Next to last

The handle turned smoothly in Emily’s hand, the faintest squeak of the latch barely audible above the soft thrum of HVAC behind the office walls. Jason’s nameplate gleamed beside the door—Jason Davenport, Senior Consultant—as if it belonged to someone reliable. Someone stable. Someone worthy of her.

She stepped inside quietly, one foot over the threshold, expecting to find him mid-call or reviewing charts on his screen. She rehearsed the little smile she’d give him, the teasing remark about “executive lunches delivered by your favorite woman.”

Instead, her breath caught halfway into her lungs.

Jason stood in front of his desk—pants shoved halfway down his thighs, shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned, his tie hanging crooked from his collar like an afterthought.

And in front of him, bent at the waist over the low corner of the desk, was her.

The intern.

Blonde hair falling in waves around her shoulders, her face turned slightly to the side, eyes shut, mouth open in a soft gasp. Her blouse was pulled up under her arms, her skirt flipped carelessly over her lower back. Her hips pressed hard into the edge of the desk as Jason thrust into her from behind—slow, thick, rhythmic strokes that rolled through his whole body.

His hands gripped her ass, spreading her wider. His cock glistened with her wetness as he pushed into her again, deeper, enough to make her legs shake. A folder full of printouts fluttered off the desk beside them, ignored.

Emily didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

She stayed in the shadow of the door, her heart thudding so violently it pulsed in her ears.

Jason’s voice was a low groan: “God… you’re so tight.”

The intern whimpered, rising slightly to press her back into his chest. “Harder,” she breathed, writhing. “Please…”

And Jason gave it to her. His hips smacked against her ass with a wet slap, one hand snaking around her front, fingers diving down to rub her clit in tight, practiced circles.

She let out a breathless, half-choked moan and clenched around him. Her back arched, toes lifting inside her little ballet flats as she tilted her hips to take more of him. He buried his face in her neck, biting at her shoulder while he fucked her harder.

Emily stood there, invisible, holding a paper bag full of homemade lunch and melted trust.

There was nothing accidental about what she saw. Nothing spontaneous or ****. They moved like they’d done it a dozen times before—like this was their rhythm. Their choreography.

Jason’s voice rasped out again: “You gonna cum for me, sweetheart?”

The intern gasped, nodding. “Yes—yes—Jason, don’t stop—”

Emily’s fingers curled around the paper bag until the sides crinkled faintly. She caught herself and relaxed it again, silent, controlled.

She had seen enough.

Turning quietly, she stepped back out, not bothering to pull the door fully closed. Let it drift shut on its own. Let it stay open.

Her heels clicked once against the carpet before she found her pace—smooth, quiet, fast.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t break down.

Not yet.

But in the pit of her stomach, humiliation churned with something darker. Something hot. Sharp. Dangerous.

He had not only betrayed her—he’d done it like it meant nothing. Like she meant nothing.

She didn’t look back.