No, she arrives at Martin's office

Martin’s office was still and dim, the door already ajar like he’d been waiting for her. Warm amber light glowed against the shelves behind his desk, trying to sell a softness the rest of the office never earned. But nothing about the air in here felt soft now.

He looked up—and froze.

His gaze snapped to her chest and stayed there. The half-dried blouse clung tighter than before, fabric hugging every contour like a wet silk slip, her nipples still standing proud beneath the cotton. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t smile.

She walked in and shut the door herself.

The click echoed. She didn’t break eye contact.

Martin stood slowly, his chair giving a faint creak. “Well, shit.”

Emily crossed her arms—loosely, intentionally unhelpful. “You wanted to go over paperwork.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice a little thinner now. “Yeah, I did. And you… wow, Davenport.”

He circled around her like a man walking through an unexpected dream. “You always looked good, but this?” He whistled low. “You’re gonna make HR file its own damn complaint.”

The click Martin’s hand on the lock was loud in the room.

Click.

The deadbolt slid into place with a soft finality, sealing them inside.

Emily’s breath hitched, but she didn’t show it. She kept her arms folded, barely covering the sharp visibility of her nipples beneath the clinging blouse, the outline of her breasts clear as shadows beneath white cotton. If anything, the lock emboldened her spine—she stood taller, jaw tight.

Martin, though—he didn’t hide the look in his eyes now. He took her in, slow and deliberate, stepping away from the door like a man who’d just rolled snake eyes and liked it.

“I wasn’t gonna push it,” he said, walking back toward the desk. “Thought maybe I’d just let it simmer. Nudge you a little, see how far you'd bend.”

He a folder on the desk.

“But then you show up like this.”

He gestured—barely a wave, more of a drag of his eyes down her front. “Soaking wet shirt. No bra. Nipples like glass cutters. And you expect me to believe it was just lunch?”

Emily didn’t flinch. “It was.”

Martin chuckled. “Then let’s talk about what’s for dessert.”

He flipped the folder open—spread the pages this time, not just offering but presenting. Tables. Timestamps. Lines in red. Her name again and again.

Emily’s stomach dropped.

“What is this?”

Martin steepled his fingers. “It’s an internal report. Started flagging inconsistencies in budget logs tied to your department while you were still on leave. At first, I thought it was a mistake.”

She leaned in, heart thudding. “That’s not mine. I didn’t submit any logs—”

“But you did approve some,” he said, voice silk now. “And some of the transfers happened on days you were listed as working remotely before full leave kicked in.”

Emily’s fingers went cold.

“I didn’t—”

“I didn’t say you did,” he cut in smoothly, raising his hands, palms out. “Could be a clerical error. Could be something the CFO needs to investigate. Could just… hang around unresolved for a few months.”

He let the pause stretch, studying her face.

“You want it spelled out?” he said, leaning over the desk, voice low, even. “This report’s already logged with the shared HR drive. That means even if I deleted it now, someone could pull an activity trace. It exists.”

He looked up, locked eyes with her.

“What hasn’t happened yet is escalation. I haven’t sent it to Legal. I haven’t sent it to the CFO. I haven’t made a formal note about your discrepancies and the approval trail tied to your name.”

Her lips parted. “You’re saying I’m under investigation?”

“I’m saying you could be. If I forward this upward. Or,” he continued, “it could disappear. Quietly. Nothing more than a ghost in the audit log.”

Emily’s arms dropped slowly to her sides.

Martin’s eyes slid downward. “That’s right. Let me see what kind of woman you really are.”

He stepped around the desk toward her. “See, you didn’t take money. But your name’s on the approvals. And the approvals match transfers on days you were home, logged in, still technically working. That makes it your problem.”

He stopped just inches from her.

“So here’s the deal, Em. You give me a reason not to care. Right now. You do that, and this paperwork?” He tapped it again. “It gets very, very lost. Bottom drawer. Never surfaces.”

Her breathing grew shallow.

He reached out—slow, deliberate—and let the backs of his fingers graze her blouse just under the breast, where the wet cotton clung to the slope of her ribs. “This is the only kind of evidence I want to see today.”

Emily flinched—but didn’t move away.

Martin’s hand moved up, slipping beneath the wet hem of her shirt, fingertips dragging across the warm skin of her side, then cupping the underside of one breast through the fabric. “You walk in here like this… you already made the choice. Now finish it.”

He pressed his thumb gently against her nipple, circling slowly through the wet cotton.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “You’re not even pretending this doesn’t turn you on.”

His other hand reached up and brushed the damp hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear like a lover would. “I’m not gonna make you beg. Not yet. But you are going to cooperate.”

He stepped back an inch.

“Take off the blouse.”