Walk over looking down at Peta with a big smile

You walk around the desk, your steps slow and deliberate. You stand over her, your body casting a shadow across her face. The power dynamic is a palpable thing, humming in the air between you. You. The boss, the husband, the father. Her. The secretary, the other woman, the vessel for your rebellion. You love this part. The slow dance before the frenzy.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," you say, your voice a low rumble. You reach down and trail a finger along her bare shoulder. Her skin is warm, and you feel a shiver run through her. The red fabric of her dress is so thin, you can feel the heat of her body.

She leans into your touch, her head tilted back, exposing the long line of her neck. "Well," she says, her breath hitching slightly. "A girl needs to be kept on her toes."

You laugh, a short, sharp sound. You slide your hand from her shoulder to the back of her neck, your fingers tangling in her hair. You tug, not gently, pulling her head back further. She gasps, her lips parting. Her eyes, dark and wide, are fixed on yours.

"You're a dirty girl, Peta," you murmur, leaning down. Your lips are a breath away from hers. "You like waiting for me in my chair. Thinking about all the things we're going to do on this desk."

"Yes," she whispers, the word a puff of air against your lips. "I think about it all day. When you're on the phone with your wife. When you're signing checks between banks and the family buying their new home. Fuck your just so fucking handsome when you are being in charge. Being a real man."

The mention of them should be a bucket of cold water. It should send you running, guilt-stricken, back to your car. Instead, it's accelerant. It's the very thing that makes this so potent. The profanity of it.

You crush your mouth to hers. It's not a kiss of passion, but of conquest. All teeth and tongue, a hungry, claiming act. She moans into your mouth, her hands coming up to grip your shirt, pulling you closer.

You slip your cock out and into Peta's waiting hand. The familiar thrill of her warm skin on yours, the quick, expert rhythm she immediately falls into. Her other hand fumbles with your belt, the metallic clink loud in the quiet office. She breaks the kiss, her breathing ragged.

"On the desk," she pants, her eyes wild. "Now. Fuck me on your desk."

You don't need to be told twice. With one swift motion, you clear the surface. A stack of files, a picture of your family at the beach, a coffee mug. They all crash to the floor in a satisfying clatter of destruction.

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