Weekly Update

The office hummed with its usual mid-morning chaos—phones ringing, keyboards clattering, a vendor arguing in the breakroom about a deposit. Stacy absorbed it all without hearing it. Her desk was a fortress of color swatches and contract folders, timelines color-coded by urgency. She'd built this business on precision.

Her fingers paused on the keyboard.

Two days since the delivery driver. Three since George. Four since Derek.

She found herself doing it now—scanning every conversation for the word. The barista who said "certainly" when she ordered her latte. The FedEx guy who used it at the front desk. Her heart had jumped both times, but neither had been in the right context to trigger it. She'd been almost disappointed.

Almost.

She stood, grabbing the manila folder with the three high-profile wedding updates. Mr. Croft's office was at the end of the hall, door closed. She knocked twice.

"Enter."

His back was to her when she walked in, phone pressed to his ear. He gestured impatiently at the chair without turning around. She sat, folder balanced on her knee, and waited.

"Those costs are contracted," he said, his voice clipped. "We put the rate in writing. They signed. This isn't a negotiation."

The office smelled like leather and something woodsy. Polished mahogany desk. A bookshelf packed with financial binders. The window behind him caught the afternoon light, making his silver-flecked hair gleam even from behind.

"If we give them an inch, every other venue will want the same. I don't care about their budget shortfall. We will certainly not be absorbing those costs—"

The word hit her like an electric shock.

No.

Her grip on the folder tightened. Her pulse slammed into double-time.

No, not here. Not him. This is insane. This is the most insane thing yet.

The addiction didn't care about sanity.

Mr. Croft. My boss. Impeccably dressed. Ruthless. If he figures this out—

But the thrill was already flooding her veins, hot and immediate, and the rational part of her brain was losing the argument by the second.

You've done it with a stranger who left you on the floor. You've done it with a client's fiancé. You've done it in a public gym. The one place you should not do this is the office.

The thought almost stopped her.

Almost.

The folder slid from her lap. Her head lolled to the side, her eyes finding a fixed point on the bookshelf behind his desk, and she was gone.

The receiver slammed down with a clatter.

"Stacy."

She didn't move.

"Stacy, what is this?" He swiveled in his chair, his dark brows drawing together. "Are you alright?"

Nothing.

He stood, circling the desk slowly. His shoes made soft sounds on the carpet. She felt his presence before she saw him—tall, commanding, blocking the light from the window.

"Stacy?" He waved a hand in front of her face. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes," she whispered. A mannequin in a navy dress, her dark hair falling across her cheek.

He studied her for a long moment. The calculating gleam didn't appear suddenly. It arrived slowly, like a man reading a contract and finding a clause he hadn't expected.

"Blink."

She did.

"Stand up."

Her body rose. The folder slipped from her lap and hit the floor with a soft thud.

His face shifted. The concern vanished, replaced by something sharper.

"Turn around."

She turned. He circled her like a predator examining prey, his fingers brushing the back of her blouse.

"Who taught you this?" he murmured. "Doesn't matter." He pulled out his phone. "Remove your blouse."

No. No, that's a step too far. He's taking photos. That's evidence.

But her hands were already moving, unbuttoning the navy silk with mechanical precision. The fabric fell away. Her plain white bra followed.

I'm already committed. I have to see this through.

The phone's camera clicked. He stepped back, framing her half-naked body against the bookshelf.

"Perfect," he said. "Turn around."

She turned slowly. He photographed her back, her shoulders, the curve of her spine.

Her internal voice howled. He's not like the others. He's not excited or nervous or careless. He's methodical.

He pocketed the phone, then walked to the door and turned the lock. The click was soft, but to her ears it sounded like a gunshot.

"Bend over the desk."

You knew what this was. You knew the risk. You did it anyway.

She walked to the desk and bent forward, her palms flat against the polished surface. Her skirt had ridden up, exposing her thighs, the damp fabric of her underwear.

He stood behind her. His hands found her hips, not rough, not hurried. Deliberate.

