Five days. Five days during which the office air has become unbreathable.
I keep telling myself it's better this way: we barely talk, we don't look at each other anymore, we play the perfect act of the flawless boss and the impeccable assistant. I repeat it to myself over and over, like a prayer, every morning in the mirror as I twist my bun too tight. But my body doesn't listen to anything.
All it takes is for Ethan to walk behind me for my skin to break out in chills. All it takes is for him to say my name in a neutral tone ("Amelia, the Morrison report") for my stomach to knot violently. I spend my evenings showering in ice-cold water, counting the hours until I see him again, hating myself for wanting a married man.
Friday, 5:12 p.m.The open space slowly empties. The neon lights start buzzing softly, as if tired from the week. I put my pens away, shut down my computer, tell myself that tonight I'll go home early, order a pizza, and watch anything just to stop thinking.
The intercom crackles.
"Amelia. My office. Now."
His voice is low, steady, but there's something in it that sends a shiver through me before I even move.
I walk down the hallway on already weak legs. The door is ajar. I push it open, step inside, close it behind me. The click of the lock he turns feels like a gunshot.
He's leaning against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, charcoal shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His forearms are tense, veins standing out. He looks at me like someone who has decided not to let their prey escape.
I stay near the door, bag pressed to my chest, a ridiculous shield.
"You've been avoiding me since Monday," he says simply.
I shake my head too fast. "No. We're working. That's all."
He smiles. Slowly. Dangerously. "Liar."
One step. Then another. I back up until my spine hits the bookshelf. The law books behind me tremble slightly.
He stops thirty centimeters away. I feel the heat of his body, his woody cologne, the tension radiating off him like an electric current.
"Look at me," he orders softly.
I lift my eyes. Mistake. His pupils are dilated, almost black.
"Tell me you don't think about me at night, Amelia."
I swallow. "You have a wife, Ethan." My voice shakes.
He chuckles, a low, rough sound that makes me shiver. "Forget her."
His hand brushes my hip, just a faint touch through the fabric of my skirt. "In here, between these four walls, there's only one woman. You."
He takes my wrists, slowly, and presses them against his chest.
I feel his heart pounding under my palm, fast, violent. "Feel what you do to me," he murmurs.
I should pull my hands away. I don't.
With one fluid motion he turns me around, bends me slightly forward. My stomach hits the edge of the desk, my hands grip the wood instinctively. He presses against me from behind. His whole body against mine. And that's when I feel him. His erection, hard as steel, pushing against me through our clothes. A moan slips out of me before I can stop it.
He tightens an arm around my waist, the other hand sliding down my thigh, moving slowly up under my skirt.
His mouth brushes my neck, just below my ear. "You want it, Amelia."
His voice is hoarse, almost broken. "Tell me you missed me."
I close my eyes, defeated.
"I missed you… so much."
He lets out a groan of satisfaction, nibbling gently at my skin.
"I saw the way you looked at me all week. Your eyes begging. Your thighs clenching every time I walked by."
His hand reaches the edge of my underwear. His fingers graze the soaked lace.
"Fuck, listen to yourself, Amelia," he breathes against my ear.
"You're already ready to beg."
He presses his hips a little harder, rubs slowly. I feel every inch of him.
I moan again, louder.
"You see this desk?" he murmurs, gesturing at the oak surface in front of me.
I nod, unable to speak.
"Nothing is stopping me from bending you over it right now. From lifting that skirt. From spreading your legs."
He pushes a bit more, his erection sliding between my cheeks. "Imagine your cheek against the cold wood, your hands clawing the edge, and me fucking you so hard you forget your own name."
I'm about to explode. My body trembling, my knees giving out. I'm ready to say yes. Ready for anything.
Knock knock knock.
We freeze. Marc's voice behind the door: "Mr. Blackwell? The conference with Singapore starts in two minutes. They're waiting for you in room 1."
Ethan swears under his breath, a furious sound. He steps back, releases me. I stay bent over the desk, panting, hair in my face, legs barely holding me up.
He runs a hand through his hair, adjusts himself quickly. His eyes are dark, wild, frustrated. "I'm sorry," he mutters as he walks past me. He opens the door and leaves without looking back.
I'm alone. Alone with the sound of my ragged breathing, alone with the heat pulsing between my thighs, alone with his scent still clinging to my skin.
I straighten up slowly, hands trembling. I touch my swollen lips, my messy hair. I look at the desk. The cold wood. The exact spot where he wanted to take me.
And I know, with terrifying certainty, that if no one had knocked, I would have said yes. And I would have let him fuck me until I screamed.
I grab my bag, leave the office like a sleepwalker. In the elevator, I look at my reflection: bright eyes, bitten lips, the look of someone who was seconds away from being devoured alive.
And the worst part is that I want to go back. Right now. Immediately. No matter who he is outside. No matter who waits at home.
I am lost. And I have never wanted to get lost so badly.