Page 7

7

T wo weeks have passed since my humiliating confession to Sterling—two long, agonizing weeks of icy professionalism and careful distance that has done nothing to cool the wildfire under my skin. If anything, the tension between us has solidified into something heavier, something almost physical, filling the spaces between us whenever we're in the same room. No amount of careful avoidance can disguise it, not when I can feel it crackling in the air, thick enough to choke on.

Sterling pretends as well as he can, but sometimes, when he thinks I'm not looking, I catch him watching me. His gaze snags on me mid-task, lingering for a fraction of a second too long before snapping away with deliberate, brutal efficiency. Most telling are the moments when his eyes dip lower, no matter how hard he tries to stop them, a brief, betraying flicker toward the front of my pants. A place that has become a problem area for me lately—constant, painful, humiliating.

My body's reaction to Sterling has become its own beast, separate from logic or shame, impossible to control. No amount of cold showers or loose-fitting clothes dulls the effect. The second he enters a room, the second his voice threads into the air, low and steady and rough-edged, my cock stiffens in my pants, aching with want. When he stops at my desk to issue a quiet order, or when he passes close enough that his scent—a dark, smoky mix of musk and cedar—clings to the back of my throat, I have to scramble to cover myself with paperwork or the hem of my shirt, desperate to hide how visibly ruined I am.

It's wrecking me. Wrecking my work. Yesterday, I entered the wrong client into the system three times because Sterling stood behind me for too long, the heat of his body sinking into my skin, his breath disturbing the hair at the back of my neck. This morning, I manage to knock over an entire filing cabinet while subtly trying to adjust myself beneath my desk, flushing scarlet as the clatter echoes through the front office.

"You okay, kid?" Helena asks, sharp-eyed as she passes by, handing me a clipboard without waiting for a response. "You look flustered."

I mumble something about sitting too long, too stiff from paperwork, but the way she looks at me says she doesn't believe a word. Thankfully, she doesn't press, because I can't explain—not without confessing that every time our boss so much as exists in the same building as me, my body reacts like I've been hardwired to crave him.

By late afternoon, I'm a mess. Physically tight and aching, emotionally frayed beyond repair, strung tighter than a wire ready to snap. Sterling has been parading potential investors through the facility all day, walking tall and authoritative in his crisp button-down shirts and rolled sleeves, the controlled power of his body on full display. Every time he passes the reception desk, his eyes flick to mine, and I swear he can see right through me—see the hunger, the desperation, the pathetic need. Worse, he can smell it. His nostrils flare slightly each time, a subtle, almost subconscious reaction that confirms every humiliating suspicion I have. He knows exactly what I'm feeling. He knows—and he leaves me to drown in it anyway.

By the time closing creeps closer, my nerves are raw, my body straining against the last threads of my restraint. I watch Sterling disappear into his office for his end-of-day routine, the same routine he has kept, without fail, even after everything between us shattered. In fifteen minutes, he will emerge, check that the facility is empty, and slip into Room 8 to take care of his needs. A private act, a necessary biological process, one I have no right to witness—and yet have seen, and cannot unsee.

I stand behind the reception desk, breathing too hard, my heart hammering, an idea taking root in my mind. Dangerous. Reckless. Career-ending. What if, this time, I don't just watch from afar? What if I make it impossible for him to ignore me?

The rational part of my brain screams at me to stop, to think, to remember all the consequences he's warned me about. He has been explicit about boundaries. He has made it clear what would happen if I overstep again. I could lose everything. My internship. My career. Any chance of a future.

But the rest of me—the ruined, restless part—is already moving.

I can't live like this anymore, trapped in this unbearable limbo between need and professionalism, shame and hope. I am losing focus, losing sleep, losing my mind piece by piece every time he brushes past me and pretends it means nothing. Something has to give, and I am done waiting for it to happen on his terms.

Five fifty-five. Five minutes until closing.

Everyone else is gone. No clients. No cleaning crew until seven.

It's now or never.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I cross the reception area and slip into the hallway, my steps silent on the carpeted floors. Each one feels heavier than the last, pulling me deeper into something I can't undo. My hands shake. My throat burns. My erection strains uncomfortably against the confines of my pants, but I barely feel it anymore. All I can think about is him. About the look on his face when he sees me waiting there. About what he will do.

I reach Room 8.

The door looms in front of me, heavy, solid, ordinary-looking—and yet the most dangerous thing I have ever dared approach. I press my palm against the cool metal of the handle, my heart pounding so violently it rattles my ribs. This is my last chance to turn back. To salvage what little dignity I have left. To save my future. But when I close my eyes, I don't see a future without him.

I see Sterling, his massive body braced against the collection mount, his head thrown back in pleasure, the raw, guttural sounds he tries so hard to suppress breaking free at last. And that image, seared into my brain, burns away the last of my hesitation. I need this. Need him. Need the truth of whatever lives between us, no matter how reckless or dangerous or wrong it might be. I tighten my grip on the handle, draw in a shaking breath—and push the door open.