He ran a hand along her spine, then down, over the curve of her ass. His fingers traced the edge of her underwear before pulling it aside.

"Still ready," he observed. "Your body responds well to control. I appreciate that in an employee."

He didn't undress her further. He unzipped his fly, and she felt the heat of him against her thigh before he entered her—one unhurried, deliberate push that made her gasp against the desk.

He stayed still for a moment. Then he began to move.

His rhythm was measured. Controlled. Each thrust deep, but unhurried, the pace of a man who knew exactly how long he could last. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her back to meet him, and the angle made her see stars.

Her knuckles whitened against the mahogany. She bit her lip to keep from moaning.

He leaned over her. His chest pressed against her back, his mouth beside her ear, his breath hot and steady.

"You're going to remember this," he said. "When you wake up, you won't remember the trance. You won't remember my voice. But your body will remember this." He thrust deeper. "Every time you sit in my office, you'll feel it."

Her legs trembled. A low whimper escaped her throat.

He laughed softly. "I'll take that as a yes."

He straightened, pulling out. She felt the absence cold and abrupt. The click of his phone camera again.

"On your knees."

She sank down. He stood over her, his cock glistening, still hard. He grasped it loosely, one hand tangling in her hair.

"Open."

Her mouth opened. He pulled her head forward, sliding himself past her lips, and he fucked her mouth the same way he'd fucked her—slow, deep, and methodical. His thumb brushed her cheekbone as he watched himself move inside her.

The phone clicked again.

He pulled out, his breathing finally quickening. His hand pumped fast, and then he grunted, painting her face and chest in warm streams. The first splash hit her cheek. The second, her parted lips. She felt the heat of it spreading across her skin, dripping slow down her chin.

He took a step back, surveying her.

The phone rose.

"Hold your hand up next to your face. Show me your ring."

Her hand rose. Her wedding ring caught the light, the modest diamond glinting beside the pearly evidence of his climax.

The camera clicked.

"Perfect." Then he crouched beside her, sliding an arm around her shoulders, his grin wide and toothy. The selfie captured everything—her ruined expression, his triumphant one. "Smile."

Click.

He stood, put his phone in his pocket, tucked himself away, and straightened his tie.

"Clean your face and get dressed."

Her movements were robotic as she found the tissue box on his desk, wiped her face and chest, retrieved her bra and blouse. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons. He watched, patient, amused.

"Sit."

She sat in the chair. He arranged the folder back in her lap, smoothing her hair with possessive care.

"You know, I think you're going to be my favorite employee for a very long time." He walked behind his desk and settled into his chair, his fingers steepled. "Wake up."

She blinked.

The fog lifted. She shook her head slowly, feigning confusion. "Mr. Croft? What—what happened? I feel dizzy."

His expression transformed into a mask of paternal concern. "Stacy, you fainted. Right there in the meeting. Are you alright?"

"I—" She touched her forehead. "I don't know what came over me."

"You should go home for the day." He stood, crossing to open the door. "Get some rest. We'll revisit the wedding updates tomorrow."

She stood on rubber legs. He placed a warm hand on her shoulder as she passed.

"Keep up the good work."

The words hit her like a slap. She forced a smile and walked down the hallway, back to her desk, every step a struggle against the trembling in her knees.

She gathered her things. Her hands shook as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

The drive home was a blur. Streetlights. Red lights. Green lights. Her mind replayed every second of it—the lock clicking, the thrusts, the photographs, the way he'd said her name like he owned it.

He has photos. He can ruin everything. My marriage. My business. My life.

But beneath the panic, a dark pulse of pleasure was beating through her.

He knows what I am. He knows. And he wants to use me.

The thought made her thighs press together.

She pulled into her driveway. Tom's car wasn't there yet. She sat in the garage, engine idling, her body still humming.

Her hand drifted to her chest. Still sticky where she'd missed a spot.

She looked in the rearview mirror. A smear of him glistened at her collarbone.

He has evidence. He has power over me.

She smiled.