Ryan had heard rumors about Clara long before he ever met her.
She wasn’t like the other women in the office. She didn’t flirt loudly, didn’t dress cheap, didn’t toss herself at anyone. She was quiet, deliberate, always in control — the kind of woman men whispered about because none of them really knew what she liked… only that they wanted to find out.
Ryan, twenty-nine, had just joined the marketing team. Fresh off a failed relationship, trying to focus on his career, he promised himself he’d stay away from office drama. But then Clara walked past his desk the first week, her perfume leaving a warm trail of sandalwood and vanilla, and his promise started to feel like a joke.
Clara was forty-one. Divorced, confident, the head of her department. Her dresses were never short, but they fit. She had a way of sitting — legs crossed, posture perfect, one hand idly grazing the rim of her coffee cup — that made time slow down without her trying.
Most men would’ve gone straight for her dress, Ryan thought. But the more he watched her, the more he realized Clara was… different.
The chance came one Friday night after a late pitch meeting. The rain hadn’t stopped since afternoon, trapping them in the empty office while everyone else rushed home.
Clara leaned against the edge of the long conference table, sipping from a glass of wine she’d pulled from her drawer. She offered him one.
“Storm like this, might as well wait it out,” she said, casual but measured.
Ryan took the glass, trying not to watch the way the overhead lights traced along the curve of her collarbone, disappearing beneath the thin fabric of her dress.
At first, they talked about work — deadlines, campaigns, useless clients. But as the storm dragged on, the conversation drifted. Childhood memories. Past relationships. Regrets.
And then there was silence.
Not awkward, but heavy.
Clara set her glass down, her fingers lingering at the stem, and looked at him for just a beat too long.
Ryan felt his pulse kick hard against his ribs.
“You’re staring,” she said finally, her tone unreadable.
“You make it hard not to,” he admitted, surprising even himself.
One corner of her mouth lifted — a slow, deliberate smile.
“You think you know what I like,” she murmured. “You don’t.”
Slow motion.
Clara stepped closer, her heels barely clicking on the polished floor. One hand grazed the edge of the table as she passed, fingertips trailing like she needed something to balance herself — but her eyes never left his.
When she stopped, she was close enough that Ryan could feel the heat radiating off her skin. He noticed the faint line of her perfume, the soft exhale of her breath.
Her hand came up, almost lazily, brushing a strand of his damp hair from his forehead. Her fingertips lingered at his temple — just long enough for his body to tense, then relax under her touch.
“Most men,” she whispered, leaning close enough that her lips nearly grazed his ear, “rush to unzip my dress.”
Ryan swallowed, breath shallow.
“And you don’t like that?”
Her nails dragged lightly down the side of his neck, slow, deliberate.
“No,” she said softly. “I like when they wait.”
Her words hung between them, electric.
Ryan’s hand moved instinctively, resting on the edge of the table beside her. He didn’t touch her — not yet — but the tension in the space between them was unbearable.
Clara’s gaze flicked from his lips to his eyes, then back again.
Her body leaned in just enough for him to feel the whisper of her dress against his arm, but she stopped short, teasing the line between control and surrender.
“I shouldn’t…” Ryan started, but his voice was rough, unconvincing.
“You shouldn’t,” she agreed, and yet her other hand found his wrist, guiding it gently until his palm rested flat against the small of her back. Her skin beneath the thin fabric was warm, soft, impossibly inviting.
Clara’s breath hitched — almost imperceptibly, but he felt it.
The storm outside roared louder, rattling the windows, but inside the room everything slowed to fragments — the rise and fall of her chest, the faint scrape of her nails tracing his jawline, the press of her thigh brushing his as she shifted closer.
Her lips hovered inches from his, but she didn’t close the distance.
“Patience,” she whispered, her voice low and commanding.
“It’s better when it hurts to wait.”
When it finally happened, it wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t desperate.
It was slow, deliberate, a controlled unraveling.
Her nails dug into his shoulders, her body arching just slightly, drawing him closer. Every movement was measured, like she knew exactly how to build tension until it became unbearable.
Clara wasn’t the kind of woman who wanted to be taken.
She wanted to allow.
And Ryan… let her teach him.
Afterward, she fixed her dress with calm precision, sipping the last of her wine.
“You’ll think about this every time it rains,” she said, slipping her heels back on without looking at him.
She wasn’t wrong.
