The office was quiet. Lights dimmed. Only the soft hum of the air conditioner and the distant rattle of the city after dusk. Everyone had gone home hours ago.
Everyone but her.
Amelia sat at her desk, fingers trembling over the keyboard as she tried to finish the quarterly report. She was trying to focus, she really was -- but she could feel him watching.
Mr. Thorne. Her boss.
Tall, broad-shouldered, always in immaculate suits and silk ties that looked criminally good against his throat. He was a man who didn't speak unless he needed to. A man who ruled the floor with nothing but presence.
And she'd disobeyed him today.
Not in public -- she'd never be so bold. But earlier, when he brushed past her in the hallway and whispered, "No panties today, pet," she'd shaken her head, too flustered, too unsure.
She didn't expect him to notice. He always noticed.
And now, he was behind her.
"Stand up," came the low, growling voice.
She froze. Slowly, she rose, pushing the chair back with her thighs.
"Face the desk. Hands flat. Legs apart."
Heat bloomed in her cheeks, down her neck, all the way between her thighs. She obeyed -- heart racing, breath shallow.
He came up behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, but not touching. Not yet.
"You've been squirming all day," he murmured in her ear, voice velvet-wrapped danger. "Holding it for me. Haven't you?"
She whimpered. "Yes, sir."
"I warned you what would happen if you disobeyed. And yet here you are. Wearing those pretty little lace things, testing me."
His fingers slid under her skirt, found the soaked-through lace, and yanked them down roughly, letting them dangle at her ankles.
Then -- nothing.
Just the sound of her breathing, the unbearable ache in her core, and the pressure in her bladder -- full, aching, trembling.
"I'm going to edge you until you can't think. Until your body begs to break. But you're not going to come, Amelia. And you're not going to let go. Not until I say."
She gasped when his fingers slid between her folds -- slow, skilled, unrelenting. He knew her too well by now, knew the precise way to circle her clit, how to drag his knuckles along her soaked slit without giving her what she craved.
Again. And again.
Each time she got close, he stopped. Made her whimper. Made her cry.
Her thighs shook. Her stomach clenched.
"Please, sir, I can't--"
"You can. You will."
