Flashpoint

I stood naked in his office. Every muscle tense, my nipples hard, my breath shallow. He didn't move. He just looked at me like an artist looks at his sculpture—or like a murderer looks at his next victim.

“Is this what you imagined?” I asked. My voice sounded strange, I hardly recognized it myself. He didn't answer. Just a tiny raise of an eyebrow. A faint twitch of the corner of his mouth, almost like a smile.

I stepped closer. Very slowly. Barefoot on the parquet floor. My thighs rubbed softly against each other, moist with the desire that filled me. Then I stood in front of his desk. He sat in his wide leather executive chair. I leaned forward, resting my hands on the tabletop. I looked down at him.

And I smiled.

“You want me, Alexander.” No question mark.

He looked up. Denied nothing.

“But you can't have me. Not just like that. I'm not a toy. Not a doll you can throw away and pick up again when you feel like it.”

I leaned forward further. My breasts hovered in front of his face. Close. Forbidden.

“I'm not a reward. Not a dessert. Not a damn bonus for the boss.”

My finger slid over his side of the table edge. I could see it in his eyes: he thought I was leaning forward even more, laying down on his desk, reaching out my hands. For him...

Instead, I sat up straight again. The corner of his mouth twitched again. No smile this time.

I placed my hands over my breasts, caressed them, let them slide lower, over my stomach, sideways to my hips. Then back in again. Deeper. Between my thighs. I spread them slightly. Just so that there was enough room between them.

Not for him.

Only for me.

And I began to touch myself.

Slowly. Right in front of him.

A finger brushed my moist heat.

A moan that I didn't hold back.

He clenched his jaw. His hands rested on the table. Knuckles white.

I knew what he was thinking. And he knew he couldn't say anything now. Do anything. Just watch. Otherwise it would be over.

I had him on the hook. And I wasn't letting him go.

Only for me.

I slid two fingers inside, slowly, feeling myself tight and greedy. My other hand wandered to my breast, grabbed my nipple, pulled on it, twisted the tip, rubbed it rhythmically. My knees trembled. My stomach cramped slightly.

“Look at me, Alexander!” I commanded. “This isn't for you. This isn't because of you. This. Is. For. ME!”

He pressed his lips together, breathing audibly.

I looked deep into his eyes as I came.

In stages. Strong. Several times in a row. Powerful. Loud. A moan that ripped through the air.

My fingers glistened as I pulled them out.

I held them out to him – as calmly as if I were handing him a document. He grabbed my wrist. His gaze was pure darkness with a glint of gold. He pulled me forward, just a little. I felt his breath on my hand. Warm. Charged.

Then – he took my fingers in his mouth. Almost solemnly. He ran them over his tongue as if he wanted to devour me, licking off every drop.

I felt my lower abdomen begin to twitch again.

No.

I tore myself away. Grinned. Cheekily. “Meeting's over, boss,” I laughed softly. Turned around. Walked to the door. Naked. Shiny. Invincible.

“Cloe.”

I paused.

“Yes?”

“You think this is a game?”

I looked back over my shoulder.

“Yes. But not yours.”

And then I left. Sticking up my middle finger.