Chapter 1: Accidental Brush
The break room was a tomb of bad lighting and worse smells. Jaden stared into his mug, the black coffee a perfect mirror for his mood. The fluorescent tube above him buzzed, a dying insect trapped in plastic. It was Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday. The days bled together here, a slow leak of identical hours.
He reached for the sugar, his fingers brushing the cool ceramic of the communal jar just as a wave of warmth and perfume hit his side.
“Oh, sorry!”
The voice was honey, thick and deliberate. Emily pressed past him, her body a slow, firm slide against his arm. It wasn’t an accident. The contact was too sustained, too full. He felt the incredible, soft weight of her breast compress against his bicep, the heat of her through the thin silk of her blouse. She didn’t jerk away. She finished the motion, turning to face him, the corner of her mouth ticking up.
“Clumsy me,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. Her eyes held his, a challenge in their blue depths. Her top was barely legal for the office, the neckline plunging so deep the shadow between her breasts was a dark, inviting chasm. She leaned a hip against the counter, bringing her chest to his eye level.
Jaden cleared his throat, looking back into his coffee. “It’s fine.”
“You take your coffee black, huh?” she murmured, taking a step closer. The musky-sweet scent of her perfume mixed with the coffee grounds. “Kinda bitter. Like you.”
He snorted, trying to stay in the safe zone of banter. “Observant.”
“I am.” She reached across him for the tiny fridge, her arm brushing his chest. He could see the pale, freckled skin of her cleavage, the lace edge of her bra. She straightened up, a small carton of creamer in her hand. She held it out, shaking it gently. “I forgot this earlier. Makes everything smoother. Softer. You sure you don’t want some?”
The double meaning hung in the stale air, thicker than the humidity from the broken vent. Her gaze dropped to his lips, then back up.
“I’m good,” he said, his voice tighter than he wanted it to be.
“Suit yourself.” She popped the lid on the creamer and poured a slow, white stream into her own mug. She made a show of it, her tongue catching a drop from her lip. “You always work through lunch, Jaden. It’s not healthy. Gotta… release the tension somehow.”
He couldn’t move. He was pinned between the counter and the palpable heat radiating from her. His mind screamed professional, detached, walk away, but his body was traitorously alert, tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her hip.
“What kind of release did you have in mind?” The words were out before he could cage them, low and rough.
Emily’s smile widened. She set her mug down with a soft click. “Finally,” she breathed. In one fluid motion, she closed the remaining space. Her hand came up, palm flat against his chest, feeling the sudden, rapid beat of his heart. “You’re not made of stone after all.”
She pushed. It wasn’t forceful, but it was decisive. He stumbled back a step, his thighs hitting the edge of the laminate table. The plastic chair scraped behind him.
“Emily…”
“Shhh.” Her finger pressed against his lips. Her other hand went to the knot of his tie, pulling it loose with a sharp tug. “You think too much. I’ve been watching you. All that concentration. All that control.” She yanked the tie free and let it slither to the floor. Her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt. “I want to see what happens when you lose it.”
He should stop her. This was HR’s worst nightmare. This was his career. But her hands were on his bare skin now, cool and seeking, and her breasts were pressed against his half-open shirt, and the rational part of his brain was shutting down, overridden by a primal, thrumming need.
He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. A gasp escaped her, a sharp, pleased sound. He spun them, reversing their positions, pinning her against the table. The forgotten mugs rattled.
“No more games,” he growled, his mouth hovering inches from hers.
“Who’s playing?” she challenged, her breath hot on his face. She arched her back, grinding herself against the hard ridge of his erection straining against his pants. The contact was electric. “Fuck. You’re huge. I knew you would be.”
He crushed his mouth to hers. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a claiming. All the frustrated, pent-up energy of the last God-knows-how-many months exploded. She kissed him back just as fiercely, her teeth nipping his lower lip, her tongue tangling with his. Her taste was coffee and cream and something uniquely, addictively her.
His hands fumbled with the button of her trousers, then the zipper. He shoved them down over her hips along with her flimsy panties. She kicked them away, one heel clattering under the table. He didn’t bother with niceties. He hooked a hand under her knee, hiking her leg up around his waist, spreading her open. She was already wet, hot and slick against his fingers.
“Condom?” he rasped, his forehead against hers.
“I’m on the pill. Are you clean?”
“Yes.”
“Then fuck me. Now. I need to feel you.”
He unbuckled his belt, shoved his pants and boxers down just enough. He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against her. Her eyes were locked on his, wide and dark with hunger.
“Do it,” she whispered.
He drove into her in one deep, punishing stroke.
She cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound that echoed off the linoleum. She was tight, impossibly so, a velvet heat clenching around him. He stilled, shuddering, buried to the hilt. Her nails carved half-moons into his shoulders.
“Oh my God,” she moaned, her head falling back. “Yes. Just like that. So fucking deep.”
He began to move. It was a brutal, frantic rhythm, born of pure need. The table squeaked in protest with every thrust, thumping dully against the wall. He grabbed a handful of her hair, tilting her head back to suck and bite at the column of her throat. She wrapped her other leg around him, pulling him in deeper, meeting every slam of his hips with a roll of her own.
“Harder,” she panted, her words breaking on each impact. “Come on, you fucking desk jockey, is that all you’ve got?”
He snarled, grabbing her ass and lifting her higher, changing the angle. Her sharp scream told him he’d found it. Her inner muscles began to flutter and spasm around him. The sight of her was obscene—blouse rucked up, breasts spilling out, face a mask of ecstasy—and it drove him on.
“I’m gonna come,” she warned, her body tightening like a coil.
“Do it,” he grunted, his own release building, a tsunami in his gut.
With a shattered cry, she fell apart. Her climax ripped through her, her body convulsing around his cock, milking him. The intense, rhythmic squeezing was too much. His vision whited out. With three final, jagged thrusts, he emptied himself into her, a guttural groan torn from his chest as he spilled deep inside her pulsing heat.
They collapsed against the table, a tangled, sweating mess of limbs and rushed clothing. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the relentless, idiot buzzing of the fluorescent light. The smell of sex now dominated the room, mixing with the coffee and the dust.
Jaden’s mind, cold and clear and horrified, began to reboot. What had he done?
He pulled out of her slowly. She winced, a slick sound between them. He turned away, hastily fixing his pants, his hands trembling as he tried to re-button his shirt. He couldn’t look at her.
Emily slid off the table, pulling her trousers up. She didn’t speak for a moment, just leaned against the counter, watching him with an unreadable expression.
“Well,” she finally said, her voice hoarse but satisfied. “That was a much better break than a yogurt.”
He found his tie on the floor. It felt like a noose. He didn’t reply. He just walked out, leaving her in the ruined, intimate quiet of the break room. The hall outside was stark, bright, and empty. His footsteps echoed. With each step, the weight of it settled on him, cold and heavy. The buzzing light followed him all the way back to his cubicle.