The morning sunlight streamed into Jen’s corner office, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. It felt like a different world from the frantic, sex-filled haze of the previous week. She sipped her coffee, the warm ceramic grounding her, and pulled up the conference itinerary on her screen. Edinburgh. Three nights. The thought alone sent a familiar, thrilling ache between her legs.
A soft knock at her open door made her look up. Art stood there, looking crisp and professional in a navy shirt and dark trousers, his lean frame seeming to fill the doorway. So young. So deliciously corruptible.
“You wanted to see me, Jen?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral, though his eyes held a flicker of the same fire that had consumed them both in the photocopier room.
“Aye, come in. Close the door,” she said, her Scottish lilt a soft command.
He did as he was told, the click of the latch a sound that now signalled so much more than privacy for a work discussion. He stood before her desk, hands clasped loosely in front of him, the perfect picture of a junior employee awaiting instructions.
“Sit down, Art.” She gestured to the chair opposite her. He sat, his posture rigid with a tension that had nothing to do with work. She let the silence stretch, enjoying the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. She could see the pulse beating rapidly at the base of his throat.
“There’s a financial conference in Edinburgh,” she began, her tone all business as she turned her monitor slightly so he could see the screen. “The Annual Anglo-Scottish Fiscal Policy Review. It’s… crucial for our Q4 forecasting. I’ll be attending.”
He nodded, his eyes on the screen, but she could tell he wasn’t reading a word.
“And I’ll be needing an assistant,” she continued, leaning forward ever so slightly. The neckline of her blouse gaped just a fraction, and she saw his gaze dart downward for a split second before snapping back to her face. Caught ye. “Someone to take comprehensive notes, manage the materials, ensure the trip runs smoothly. I’ve put your name forward.”
His eyes widened slightly. “Edinburgh? For the conference?”
“Aye. Three nights. We’d leave Wednesday straight from the office, drive up. The conference is Thursday and Friday, we’d return Saturday afternoon.” She kept her voice level, but she let a hint of something else—something dark and promising—seep into her words. “It’s a significant responsibility. There will be a lot of… late nights. A great deal of focused work. Just the two of us.”
The implication hung in the air, thick and heavy as perfume. His professional composure began to crack. A faint blush crept up his neck. She saw his hands tighten in his lap, and she knew, with utter certainty, what was happening beneath the desk. My monster is waking up.
“I… I’d be honoured, Jen. Thank you for the opportunity,” he said, his voice a tad huskier than before.
“The opportunity for what, exactly, Art?” she purred, leaning back in her chair and letting her eyes roam over him with undisguised hunger. “The professional development? Or the chance to have me all to yourself for three whole nights?”
He audibly gulped, his knuckles white where he was gripping his knees. “Both,” he breathed, the word barely a whisper.
“I need to hear ye say it,” she commanded, her own blood beginning to heat, throbbing in time with the sudden, needy pulse between her legs. “What do ye want from this trip?”
He looked trapped, exhilarated, completely at her mercy. “I want… I want to be with you. I want to serve you. However you want me to.”
A slow, wicked smile spread across her lips. “Good boy.” She stood up, and he instinctively began to rise too. “Stay seated,” she said softly, circling her desk.
She came to a stop right in front of him, so close her skirt brushed against his knees. The air crackled with tension. She could smell his cologne, the clean scent of his skin, and something else… the faint, muskier scent of his arousal. Her own breath hitched.
“There are conditions,” she whispered, looking down at him. She reached out and, with a single finger, tilted his chin up, forcing him to meet her gaze. His eyes were blown wide with lust. “The conference is the cover. The work will get done, and it will be impeccable. But every other second… every breath… belongs to me. Do ye understand?”
He nodded, a quick, jerky motion. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?” Her voice was a low growl.
“Yes, Jen,” he corrected himself, his voice trembling.
“Better.” Her finger traced the line of his jaw, then drifted down his throat, feeling the frantic beat of his pulse. She let her hand glide lower, over the crisp cotton of his shirt, feeling the hard plane of his chest. She didn’t stop until her palm was resting flat on his thigh, high up, so close to the formidable ridge of his erection straining against his trousers.
He jerked at her touch, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth. His eyes squeezed shut for a second.
“Look at me,” she commanded.
He opened them. The raw, desperate need in his gaze was almost enough to make her come right there.
“This…” she said, her voice dropping to a husky, intimate murmur as she applied the faintest pressure with her hand, her thumb stroking the hard muscle of his inner thigh. “…is mine. For three days, it’s mine to use as I see fit. I might have ye on yer knees the moment we check into the hotel. I might make ye wait, make ye ache for it until ye can’t see straight. I might tie ye to the bedpost and tease ye until ye’re beggin’ for release. Do ye understand the terms of this… business trip?”
