Chapter 1: Office Gossip
The break room at Stevens Advertising smelled like burned coffee and resignation. Bow Johnson set the insulated lunch bag on the table, next to a wilting fern. She’d told Dre she was bringing him his favorite kale and grilled chicken salad, but really, she’d come to see.
The office buzzed with a low, frantic energy. Through the glass walls, she watched junior associates scurrying like ants, their faces lit by the blue glow of monitors. And there, at the end of the hall, was the corner office. His office.
Mr. Stevens’s door was open.
Bow moved without seeming to move, drifting toward the water cooler as if parched. From this angle, she had a perfect view.
Zoey was in there, leaning over his desk, pointing at something on a large storyboard. Her braids were swept over one shoulder, her expression earnest and bright. She was wearing the blouse Bow had helped her pick out—professional, but with a cut that hinted at the woman she was becoming.
Mr. Stevens stood beside her. He was tall, his silver hair impeccably styled. He wore a tailored charcoal suit that cost more than Dre’s first car. He was listening, nodding, the picture of the engaged mentor.
Then his hand came up. It landed on Zoey’s shoulder. Not a pat. A settle. His long fingers curled over the curve of her blouse, his thumb resting just above her collarbone. He left it there as he spoke, his head dipping close to hers to examine the board.
Bow’s breath caught, a tiny, silent hitch.
The touch lasted three seconds. Four. It was possessive. Familiar. Zoey didn’t flinch; she just kept talking, a slight, proud smile on her face. She was too naive to read the map his hand was drawing on her skin.
All the stories Dre had ranted about over dinner, the rumors she’d dismissed as office gossip, suddenly crystallized into that single, lingering point of contact. He has a thing for the young Black interns. He mentors them real close.
Bow’s polite smile for the passing receptionist felt glued on. Her mind, however, was racing, white-hot and clear. It wasn’t just worry for Zoey that flashed through her. It was a darker, more primal curl of curiosity. Dre talked about the man’s predatory reputation, but the women in her yoga circle, the former interns who’d moved on, they whispered something else. They whispered about his skill, his stamina. They whispered with a kind of awe about the sheer, physical fact of him. That white man is packed. The gossip was always followed by low, knowing laughs.
She found herself watching him, really looking, for the first time. The elegant drape of his suit pants. The assured way he moved, even just standing still. A heat that had nothing to do with maternal concern bloomed low in her belly.
“He’s in a meeting, Mrs. Johnson, but I can let him know you’re here?” the receptionist chirped.
“No, honey, don’t bother him,” Bow said, her voice smooth as honeyed whiskey. “I’ll just pop my head in Dre’s office.”
But she didn’t go to Dre’s office. She walked slowly down the hall toward the corner office, her heels silent on the plush carpet. As she got closer, she saw Zoey laugh, gathering her things. Mr. Stevens said something, his voice a low rumble Bow couldn’t hear. Zoey nodded and turned, leaving the office with a spring in her step.
She passed Bow without seeing her, lost in her own successful world.
Bow stood in the doorway. Mr. Stevens was turned toward the window, his hands in his pockets, a king surveying his domain.
He must have sensed her. He turned.
His eyes were a cool, assessing blue. They took her in—the elegant wrap dress clinging to her curves, the defiance in her posture, the lack of a file folder in her hands. This was not a scheduled appointment.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone polite, devoid of recognition.
“I’m Bow Johnson. Dre’s wife.” She didn’t extend a hand. She let her gaze travel across his face, down to the open collar of his shirt. “I was just admiring your… mentoring style.”
A flicker in those blue eyes. Not surprise. Interest. He closed the distance between them, not stopping until he was just inside her personal space. The door was wide open. Anyone could see. It was a power play.
“Bow,” he repeated, as if tasting the name. “I’ve heard stories, too.”
“Oh? I hope they’re good ones.”
“They’re intriguing.” He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, blocking her view of the hall, making the space suddenly, intimately small. His cologne was subtle and expensive. “They say you’re the rock. The sane one. That you’re… curious.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Maybe I am.”
“About?” He knew. God, he knew exactly.
“About what makes a powerful man risk so much for a taste of something he can’t have at home.”
