The office always felt too bright.
White walls. Glass doors. Polished floors reflected every movement like a ghost following its own shadow. People passed Mara with polite smiles and hurried steps, their voices merging into a distant hum, almost meaningless.
No one really looked at her.
Except Amina.
She was there when Mara entered, standing near the window. Sunlight sliced across her figure like a blade — illuminating her sharp cheekbones, the curve of her neck, the faint sway of her hips as she leaned against the desk. Her jacket hung loosely, revealing a blouse that teased more than it hid.
The door clicked shut. The sound was final.
Amina's gaze followed Mara like a predator circling prey, intense and unyielding.
"You're late," she said softly. Not angry. Warm. Dangerous. Hungry.
Mara swallowed. "There was—"
Amina stepped closer. Too close. The faint scent of her perfume — jasmine, musk, and something darker Mara couldn't name — drifted around her, wrapping her senses in heat.
"I didn't ask for excuses," Amina whispered.
Her hand brushed Mara's arm. Light at first, almost casual, then lingering. A shiver ran down Mara's spine. Not warmth. Not comfort. Something else. Something alive.
"Did you think about me?" Amina murmured, her lips brushing the edge of Mara's ear.
Images flashed: walls. Breath. Hands. Shadows. Fingertips grazing skin, lips pressed against lips, the hum of a body alive with need. Mara's throat tightened.
"I… don't remember," she said honestly, though her voice trembled slightly.
"That's a lie," Amina said, voice low, husky, teasing. Her thumb traced Mara's jaw — slow, possessive, intimate. The room seemed to shrink around them. Every sound outside the office faded. Mara could feel the beat of a pulse that might not even exist, echoing in her chest.
Amina leaned closer, lips hovering near Mara's ear. Warm breath, almost brushing the shell of her skin. "You always say you don't remember," she whispered. "But your body does." She grabbed Mara's boobs and fondled them, she rubbed her nipples through her clothes before finally freeing her boobs from the grip of her bra. She slid her fingers under Mara's skirt and felt a pool of Mara's cum soaked in her panties. Mara desired her but was resisting, she held Mara against the wall and started kissing her and immediately she brought out her dildo, she heard a fainy knock on the door. They both hesitated and the knocking stopped.
Mara's breath hitched. Her reflection in the glass wall flickered. The figure in the reflection moved a heartbeat behind her, delayed, watching, alive in a way she couldn't reach.
"Amina…" she murmured. "Someone might see."
"No one ever sees you," Amina replied, eyes dark, intent, hypnotic. "Have you noticed that?"
Her hand slid to Mara's wrist. The contact lingered, possessive, teasing. Light pressure, then soft, teasing pinches at the skin. Mara shivered, though she couldn't say why. Not desire. Not warmth. Something hollow, aching, familiar.
Amina's breath grazed Mara's neck. She stepped even closer, pressing just slightly — not fully, but enough to send Mara's mind racing. Mara's eyes fluttered, body stiffening, heart beating in a rhythm she didn't recognize.
"Stay with me after work," Amina whispered. "Tonight. I don't want you going home."
Home.
The word fell like a stone. Mara's eyes widened. "I… I have a family," she said, voice almost breaking.
Amina's expression softened. Threatened, but not hurt. "Do you?" she asked quietly.
Silence stretched, cold and intimate. Footsteps passed in the hall, distant, unreal. Reflection flickered again. Mara blinked. For one impossible second, she saw a girl, small, barefoot, standing in darkness, watching her. Then she vanished.
Her head throbbed.
"Mara?" Amina's voice, soft, teasing, alive.
Mara forced a small smile. "I'll… message you later."
Amina didn't step back. Her fingers lingered near Mara's wrist for a moment longer, reluctant to release her. "Don't disappear this time," she whispered.
⸻
Later — Home
The house was quiet. Soft orange light streamed through the curtains. Her husband sat on the couch, eyes searching Mara's face.
"You're back early," he said gently.
"Yes," she replied, voice distant. She didn't remember deciding to leave early.
His presence was solid, warm, grounding. And yet, Mara recoiled slightly, the memory of Amina pressing into her mind, lingering, teasing, alive.
He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "You look… distant," he murmured.
"I'm fine," she said.
"You always say that," he replied, with the kind of quiet concern that made Mara feel… untethered.
Movement in the hallway. His mother appeared, carrying a basket of folded laundry. She lingered longer than necessary, eyes tracing Mara's movements. Her fingers brushed Mara's sleeve lightly, deliberately, as if testing boundaries. She looked at Mara with lust but Mara didn't seem to take notice.
Mara felt a shiver. Heat pooling in places she hadn't wanted it to. Her breath caught. This was forbidden. Dangerous. And yet… intoxicating. She was craving for it but was it right, she couldn't tell. She was already in a messy affair, she knew better than to make it double. She sighed and went to the restroom.
Dinner passed. Clinking cutlery. Low murmurs. Unspoken tension. The mother-in-law's gaze lingered, her hand brushing Mara's as they reached for the same dish. Mara's skin felt alive, electric, even as her mind screamed caution.
Later, when the house was silent, Mara stood alone in the hallway. The air felt heavy, almost charged. She pressed her palm against the wall — cold, but alive in a way she couldn't explain.
Her reflection appeared at the end of the corridor. She stepped forward. The reflection did not. It stayed, watching, unmoving. Not her. Not alive.
A whisper slithered through her thoughts: You're not supposed to be here.
Mara swallowed. Her body tingled, her mind spun. Somewhere deep inside, something was remembering her — Amina's touch, her mother-in-law's hand, the thrill of forbidden closeness, the tension that made her feel alive and wrong all at once.
The house held its breath. And Mara realized… desire could be as haunting as death.