A low, shallow sound escaped him. He was breathing heavily now, his chest rising and falling. He was visibly rock-hard, the fabric of his trousers stretched taut. “God, yes. I understand. Please.”
“Please, what?” Her hand slid a fraction of an inch higher, her thumb now brushing against the heated, rigid length of him through the wool blend. He bucked his hips involuntarily, a helpless thrust into her touch.
“Please, Jen,” he gasped, his composure completely shattered. “I want it. I want all of it. I’m yours.”
That was all she needed to hear. Her own control snapped. With a fierce, possessive growl, she leaned down and captured his mouth in a searing kiss. It was nothing like the frantic, desperate clash in the photocopier room. This was deep, claiming, and suffused with the promised hedonism of the days to come. Her tongue plunged into his mouth, tasting his submission, his desire.
Her hand on his thigh clenched, and her other hand came up to fist in his hair, holding him in place as she plundered his mouth. He moaned into the kiss, his own hands coming up to grasp her hips, dragging her down onto his lap. She settled there, straddling him, the firm ridge of his cock a delicious pressure against her core, even through their clothes.
She broke the kiss, both of them panting. “Mine,” she repeated, grinding down against him in a slow, deliberate circle that made them both gasp. “For three whole nights. My big bastard monster.”
“Yours,” he cho.ked out, his head falling back against the chair, his eyes glazed over with lust. His hands slid from her hips to her arse, gripping her through her skirt, pressing her down harder onto his aching hardness. “Fuck, Jen…”
The intercom on her desk buzzed, the sound horrendously loud and jarring. “Jen, David’s on line one for you.”
They froze. The spell shattered into a thousand pieces of terrifying, exhilarating risk. Art’s eyes flew open, wide with panic. Jen’s heart hammered against her ribs, a wild drumbeat of adrenaline.
She didn’t move from his lap. She held his terrified gaze, a slow, dangerous smile curving her lips. She kept her weight pressed down on his hard cock, a secret shared right under her husband’s unknowing ear.
She reached out a slightly trembling hand and pressed the intercom button.
The intercom’s buzz was a bucket of ice water, but Jen’s smile only deepened, a predator’s grin. She kept her weight firmly on Art’s lap, feeling the hard, insistent ridge of him twitch in a mixture of panic and unbroken lust. His hands froze on her arse, his eyes wide with a fear that was intoxicating.
She held a single finger to her lips, a silent command for absolute silence. His frantic breathing hitched, his body rigid beneath her.
She pressed the intercom button. “Thanks, Sarah. Put him through.” Her voice was a miracle of calm composure, the professional manager effortlessly taking a call.
A click. A hollow silence on the line. Then, David’s voice, warm and familiar, filled the room. “Hello, love. Just checking in. How’s the morning treating the most beautiful CFO in the city?”
Art flinched at the endearment, his grip on her tightening. Jen felt a dark, possessive thrill surge through her. Her husband’s voice was in her ear while her lover’s hard cock was under her. The duality was dizzying.
“Oh, you know,” she said, her tone light and airy, a perfect performance. “The usual Monday madness. Budgets, forecasts… personnel reviews.” She let the last two words drip with a hidden meaning only Art could understand. She felt him shiver beneath her.
She began to move, a subtle, almost imperceptible rolling of her hips. A slow, circular grind against the hard length straining against his trousers. Art’s eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenching. He was fighting to stay quiet, to not betray them with a single sound.
“Sounds thrilling,” David chuckled, oblivious. “Listen, I’m just heading to the first tee. Wanted to hear your voice before I crush Leo’s spirit. He’s been talking a big game.”
“Crush him for me, darling,” Jen purred, increasing the pressure of her grind. The friction through the layers of fabric was a sweet, torturous promise. She watched Art’s face, saw the bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple. Her own core was clenching in rhythm, a slick, hot pulse answering the movements of her own hips. My good boy. Staying so still for me.
“Will do. And you? What’s on your docket this afternoon?” David asked.
Jen leaned forward slightly, bracing her hands on the arms of Art’s chair, caging him in. Her lips were inches from his. Her breath ghosted over his face. He was trembling.
“Oh, I have a very important meeting,” she murmured into the phone, her eyes locked on Art’s. “It requires my… full and complete attention. I need to go over some very detailed specifications with a member of my team. It might take a while. We have a lot of ground to cover.”
With each emphasized word, she pushed down harder, a deliberate, rhythmic pressure. Art’s nostrils flared. A low, stran.gled sound, something between a gasp and a whimper, escaped him. It was almost silent, but to Jen, it was a roar.
“Alright, don’t work too hard,” David said, completely missing the subtext. “I’ll call you after the round. Love you.”
“Love you too,” Jen said, the lie coming as easily as breathing.
She reached out and ended the call with a soft click.
The silence that rushed back into the room was deafening, thick with unsaid words and the ragged sound of their breathing.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Jen stayed perched on his lap, feeling the frantic thrum of his heart against her own. Then, Art’s eyes opened. They were blazing with a mixture of terror, adrenaline, and raw, undiluted need.
