispered, "I want to taste you while she watches."
Elena gave a wicked smile. "Make her beg for it."
And I did.
God, I did.
Later, as I lay between them, bruised in the best way, I turned my head and looked at them. These two women so different and yet so perfectly aligned.
"Is this… normal?" I asked softly.
"For us?" Elena murmured, running her fingers through my hair. "Yes."
Olivia curled into my side. "For you?"
I hesitated. "It feels too good to be normal."
"Then maybe you've just been doing normal wrong," Olivia whispered.
I didn't sleep at all that night.
Not because I couldn't but because I didn't want to miss a second of being tangled in their limbs, their warmth, their unexpected tenderness.
And when I left the next morning walking barefoot with my heels in hand and my heart racing I knew I wouldn't be able to go back to pretending it was just a job.
I belonged to both of them now.
Not just body.
But soul.