Yes

Her hand moved without hurry.

Top button.

Then the next.

She paused—fingers resting on the third—glanced toward the office door.

God, this would be hard to explain if someone walked in right now.

The thought made her heart thud harder—but it also made her thighs press together under the desk.

She stood, crossed to the door, and locked it.

The click echoed louder than expected in the quiet.

Then she returned to her chair.

Didn’t sit.

Instead, she tugged her blouse open just enough to let it drape from her shoulders, loose and casual, like she'd just shrugged it off after a long day. Her pale pink bra cupped her breasts with soft lift—not fancy, just real, lived-in, hers.

Not showy.

But… visible.

She brought the banana to her lips.

Placed it there. No sucking. No play-acting.

Just that perfect line—banal, almost innocent, if not for the rest of her.

Mirror selfie. Rear camera. No face.

Just breastbone to waistband, blouse open, the banana rising from her lips, her hand holding it at the base, her other hand—phone in fingers—lifting the device to catch it all at a slight angle.

Click.

She checked the image.

Perfect.

The colors, the shadows, the quiet posture of a woman who knew how she looked.

She hit send.

No caption.

Then placed the banana—still intact—on her desk beside her laptop.

She didn’t button up again.

She just sat, her body warm and loose, her shirt open casually like this was how she always worked.

And waited.

The phone screen still in her lap.