Page 3

I stand there, breathing slow and even, like I’m prepping for a presentation.

It takes almost a full minute for my pulse to drop under one hundred twenty.

I count tile grout lines. I try to list the names of every US President in order.

None of it works. All I can see is the way his mouth moved when he said, “You’re good at this,” like it was both a threat and a promise.

I want to scream. Instead, I press my palms to my cheeks, then force myself to unlock the stall and face the mirror.

My hair looks okay, but my skin is flushed, high on my cheeks and down my throat. I run cold water over my wrists until the tingling goes numb, then blot my face with a paper towel. The chill helps for maybe two seconds.

That’s when I catch myself in the mirror and realize I’m still trembling, a livewire in a buttoned-up suit. If I don’t get this out of my system, I’m going to melt down in front of the entire floor.

I stumble back into the stall, my legs trembling like a fucking earthquake, and collapse onto the closed toilet lid.

My skirt rides up my thighs, exposing the creamy skin of my inner legs, and I don’t even bother to adjust it.

Fuck modesty. The air is thick with the scent of my own arousal, and I can feel the slickness pooling between my thighs, soaking through my panties like I’m some kind of desperate slut. Which, let’s be honest, I am right now.

I listen for footsteps outside, but it’s dead fucking silent. Everyone’s at lunch, stuffing their faces while I’m here, about to stuff something else entirely. No excuses left. No one’s coming to save me from myself. Good.

I slide a hand under my skirt, my fingers trembling as they hook into the lace of my panties.

I yank them to the side, and the cool air hits my pussy like a slap.

I’m so fucking wet it’s obscene. My juices are practically dripping down my thighs, and I can smell myself.

The heady mix of musk and desperation makes my clit throb like a heartbeat.

I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood, just to keep from moaning loud enough to bring someone running to check on me.

I drag two fingers along my slit, slow and deliberate, savoring the way my pussy clenches around nothing, begging to be filled.

My clit is swollen, aching for attention, and I circle it with my fingertips, teasing myself until I’m panting hard enough to make myself dizzy.

I close my eyes, and the fantasy takes over, hot and immediate, like a porn reel playing in my head.

Declan slams the glass office door behind him.

His eyes fill with hunger as he stalks toward me.

He’s wearing a fancy suit that clings to his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and I can see the outline of his cock straining against his slacks, thick and hard and ready to ruin me.

He grabs my wrist, pins it to the wall with one hand, and his other hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back so hard it hurts.

His mouth crashes down on mine, rough and demanding, his tongue forcing its way past my lips like he owns me. And maybe he does.

He shoves my skirt up around my waist, no time for finesse, and I hear the rip of my tights as he tears them apart. He slams his fingers deep inside me before I can even gasp. They’re thick, fast, and relentless, curling against the sweet spot that makes me see stars.

I’m making soft, pathetic whimpers that I’d be embarrassed about if I could think straight. He growls against my neck, his teeth sinking into my collarbone as he works me over, his fingers pistoning in and out of my dripping center.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he rasps, his voice low and rough like gravel. “You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you? Thinking about my cock filling you up, making you scream?”

I can’t even answer as my hips buck against his hand while my pussy clenches around his fingers. He yanks my blouse open, sending buttons flying everywhere, and then his mouth moves down to my tits, biting and sucking until I’m writhing against him.

He pulls his fingers out of me, and I whine at the loss, but then he’s unbuckling his belt, shoving his slacks down just enough to free his cock. It’s huge, thick, veiny, and glistening at the tip with pre-cum, and I can’t wait to feel it splitting me open.

He grabs my hips, lifting me up and slamming me against the wall.

One hand wraps around my throat, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make me feel owned, controlled.

The other hand guides his cock to my entrance, and then he’s pushing inside me, inch by agonizing inch, stretching me so wide I can’t breathe.

I’m so stuffed full of him, and he groans like he’s in pain, his hips snapping forward until he’s buried to the hilt.

“Fuck,” he growls, his breath hot against my ear. “You feel like heaven.”

He starts fucking me in earnest then, his hips slamming into mine with a rhythm that’s almost brutal.

My tits bounce with every thrust, and I can feel every inch of his hard cock as he drives into me over and over again.

My pussy is so wet it’s practically squelching with every stroke, and I can feel a tight coil of pleasure building in my belly.

“Come for me,” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. “I want to feel you drench my goddamn cock.”

My orgasm hits me like a freight train, white-hot and all-consuming.

My pussy clenches hard around his cock like a vice as I scream his name but he doesn’t even pause.

Instead, he fucks me through it, his thrusts getting harder, faster, until he’s growling my name and spilling inside me, his cum flooding my pussy in hot, sticky waves.

Back in the stall, I’m shaking so hard I can barely keep myself upright.

My fingers are still working my clit, fast and frantic now, chasing a second orgasm that’s just out of reach.

My pussy throbs, aching for more, and I can’t stop thinking about Declan’s cock filling me up, stretching me wide open.

I’m so close. I rub one hard circle around my sensitive clit and another wave of pleasure so intense it feels like I’m being electrocuted flows through me.

My hips jerk off the toilet seat as I come again, my pussy pulsing around nothing as I bite down on my hand to keep from screaming.

When it’s over, I’m in even worse shape than before. My thighs are slick with my own juices, my panties are ruined, and I’m breathing like I just ran a marathon. But at least I might get through the rest of the afternoon without jumping my boss.

I clean up with a handful of toilet paper, then stand and fix my skirt. I make myself look in the mirror again. I look exactly the same as before, but now my eyes have that heavy, post-release glaze, and my lips are swollen from biting them.

I blot my face with another paper towel, reapply lipstick, and pin my hair back with the emergency clip I keep for bad days. My reflection is cool, crisp, and fully in control. Nobody would ever guess I just came in the bathroom thinking about my boss.

I leave the ladies’ room with my head high, striding past an admin who barely glances up. Back at my desk, I dial up the next conference call, ignoring the vibration in my bones.

The only thing more dangerous than working for Declan McDaid, I realize, is wanting him. And I want him so bad, I’m already counting the hours until I see him again.