* * *

The room is immaculate, scrubbed clean and prepared by the cleaning crew after yesterday's use. Fresh towels are stacked neatly on the counter. The collection mount gleams under the soft overhead lighting, its padded surfaces sanitized and waiting. The entertainment system hums quietly in standby mode, an indifferent sentinel to what I'm about to do. For a long moment, I just stand there, suspended at the threshold of a decision that feels bigger than anything I've ever made. My heart thrums a relentless rhythm against my ribs, my body trembling with the enormity of it.

Then, before I can think better of it, I move.

One by one, I strip away the layers that have kept me tethered to caution. My hands shake as I unbutton my shirt, the cotton sticking to the sweat beading at the small of my back. Shoes kicked off. Socks peeled away. Shirt shrugged off and dropped to the floor. Trousers sliding down trembling legs. Underwear last, the final humiliating, liberating surrender. Until I am standing naked in the sterile chill of the room, every nerve ending exposed.

My cock juts forward, aching and flushed dark with weeks of constant, gnawing need. It bobs with each ragged breath I take, leaking steadily despite the cool air, and the sight of myself like this—helpless, wanton, trembling—sends another dizzying rush of arousal through me.

I approach the mount, studying it the way I once watched Sterling use it from the shadows of my fantasies. The smooth, padded surface, the adjustable supports, the faint mechanical hum of readiness—it feels clinical and impersonal and yet somehow charged now, weighted by the knowledge of what I'm about to offer.

The equipment is designed for someone much larger than me, but the controls are intuitive. With clumsy, trembling fingers, I lower the height to accommodate my smaller frame, adjusting the angles until I think it might work. Every brush of my skin against the cool vinyl sends jolts of sensation through me, my cock throbbing with anticipation, with fear, with desperation.

Carefully, I climb onto the mount, the surface firm under my chest, the wedge lifting my hips into the air. I arrange myself deliberately—knees bent, feet nearly brushing the floor, back arched, ass raised and exposed. There's no mistaking the position. It's a presentation, an offering, an invitation so blatant it makes my cheeks burn with shame and hunger all at once.

My cock, pressed awkwardly against the mount, leaks a wet trail across the pristine padding. Some distant, rational part of me winces at the thought of contaminating the equipment meant for Sterling's use, but a darker part—hot and reckless—finds it exhilarating. The idea that he might see the mess I made, know exactly why it's there, who it's for—it sends a full-body shudder through me.

My heart races faster, hammering against the thin cage of my ribs. Sweat beads at the base of my spine, clinging to the curve of my lower back despite the room's carefully controlled temperature. I feel light-headed, stretched too thin by the magnitude of what I'm doing, but I can't move. I can't stop. The clock on the wall ticks mercilessly onward.

6:10. Sterling will be finishing his paperwork soon.

I shift slightly, trying to relieve the pressure building in my cock, but the movement only makes it worse. My length slides against the padded surface with a friction so maddeningly sweet it drags a helpless, bitten-off sound from my throat. I press my forehead into the mount, fighting for control, willing myself to hold on.

6:12. The temptation to bolt rises, cold and frantic. I could still leave. Get dressed. Pretend none of this ever happened. But my hand moves almost without thinking, reaching for the familiar control panel built into the side of the mount. I press the button that releases the lock on the door, leaving it slightly ajar—just as I've seen Sterling do a hundred times when he thought he was alone.

An invitation. A challenge. A declaration I can't take back.

6:15. He should be arriving any minute now.

I imagine how I must look if he sees me—naked, splayed out, wanton and waiting, the door left open wide enough to broadcast my intent. There's no room for pretense. No way to spin this as an accident or misunderstanding.

I am offering myself to him, openly, shamelessly.

Either he'll accept, or he'll fire me.

6:18. Doubt gnaws at the edges of my mind, cold and cruel. Maybe he's been delayed. Maybe he left already, disgusted by what he suspects. Maybe this was never anything but a one-sided delusion and I've just destroyed my life for nothing.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my forehead harder against the mount, my body rigid with tension, every second that ticks by another slash across already raw skin.

And then?—

Footsteps.

Heavy. Measured. Unmistakable. Each deliberate tread echoes down the hallway, drawing closer, vibrating through the floor and into my bones.

Sterling.

Oh God. It's too late to move, too late to hide, too late to pretend. All I can do now is wait and pray that the man I have broken every rule for won't leave me exposed and alone. The footsteps stop just outside the door. Silence falls, thick and suffocating. For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then the door creaks wider.

My breath catches painfully in my throat as his shadow spills across the threshold, a broad silhouette framed in the narrow gap of the doorway. From my position on the mount, I can't see his face—only the powerful outline of his body, impossibly large, impossibly still, frozen there like he's deciding whether to step inside or turn away.

Every muscle in my body locks tight. I squeeze my eyes shut, my forehead pressed hard against the padded surface, my chest shuddering with the effort it takes not to move, not to plead. My cock aches where it's pressed against the mount, leaking against the vinyl, the throbbing need almost painful now, sharp and relentless.

I don't dare look at him. I don't dare breathe too loudly, or shift, or make a sound that might shatter this delicate, razor-edged moment. Seconds stretch and pull, bending under the weight of the choice hanging between us.