He stayed late because of her.
That was something he would never say aloud—not to anyone, and certainly not to her. But it was the truth beneath everything: behind his perfectly worded emails, in the way he volunteered for tasks no one else wanted, in the way he timed his walks past her office just in case the door might be ajar. All of it was for her.
Ms. Corin.
Even the name carried weight. Always “Ms.,” never her first. It suited her—elegant, untouchable, expensive in the way her heels clicked across polished floors. She had the kind of presence that silenced a room without raising her voice. Forty-two, maybe forty-three. Not that he knew for certain.
But he had looked.
Elias sat alone at his desk, the soft glow of the monitor lighting the edges of his face. His shirt sleeves were rolled past his elbows, tie still on but loosened, collar open just enough to breathe. The office was quiet. Everyone else had gone home hours ago.
He hadn’t touched the thermostat. The chill kept him awake—kept his skin alert to every shift of air. He liked that. It made everything feel sharper.
She’d walked past him earlier, on her way out, her focus somewhere beyond him. He didn’t expect her to look, and she didn’t. Still, his breath had caught. Her perfume lingered in her wake—cool, clean, never sweet.
He didn’t just want her.
He wanted to be seen by her. Noticed. Not in passing, not as a good intern or a diligent assistant. He wanted her full attention, that measured gaze of hers turned solely on him. He wanted her approval like oxygen.
No. That wasn’t quite it.
He wanted her control.
The idea lodged somewhere low in his stomach, heavy and quiet and unshakable. He wanted to be commanded, owned—not by a woman, but by her. Her voice. Her eyes. Her touch. He wanted to be good for her in the way she defined good, whatever that meant.
The click of a door broke the silence.
Elias stilled.
It wasn’t security. Not the janitor either. He knew that sound too well—the outer office door. It closed with a particular latch, polished and soft, expensive like everything in her world.
Then came the rhythm of heels on tile. Measured. Unhurried. Coming closer.
He didn’t turn around.
He didn’t have to.
She didn’t knock.
The footsteps slowed behind him, then paused—close enough that he could hear the faint shift of fabric as she adjusted her stance. Elias kept his eyes on the screen, hands hovering over the keyboard though he hadn’t typed in minutes. His pulse beat just beneath the skin of his neck.
He waited.
The sound of the office door closing was soft, deliberate. A moment later, the lock clicked into place.
He turned.
Ms. Corin stood with one hand still resting against the door, her head slightly tilted. She wore black slacks, sharply tailored, and a deep gray blouse with the sleeves rolled precisely to mid-forearm. Her lipstick was darker than usual. Not red—plum. Regal. Her eyes, framed by dark lashes, were unreadable.
“You’re still here,” she said, as though she hadn’t just locked the door behind her.
“Yes,” Elias replied, trying to sound casual. “I wanted to finish the corrections on the Q4 report.”
Her gaze flicked to the monitor, then returned to him.
“You didn’t need to. That wasn’t assigned.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I just thought… it might help.”
She stepped further into the room. Her heels were softer on the carpet, but he still heard each one. She didn’t sit. Instead, she walked a slow, thoughtful semicircle around his desk—observing the space, his screen, the half-drunk cup of coffee by his keyboard.
When she passed behind him, Elias felt her presence like heat along his spine.
“You’re very eager to be useful,” she said quietly.
He swallowed. “I try to be.”
She stopped beside him.
“Do you enjoy being useful, Elias?”
His breath caught. He glanced up.
Her expression hadn’t changed. Still poised. Still cool. But the question lingered in the air, too intimate for the office, too slow for casual conversation.
“Yes,” he said, because it was the only truth he had.
She nodded once.
“I’ve noticed.”
Ms. Corin moved to the edge of the desk and leaned against it, her arms folded lightly. Her gaze drifted over his face, his posture, down to where his hands now gripped the armrests of his chair.
“You’re very obedient,” she said.
A pause.
“I like that.”
Elias didn’t know what to say. Every nerve in his body buzzed with anticipation, confusion, heat. His hands tightened. He felt seen—stripped bare in the quiet way she looked at him.
Then her hand reached out and touched his tie.
