How to Cook an Omelet and a Career

Sarah stood barefoot in her kitchen, the hem of Hank's button-down shirts brushing her thighs, its long sleeves rolled up to her elbows. The morning light streamed through the slats in the blinds, striping her legs in gold. She didn't bother with the coffee yet. Not while she was still savoring the afterglow.

He was asleep in her bed.

She smiled at the thought. A lazy, feline smile that curled on her lips before vanishing just as quickly.

Hank.

Her boss.

Finally.

She hadn't even had to push that hard. Not really. A little vulnerability, a few tears, the right amount of trembling in her voice, and he was hers. Men always wanted to feel needed. Hank especially. He wore guilt like a second skin—His wife had seen to that. All Sarah had to do was peel it back and whisper something warm underneath.

It had been a good night. Better than she'd expected, actually. She'd expected him to be awkward, apologetic, maybe even too ashamed to touch her properly. But once she got him there—once he gave in—he surprised her. There had been hunger in him. Desperation. The kind that made men reckless.

The kind she could use.

And use it she did. Over and over again Sarah climaxed from Hank's surprisingly quick recovery times. For a man of around forty, Hank Granger was incredibly virile. Sarah didn't mind one bit. If she was going to do the work to seduce her boss and build a better future for herself, she might as well have a bit of fun while doing it.

Sarah opened the fridge and leaned forward, eyes skimming over the options. Eggs. Spinach. Parmesan. She could make an omelet. Something nurturing. Something comforting. Something that would say, without her saying it: You're safe here. You're wanted.

She plucked the eggs out and shut the door with her hip, smiling faintly to herself.

Poor Hank. He really thought last night had meant something. Not at first, but things changed as the night went on. She'd seen it in his eyes when he'd collapsed beside her, sweaty and spent. The way he looked at her, like she was the only thing keeping him from breaking completely. That kind of dependence was dangerous.

And delicious.

Sarah cracked an egg with one hand, letting the yolk spill neatly into the bowl. Power was a ****. She'd known that for years. She didn't just want it—she needed it. The way some girls needed affection, or validation. She needed control. Influence. The knowledge that the man across from her would do whatever she wanted if she just curled her lips the right way, tilted her head just so, let her fingers brush the inside of his wrist.

She stirred the eggs slowly, letting her thoughts wander.

She had Hank now. But that was just step one.

The man still had his job. His contacts. His title. He might be sleeping on her sheets and kissing her shoulder in the dark, but he was still above her on paper. That wouldn't last.

Sarah planned to fix that.

She wasn't even sure what her end game would be at this point. Certainly she would be coming out on top, that was without question, but how was yet to be determined. Maybe Sarah would ask for money, a large payout from the company, or from Hank himself, based on the horrific sexual harassment she'd obviously suffered from under the horrible Hank Granger. Perhaps it would be a promotion. Hank was well positioned. All it would take would be for Sarah to show him some of the pictures she'd taken the night before using the cameras hidden around her bedroom, state clearly that the power dynamic between them had clearly clouded her judgement, that she had been afraid he would fire her if she hadn't taken him into her bed, and he would find a new, and better, job for her. Maybe she'd bring those pictures all the way to the top. Hank, once she was done with him, would be disposable. No use keeping him around. Heck, she could even take his job!

She poured the eggs into the pan and watched them sizzle. She didn't have to rush. Last night was fun. She could milk that for a while, let him dote on her, let him please her sexually, let him believe she was the bright spot in his darkest moment. Sarah would get bored eventually, and when she was, she would strike.

Behind her, she heard a sleepy shuffle and the creak of the bedroom door. She didn't turn.

"Morning," Hank's voice came, hoarse and tentative.

She smiled to herself, then turned around with practiced grace and innocence in her eyes.

"Hey, sleepyhead," she said, sweet and warm. "I made you breakfast."

Let him eat. Let him fall harder. Let him believe he's the one holding on.

Until he isn't.