The office emptied slowly, leaving only the soft hum of the lights and the quiet rhythm of typing. She lingered, pretending to finish work, but really, she was waiting. Waiting for him to lean against her desk, lean just close enough that she could smell the faint trace of his cologne. Then he spoke, and that was when it happened—the sound of his voice, low and deliberate, weaving through her thoughts and curling around her senses.
It wasn’t what he said that mattered; it was how he said it. Every word dripped with a subtle promise, a gentle teasing that made her pulse quicken. “You’ve been working too hard,” he murmured, just behind her ear, the brush of his breath sending shivers down her spine. She tried to focus on the paperwork, on the mundane tasks that should have kept her grounded, but his voice wrapped around her mind like a silk ribbon, tightening with every syllable.
She stayed late because the room felt different when it was just the two of them. The silence wasn’t empty; it was filled with the unspoken tension between them, with the subtle suggestion of what might happen if she let herself truly surrender. And sometimes, she did. She let herself imagine the moments when his words would descend into whispers against her skin, when his instructions would guide her movements in ways that made her heart race and her thoughts scatter.
Every late night became a game of control and surrender. She wanted to leave, wanted to uphold her sense of propriety, but his voice anchored her. It promised indulgence, pleasure, and danger all at once. And in the soft glow of the office lights, she found herself giving in, staying a little longer, leaning a little closer, letting his words chart the course of her desire. The office might have been empty, but her mind—and her body—were entirely his.