He smiled then, a slow, dangerous unraveling of his composure. “Who says I can’t have it?”
He pushed the door closed with a soft, definitive click.
The sound echoed in the sudden quiet. The noise of the office vanished, replaced by the hum of the central air and the pounding of her own blood.
“That’s quite a risk,” she said, not moving.
“You walked down here. You’re standing in my office. We’re both adults.” He reached out and touched one of her curls, winding it gently around his finger. “Curiosity is a powerful thing. It’s not about risk. It’s about value. Is the experience,” his eyes dropped to her mouth, “worth the consequence?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He kissed her. It wasn’t gentle. It was a conquest, his mouth claiming hers with a hungry confidence that stole the air from her lungs. His tongue pushed past her lips, and she met it with her own, a low groan building in her throat. All her thoughts, about Zoey, about Dre, evaporated under the sheer physical shock of him.
His hands were everywhere, mapping the expanse of her hips, gripping her ass through the thin fabric of her dress, pulling her hard against him. She could feel him, a thick, rigid length already straining against his trousers, pressing into her stomach. The rumors were true. A thrill, sharp and filthy, shot through her.
“On the desk,” he growled against her mouth, his voice ragged.
He turned her, bending her over the polished mahogany. Papers scattered. She braced her hands on the cool wood, watching their reflection in the dark window glass. He pushed her dress up around her waist, his fingers hooking into the lace of her thong and yanking it down to her knees in one rough motion. The air hit her wet skin.
She heard the tear of a foil packet, the jingle of his belt, the slide of his zipper. Then the blunt, broad head of his cock was pressing against her, not asking, taking.
He shoved into her with one deep, brutal stroke.
Bow cried out, her back arching. He was huge, stretching her deliciously, painfully full. There was no gentle acclimation. He set a punishing rhythm immediately, each drive of his hips slamming her into the desk’s edge.
“This what you were curious about?” he grunted, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. “This what you came down here to get?”
“Yes,” she gasped, the word torn from her. The obscene, wet sound of their joining filled the room. She was so fucking wet, her body betraying every sane thought, craving the fullness only he could provide.
“Fuck. You’re tighter than I imagined,” he breathed, his rhythm faltering for a second as he sank deeper. “All that quiet elegance, and you take a cock like a goddamn champion.”
He pulled her braids, forcing her head back, exposing her throat. He leaned over her, his chest hot against her back, his mouth at her ear. “You think about this when Dre’s ranting about me? You get wet thinking about the big bad wolf fucking his little girl? Or is it just about you getting what you need?”
His words were filthy, designed to degrade, but they lit a fuse in her gut. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, taking him even deeper. “Shut up and fuck me,” she snarled.
He laughed, a dark, delighted sound, and obliged. His pace became animalistic, the desk creaking in protest. One of his hands slipped around her front, fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough, urgent circles. The dual assault was too much. Her orgasm ripped through her without warning, a silent, screaming convulsion that clamped down around him like a vise.
He followed seconds later, his body stiffening, a raw, guttural sound escaping him as he pumped into her, his hips jerking through the last pulses.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. The smell of sex and sweat hung heavy in the sterile office air.
He pulled out. Bow winced, feeling empty and used in the best way possible. She heard him dispose of the condom, the quiet zip of his fly.
She slowly pushed herself up, her legs trembling. She pulled her thong back up, the fabric damp and uncomfortable, and smoothed her dress down. In the window's reflection, she saw him, already looking composed, straightening his tie.
She turned. Their eyes met. There was no tenderness, no apology. Just a frank, shared understanding of the transaction.
“The next time you’re curious,” he said, his voice back to its smooth, CEO calm, “my calendar is on the server. Find a gap.”
He walked to the door and opened it, the innocuous fluorescent light of the hallway flooding in.
Bow walked out, her stride steady, her head high. She passed Dre’s office without stopping. She left the lunch bag on the break room table, forgotten.
In the elevator, staring at her own flushed reflection, she touched her swollen lips. The guilt would come. The fear for Zoey would return. But right now, all she could feel was a terrifying, electrifying awareness. She knew the monster’s true face now. And a dark, hungry part of her couldn’t wait to see it again.