He pushes her down so she's kneeling in front of him

Martin’s hands didn’t leave her body—not at first.

One slid from her breast down her side, fingers skimming the bare skin of her ribs, then her waist, pausing at the soft give of her belly. The touch wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t cruel. If anything, it lingered there with an unexpected familiarity, like he liked the way she felt now—heavier, real. Then he moved lower.

Emily felt the shift before it happened. The way his stance changed. The slow, subtle pressure of his palm moving from her waist to the small of her back. Guiding. Not yanking. Not forceful. But firm.

And then—

He pushed her downward.

A single step closer. His body heat brushed against her face. His hand applied just enough pressure to the base of her spine to make the message clear.

Down.

Emily resisted for a breath. Reflex. Pride. Confusion.

But then she let it happen.

Her knees bent. The cool office floor touched bare skin as she lowered herself—first one leg, then the other—until she was kneeling in front of him.

The carpet was rough beneath her. The position made her acutely aware of how bare she was. Her blouse lay in a puddle behind her, forgotten. Her nipples were still swollen, still aching from stimulation, flushed pink and tight from the way he’d handled her.

She didn’t look up.

She didn’t have to.

His belt buckle had already clinked softly, the zipper dragged down without a word.

She closed her eyes.

Mistake.

Because without sight, every sound sharpened. The whisper of fabric pushed aside. The faint hitch in his breath. The heat of him, now closer than ever, pulsing just inches from her lips.

Her throat tightened.

She hadn’t done this in over a year. Jason hadn’t asked. And she hadn’t had the will to offer. But now? The man in front of her wasn’t Jason.

And her body—tense, overheated, trembling—was betraying her all over again.

Emily’s breath came shallow—sharp in her chest, caught somewhere between resistance and surrender.

She didn’t touch him yet.

Her hands hovered near her thighs, curled slightly, still clenched in that last grip of control. She could still stand. Still grab her blouse. Still spit something cutting and walk out, head high, spine straight.

But she didn’t.

Because she knew.

If she did this—if she leaned in and took him into her mouth, if she let him use her like this, down on her knees in a locked office with her breasts bare and her dignity fraying—then it wouldn’t end here. No matter what he said afterward. No matter how neatly he tucked those papers away. No matter how many winks and promises and “that’s it” declarations he made.

He would own her.

Because she would have let him.

And they’d both know it.

He might call it a one-time favor. He might even thank her with that faux-gentle voice and those soft hands. He might make her think she had some kind of power left.

But she knew. The moment she opened her mouth—he’d have her.

Still… her lips parted.

Because the weight between her legs hadn’t gone away. Because her nipples still ached from the way he’d touched her—so gently, so knowingly. Because the pulse in her core throbbed with every second she stayed down here, waiting, hesitating, imagining what he’d feel like against her tongue.

And because part of her—a deep, humiliating, furious part—wanted to feel wanted this badly. Even like this.

Martin’s voice broke the silence.

“Good girl,” he said.

She hated how those two words made her shiver.

She looked up.

And there it was.

His cock was already out—thick, semi-hard, flushed dark, stiffening from anticipation. He wasn’t stroking himself. Wasn’t prodding or impatient. Just standing there, exposed, confident, knowing she was already his.

Emily swallowed hard.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That kneeling was no worse than what she’d already done. That he could already see everything.

But it did matter.

Because this was the moment.

She closed her eyes again.

And leaned forward.