Just two fingers, adjusting the knot slightly. Not fixing it. Just… touching.
He went still.
Ms. Corin’s fingers lingered for a beat longer than necessary. Then she stepped back, her voice cool and composed once more.
“Stand up.”
He obeyed.
He rose when she told him to.
There was no flourish to her command—no seduction. Just a short phrase spoken with the same authority she used when requesting a revised chart or updated figures. Still, Elias obeyed instantly.
He stood, trying not to fidget, though his nerves lit up under his skin. She didn’t look at him as a man. Not yet. She looked at him the way she did everything else in the office—with evaluation, not emotion.
Ms. Corin folded her arms and studied his shirt.
“Your tie’s too loose,” she said.
Her fingers reached out to adjust it. Not gently, not playfully. Just efficiently. She tightened the knot, aligned it, smoothed the collar flat with a single sweep of her hand.
He held still.
The nearness of her sent a tremor down his spine, though her touch carried no heat. Her skin was cool, her movements brisk. She could have been prepping a mannequin. Or a soldier.
“You’re tense,” she observed.
He didn’t answer.
She circled him once, slow but unceremonious, her steps soft against the carpet. He wanted to turn with her, to see if her gaze lingered anywhere it shouldn’t, but he knew better.
She came to a stop behind his shoulder.
“You always volunteer for late work.”
Her voice was low, almost thoughtful. A statement, not a question.
“I don’t mind it,” he said.
“I know,” she replied.
Something in her tone made his breath catch. Not warmth. Not intimacy. More like curiosity cut with mild disapproval—an employer noticing an unusual pattern in a subordinate and not yet deciding whether it was commendable or inefficient.
Then silence again.
Her hand touched his shoulder—not to caress, but to adjust. Straightening a wrinkle in the fabric, brushing off a fleck of lint. He felt the imprint of her fingers for far longer than the contact lasted.
“You can sit.”
He lowered himself back into the chair. She remained standing.
When he glanced up at her, she was already reaching for a file on the corner of the desk. She flipped it open, scanning something inside, brow furrowing slightly. Her attention drifted entirely from him—as if the moment had never happened.
“I’ll review the numbers in the morning,” she said. “You’re done for the night.”
She started to turn away, pausing at the door.
Then she looked back.
Her eyes drifted downward, unhurried, resting just a moment too long at the front of his slacks. The angle of his seated posture made it impossible to hide what had built beneath the fabric—an outline. A pressure. Shamefully obvious.
Her eyes lifted again. Calm. Unbothered.
“Elias,” she said. “You should take a moment before you walk through the building like that.”
She turned toward the door.
The file remained in her hand, tucked under one arm. Her posture was relaxed, unconcerned. Just another night. Another task completed.
Elias didn’t move. He couldn’t. The room felt tighter now, the air too still. He sat in silence, hands still on the armrests like she’d told him, pulse loud in his ears.
He wondered if she’d speak again. If she’d glance back. If she’d say his name one more time.
Her hand reached for the lock. The soft click of metal shifting back into place echoed louder than it should have.
Then—she paused.
Her hand stilled on the doorknob.
She didn’t turn around. Not fully. But her gaze shifted, glancing over her shoulder with a detached, almost absent-minded curiosity.
Her eyes dropped, just for a second.
Elias followed her line of sight—down the line of his own body, where the fabric of his slacks strained visibly across his lap. The heat of humiliation hit him instantly. He shifted, but it was too late.
She saw.
Her gaze lingered.
Not long. Not enough to shame him outright. But just enough to acknowledge it. To register.
Then her eyes lifted again, meeting his—not with heat, not with disdain, but with something colder. Something more… clinical.
As if discovering a lever she hadn’t realized was hers to pull.
She said nothing.
But she didn’t leave.
Not yet.
The door remained half-open, her hand still resting on the knob. She hadn’t left.
Elias stayed seated, spine rigid, trying and failing to will his body into stillness. The heat across his skin refused to fade. The pressure between his thighs ached dully, throbbing with the shame of being seen.
Ms. Corin looked back at him again. This time, her gaze didn’t slide off so quickly.
Her eyes lingered.
