The lobby powder room was too quiet.
Lena stood at the marble counter, fingers curled tight around the edge. She leaned toward the mirror and adjusted her blouse; ivory silk, sheer across the shoulders, buttoned just low enough to reveal a teasing line of cleavage if she leaned forward.
No bra. Just black lace.
Subtle. Disobedient. Intentional.
The pencil skirt clung to her hips, the slit high enough to hint without revealing. Heels sharpened her stance. Her lipstick, darker than usual, completed the message.
It was professional.
Just seductive enough to matter.
To provoke.
Not the room. Just him.
Let him see it. Let him feel it.
She told herself she wasn't afraid of him anymore.
The water ran cold as she pressed her wrists under the stream, heart pacing like a countdown. Then she stepped into the hall, heels echoing in slow, deliberate clicks.
The kind meant to hold attention.
To take control.
She pushed the conference room door open.
And there he was.
Julian.
At the far end of the table, surrounded by executives. Tie undone. Black dress shirt rolled at the sleeves. One hand in his pocket. The other beside a full glass of water he hadn't touched.
His eyes caught hers immediately.
Sharp. Calculated. Calm.
Like a man watching something he already owned come back to him.
He didn't speak.
But her body responded anyway.
The only empty seat was across from him.
Of course it was.
She crossed the room slowly, hips shifting with each step. When she sat, she crossed her legs just so, letting the slit fall open high on her thigh.
She didn't look at him.
But she felt him.
Every inch of her did.
The meeting began. Words blurred. She traced the rim of her water glass, throat dry.
Still. He made her wait.
Until:
"You think you're clever." His voice was low. Even. Dangerous.
She turned slightly. "Excuse me?"
"That outfit," he murmured. "You think it gives you control?"
She tilted her head, eyes wide. "It's just a skirt."
His mouth curved. Dark and amused. "It's a leash. One you don't know how to hold."
Then, without looking at her, he reached forward, past the basket of pastries. His fingers brushed her glass, grazing her skin.
A fleeting touch. A warning.
"You don't get to provoke me and walk away smug," he said, low enough that no one else could hear. "You want power, Lena? Earn it. Until then, keep your fucking legs shut at this table."
Her breath caught.
He leaned back like nothing had happened.
But she burned.
The heat between her thighs had gone from a low ache to something insatiable. Reckless. She wasn't thinking anymore. Just needing.
So she slipped her hand beneath the table.
Under the slit of her skirt. Up her thigh:
Higher.
She found the damp lace. Pressed softly, slowly, against her own need.
Then she looked at him.
Direct. Deliberate. Daring.
Julian's breath shifted. His jaw tensed.
He set his glass down. Calm. Final.
Then leaned forward, his voice like a blade sliding against velvet.
"You'll regret that."
Her thighs clenched.
"Hands on the table. Finish this meeting." A pause. "Or meet me outside. Now."
Her chair scraped the floor.
She didn't say a word.
She stood and walked.
[Scene Break: Higher]
The moment she stepped into the hallway, she exhaled. Shaky, silent.
She didn't turn around.
But she felt him
Julian's presence followed like gravity.
Steady. Inevitable.
She walked toward the elevator, heart hammering, skin flushed, heels echoing against the stone. He made no sound behind her, but every nerve knew he was close.
The elevator arrived.
She stepped inside.
He followed.
The doors closed.
Just the two of them.
He moved beside her, close, not touching, but the air became , thick with control.
Then, quietly:
"Give them to me."
Her stomach dipped. "What?"
"Your panties," he said, not looking at her. "Now."
Her lips parted, but she didn't argue.
"Lift your skirt. Take them off. Hand them to me."
The elevator kept rising.
Her hands obeyed before her mind caught up. Sliding beneath her skirt, finding the lace at her hips.
Black. Lacey. Thong.
She slipped them down one leg at a time.
Her pulse roared.
She gathered the panties into her palm. Warm. Wet. Proof.
Julian held out his hand.
She placed them in it.
He didn't react.
Just slid the lace into his coat pocket as though she'd handed him something unremarkable.
But it wasn't. It was hers.
And now it was his.
The elevator chimed.
Top floor.
She stepped into the night air, bare beneath her skirt. Skin hot. Body humming.
The door shut behind them. He had taken her somewhere above rules. Above risk. Where no one could interrupt. Where he could do whatever he wanted. And she'd let him.
She drifted toward the edge of the rooftop, hands gripping the railing, but her focus was shot. The city sparkled in front of her, blurred by the ache between her legs.
She didn't hear his steps.
But she felt him behind her.
The silence. That control in his breath.
"I gave you a command," he said near her ear. "And you came out here dripping."
She froze.
"You couldn't wait ten minutes," he murmured. "You needed me to see what kind of mess you are when I'm not inside you."
Her knees nearly gave.
She started to turn, but his hand caught her jaw.
"Face the city."
His grip was firm, guiding her forward again. The other hand slid down her side. Possessive. Slow. Until it reached the curve of her hip.
Then lower.
He lifted the back of her skirt.
She gasped as the air hit her.
His fingers traced her thigh.
Close, deliberate, and just enough to make her burn.
"You walked into my conference room dressed for sin. You touched yourself under my table. And then you looked at me like you wanted to be caught."
He paused. Then closer, darker:
"Didn't you?"
She didn't answer. She couldn't.
"Now," he said, lips against her neck, "you'll feel exactly how ruined you are."
She whimpered.
"Hand down. Touch yourself."
Her fingers trembled as they obeyed. Just one stroke. She almost collapsed
"That's all you get."
He stepped around her, taking her in from head to toe. Calm, towering, utterly in control.
He tilted her chin.
"You think this is power?" he asked. "That skirt. That mouth. That soaked little ache you tried to show off in front of me?"
"I didn't mean—"
"You meant to provoke me," he said. "And now you'll suffer for it."
He reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out the lace thong. Held it up between them.
"You'll get these back when I say."
Her eyes dropped. Her body begged.
But he didn't touch her.
He didn't even kiss her.
Just leaned in. His breath warm, voice steady:
"Go back to your room."
She blinked. "What?"
"No panties. No touching. No relief," he said. "You'll sleep like this tonight."
Her throat worked around a plea she couldn't form.
"You'll wait for me." He let the silence stretch,
"you'll ache for me. And remember exactly who you belong to every second."
Then he turned and walked away. Leaving her on the rooftop, trembling, undone.
She didn't sleep that night.
She didn't touch herself.
But she thought of him. That voice.
That restraint. That impossible calm.
And the ache never went away.
Because she knew:
He wouldn't let her break.
Not until he said so.
End of Chapter Two
Next: Chapter Three – Consequences