“Jesus Christ, Jen,” he breathed, his voice wrecked. “He could have…”
“But he didn’t,” she interrupted, her voice dropping back into that low, dominant purr. She shifted again, a more deliberate, sensual roll of her hips that made him gasp. “He was right there. And you were right here. Hard as a rock for me. My brave, terrified monster.”
She slid off his lap, her skirts swirling around her. The sudden absence of her weight seemed to shock him. He looked up at her, dazed, his erection a prominent, undeniable tent in his trousers.
“Stand up,” she commanded softly.
He obeyed, his movements slightly unsteady. He was taller than her, but in that moment, he seemed to look up at her.
“Turn around. Place your hands flat on my desk.”
He pivoted, leaning forward, his broad shoulders tense. The position pulled his trousers tight across his arse, outlining the powerful muscles there. Jen’s mouth went dry. She stepped close behind him, her front just brushing against his back.
“What you just did,” she whispered, her lips close to his ear, her Scottish accent a soft, wicked caress. “The control you showed… that deserves a reward.”
Her hands came to rest on his hips. She could feel the heat of him through his shirt. She slowly slid her hands down, over the curve of his arse, memorizing the shape of him. He shuddered under her touch, a low groan escaping him.
“You belong to me,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the seam of his trousers, right down the cleft of his arse. “This…” she squeezed a handful of his firm flesh, “…is mine. And this…” her other hand slipped around his hip, her palm cupping the heavy, hard bulge at his front, “…is definitely mine.”
He thrust his hips forward into her touch involuntarily, a helpless, desperate movement. “Jen… please…”
“Please what?” she asked, applying pressure with her palm, rubbing him through the frustrating fabric. “Use yer words, Art. Tell me what ye need.”
“I need you to touch me,” he gasped, his head hanging down between his shoulders. “Please. I need to feel your hands on me. I’m going to lose my mind.”
“Good,” she purred. Her fingers made quick work of his belt buckle, the metallic clink loud in the quiet room. The button of his trousers came next, then the slow, torturous drag of his zipper. She could feel the heat pouring off his skin.
She tugged, and his trousers and boxers slid down his thighs in one motion, pooling at his knees. The air left his lungs in a sharp hiss.
And there he was. His cock sprang free, thick and achingly hard, the tip flushed a dark red and already glistening. It was a magnificent sight, and it was all for her.
“Look at that,” she breathed, her own desire coiling tight and hot in her belly. She wrapped her fingers around his shaft, and he cried out, his whole body jolting at the contact. His skin was like silk over steel, pulsing with a frantic, trapped energy.
She began to stroke him, a slow, firm glide from root to tip. Her thumb swirled over the slick head, spreading the bead of moisture that had gathered there. “This is what ye wanted, isn’t it? My hand on yer cock while my husband was on the phone?”
“Yes,” he groaned, his hips pushing back against her, fucking himself into her fist. “God, yes. It’s all I ever want.”
She tightened her grip, her pace quickening. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the soft, wet rhythm of her hand working his length. She watched, mesmerized, as his muscles corded with tension, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of her desk.
“Ye feel so good in my hand,” she murmured, her other hand sliding back to cradle his balls, rolling the tight sac in her palm. “So hard. So desperate for me. Are ye gonna come for me, Art? Are ye gonna spill all over my desk like a good, dirty boy?”
“I’m close,” he panted, his voice strained. “So close. Don’t stop. Please, Jen, don’t stop.”
She changed her angle, her strokes becoming shorter, faster, focused on the sensitive head. She leaned in, pressing her breasts against his back, her mouth finding his ear. “Then come,” she commanded, her voice a hot, vicious whisper. “Give it to me. Now.”
A broken, guttural cry was torn from his throat. His body locked up, every muscle rigid as his climax ripped through him. Hot, thick pulses of his release shot across the polished wood of her desk, stripe after stripe, a violent, physical testament to her power. She milked him through it, her hand working him until he was shuddering and spent, his cries softening into ragged, exhausted gasps.
He slumped over the desk, completely undone. Jen slowly released him, bringing her glistening fingers to her lips. She tasted him, her eyes never leaving his prone form. Salt and musk and victory.
She smoothed her skirt. “Get yourself cleaned up,” she said, her voice returning to its professional cadence, though it was slightly breathless. “We have a conference to prepare for.”
He just nodded, still trying to catch his breath, his body trembling with the aftershocks. As he fumbled with his trousers, she turned back to her monitor, the image of his surrender burned into her mind.
The intercom buzzed again. Sarah’s voice. “Jen, the Edinburgh files are ready for your final sign-off whenever you’re free.”
Jen pressed the button, her voice perfectly steady, a woman in complete control. “Excellent. Send them in.”
xx3
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