Bluff and pretend she meant to do it to get a better performance plan

Emily didn’t flinch.

But only on the outside.

Inside, her nerves were screaming. A hot, suffocating flush rose up her throat, her chest throbbed with embarrassment, her thoughts were a blur of oh god oh god oh god—and she could feel the air hitting her nipples, raw and stiff, after being rubbed and teased under the blazer for nearly an hour. Her whole chest was flushed, sensitive, on display.

And Martin was staring.

Utterly, stupidly still. His eyes wide. His gaze locked on her bare breasts like he didn’t even remember she had a face.

Emily’s body wanted to curl in on itself, to yank the blazer shut and run. Her fingers twitched at her sides. Her thighs squeezed tight beneath the desk. But she didn’t move. Didn’t give in.

Instead, she inhaled—shaky but slow—and leaned back.

Casually. Deliberately.

The blazer stayed open. Her breasts, high and flushed, stayed exposed. Her nipples ached. She wanted to scream.

But she gave a brittle smile instead.

“Well,” she said, her voice drier than dust, “that certainly broke the ice.”

Martin blinked once but said nothing. His jaw hung open. Still staring.

Emily **** herself to lean slightly forward again, even as her chest tingled from the shift of air, even as her blazer gaped wider. She wanted to die. She wanted to disappear.

But she kept her voice steady. Cool. Like this was on purpose.

“You going to hand me the next form, or should I just take a picture for your spank bank?”

Martin flinched.

Good.

He blinked again, mouth working uselessly. His gaze snapped up to her face—finally—and she felt her heart pounding so loud she thought he might hear it.

Emily kept going. If she stopped now, she’d crumble.

“Let’s be honest,” she said. “You’ve always been a creep. But this? This is your lucky day. Because I don’t have time to deal with the paperwork I’d love to file against you.”

She reached out across the desk—not toward the folder, but toward the small black plastic cup of office supplies. She plucked out a binder clip without asking and snapped it open in one hand.

Martin watched, blinking, sweating.

Emily stood.

Still bare-chested. Still exposed.

And, as casually as she could manage, she pulled the edges of her blazer together and clipped them shut with the binder clip—right at the middle of her chest. It wasn’t perfect. It left a peek of curve still visible above the fold. But it held.

She adjusted the lapels once, tugging them flat. Her hands trembled, just slightly.

Martin was still saying nothing.

Good.

She walked toward the door.

Her heart was still racing—but not just from panic now. Underneath the nerves, buried somewhere deeper, was something new. Something hot. Power.

He’d been speechless. Eyes wide. Caught. Awed.

And it had been her—her, after months of milk-stained bras and ignored touches at home—who had made a man freeze in place just by walking into the room and refusing to back down.

The rush of it left her dizzy.

Before she opened the door, she turned back and gave Martin one last look—cold, composed, tight-lipped.

“Be sure to email me that finalized performance plan,” she said.

Then she walked out.