Chapter 16: Desk Job
The silence in Sid’s home office was a different creature than the one in the bathroom. Here, it was expectant, layered with the phantom echo of keyboard clicks and decisive phone calls. Anya stood just inside the door, the leather portfolio in her hands feeling absurdly formal. The scent of him was everywhere here, in the lemon-oiled wood and the crisp linen of the shirts hanging behind a concealed closet door.
“The analytics for the Vermillion campaign,” she said, her voice steady despite the drum of her heart. “You wanted a hard copy before the Monday meeting.”
Sid didn’t look up from his laptop. The lone floor lamp cast a pool of light over his desk, leaving his face in dramatic shadow. “Close the door.”
She did. The click of the lock was louder here, more final.
He finally leaned back in his chair, the leather sighing. His eyes traveled over her—the simple black dress, the heels, the carefully composed expression. “You look recovered.”
“From?”
“From the other night. From being bent over my sink while my wife asked about the noise.” His tone was flat, analytical.
Anya placed the portfolio on the edge of the glass desk. “It was just a noise.”
“Was it?” He stood, slowly, a predator uncoiling. He circled the desk, not touching her, just invading her space. “You came here tonight. To my house. Again. Knowing she’s downstairs with twenty people. Why?”
“To drop off the files.”
“Bullshit.” The word was a whip-crack. He was in front of her now, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the faint stubble along his jaw. “You came because you can’t stop. Because you’re addicted to the thrill of almost getting caught. Because you want me to ruin you again.”
She didn’t deny it. A thrill, sharp and electric, shot through her. “Maybe I do.”
His control snapped. One hand gripped the back of her neck, not gently. The other swept the portfolio and a stack of papers off the glass desk. They fluttered to the floor in a whisper of white. He bent her over the cold, smooth surface, her cheek pressed against the glass. Her own breath fogged a small circle beside her.
“You want a hard copy?” he growled, his voice thick in her ear. He pushed her dress up, his hands rough on the backs of her thighs. She heard the tear of fabric as he ripped her stockings apart, then the rasp of his zipper. “This is the only deliverable you’re getting tonight.”
There was no preamble, no gentle exploration. He shoved her thong aside and drove into her with a single, brutal thrust. Anya gasped, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the slippery glass. He was merciless, setting a hard, deep rhythm that jarred her teeth. Each snap of his hips slammed her against the unyielding edge of the desk.
“Look,” he commanded, forcing her head to the side.
In the dark glass, she saw their reflection—a distorted tableau of power and submission. His body loomed over hers, his shirt still impeccably tucked, his face a mask of fierce concentration. Her dress was rucked up around her waist, her ass exposed, taking him. The framed awards on the walls were blurred smudges of silver in the periphery.
“See what you do?” he grunted, picking up pace. The desk shuddered. “See what you make me do? In my office. Where I build empires.” He leaned over her, his chest hot against her back. One hand fisted in her hair, pulling just enough to sting. The other reached around, fingers digging into the neckline of her dress. He yanked downward. The fabric tore, and her breasts spilled free, swaying with the force of his movements. He palmed one, squeezing roughly, pinching her nipple until she cried out. “Quiet. You want the whole party to hear the slut getting railed by her boss?”
His words were filthy, degrading. They should have repulsed her. Instead, a fresh wave of wetness slicked his thrusts, the obscene, wet sound filling the room. He was right. This was the addiction. The sheer, audacious wrongness of it.
“Is this what you needed?” he hissed, pounding into her. “You needed me to put you in your fucking place? To remind you who’s in charge?”
“Yes,” she choked out, the confession torn from her. “God, yes. Don’t stop.”
He fucked her like he was trying to exorcise something, or claim it. His pace became frantic, erratic. The careful CEO was gone. In his place was a man stripped raw by need. She felt the tightening in her own core, a coiling pressure built from shame and adrenaline and pure, animal friction.
“Come for me,” he demanded, his breath searing her neck. “Come all over my cock. Show me how much you love being used.”
His crude command, the overwhelming sensation of being utterly possessed, tipped her over. Her orgasm crashed through her, violent and silencing. She bit down on her own lip, tasting blood as her body clenched around him in frantic, pulsing waves.
The sensation of her tightening around him was his undoing. With a stifled, guttural roar that was more pain than pleasure, he buried himself to the hilt and came. She felt the hot, liquid spill deep inside her, his body rigid and shaking against hers.
For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant, cheerful melody of a pop song floating up from downstairs.
He pulled out. The aftermath was a cold, sudden emptiness. He stepped back, turning away to tuck himself in, zip up. He ran both hands through his hair, his back to her.
Anya pushed herself up, her arms trembling. She looked at the wreck of herself in the glass—smudged mascara, torn dress, the red mark on her cheek from the desk. She pulled her dress up, the fabric clinging uncomfortably. There was no hiding the dampness between her legs, the feeling of him leaking out of her.
Sid turned around. He looked at her, then at the papers scattered on the floor. The trophies on the walls. His expression was unreadable, a void where heat had just been.
“The files,” he said, his voice now clean, professional, dead. “Leave them on the desk before you go. Use the back stairs.”
He walked to the door, unlocked it, and paused without looking back. “The analytics on the Vermillion campaign look strong. Good work.”
Then he was gone, closing the door softly behind him, leaving her alone in the ruin of his sanctum. She slid to the floor, her back against the desk, listening to the faint, happy sounds of his party below. The cold from the glass seeped into her skin. She didn’t feel like a conqueror. She felt like evidence that needed to be disposed of. Carefully, quietly, before the guests noticed anything was amiss.