“Is that discomfort,” she said evenly, “from working late?”
He opened his mouth, but no answer came. The only thing he could think to say was yes, and it would have sounded pathetic.
She didn’t wait.
“I suppose that’s one way to measure productivity.”
Elias blinked. Her voice was calm—almost dry. The barest curl of amusement rested in the corners of her lips, but her posture didn’t shift. Still poised. Still composed.
“Do you intend to take care of that before you leave?”
His throat worked around a swallow. “I wasn’t—I didn’t mean—”
She lifted a hand. Just enough to quiet him.
“I didn’t ask for a confession, Elias.”
That stopped him.
She stepped back into the room slowly, letting the door fall mostly closed behind her. She didn’t approach, just stood a few feet away—still in control, still unreadable.
“I don’t mind if you want me,” she said. “It’s a… natural enough reaction.”
His eyes met hers, startled.
“But I do mind,” she continued, “if you start believing that’s relevant.”
“I don’t,” he said too quickly.
“No?” Her brow lifted. “Then what exactly are you hoping happens when I see it?”
He flushed. The words struck him like a hand across the face—not because they were cruel, but because they were precise.
“I wasn’t hoping for anything,” he managed.
“Mmm.”
She let that hang.
Then—just before he could wither under the weight of it—her tone softened. Not with kindness. With detachment.
“It’s just arousal, Elias,” she said. “It doesn’t mean anything unless you act on it.”
“And I wouldn’t,” he said.
“I know.”
A pause.
She adjusted the folder beneath her arm, as though concluding a meeting, and reached for the door again. But this time, she didn’t walk through it alone.
She looked back over her shoulder, a faint gleam behind her lashes.
“Walk with me,” she said. “If you’re composed.”
He stood.
She didn’t wait for his reply.
She stepped into the hallway, heels clicking quietly against the tile. He followed a few paces behind, shirt still rumpled, arousal dulled by tension but far from forgotten.
They walked in silence.
Elias kept his pace a few steps behind hers, not by command, but by instinct. Ms. Corin didn’t speak again after the front doors of the office suite closed behind them. She moved with the same measured calm she always carried—shoulders straight, steps deliberate, gaze forward.
It was only the two of them now. The janitorial staff wouldn’t arrive for another hour, and the executive floor was otherwise still.
She didn’t head toward the elevators.
Instead, she veered left—into the old wing. The corridor narrowed slightly, the lights flickered overhead, and the atmosphere changed. Fewer doors here. No windows. The carpet was older. Worn. Quiet.
Most people didn’t walk this hallway at all.
The records room. Unused conference storage. Legacy cabinets full of things no one had touched in years. Elias hadn’t been down here since his first month.
Still, he followed.
She didn’t glance back.
At the far end of the corridor, she stopped at a narrow, unmarked door—metal, dull beige, easy to mistake for maintenance. No cameras here. Just silence and recycled air.
She reached into her blazer pocket and withdrew a small brass key.
Not her badge. Not a code.
A physical key.
She slid it into the lock and turned it without hesitation.
The door creaked open.
Darkness inside. Rows of shelves. Cardboard boxes. Spare chairs stacked in the back. The faint smell of dust and printer toner clung to the air.
She stepped inside.
And for the first time, she looked back.
The light from the hallway caught only one side of her face, casting a line down the bridge of her nose, across her lips, the corner of her cheekbone. Her eyes were unreadable.
“You can wait out here if you’re nervous,” she said. “But you did say you wanted to be useful.”
Then she turned, vanished into the dark, and left the door open behind her.
Elias hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then he stepped inside.
The door closed softly behind him. The bolt clicked into place behind him.
She hadn’t told him to lock it. But the air demanded it. The moment had already shifted into something else—charged, private, deliberate. There was no turning back.
Ms. Corin stood with her back to a waist-high filing cabinet, one hand resting on its edge. Her blazer was gone. Left who knows where. Without it, she looked even more composed. The silk blouse clung in the low light, her sleeves rolled with the same exacting care she applied to contracts and spreadsheets.
“You’ve been watching me,” she said.
Not a question.
Elias nodded. “Yes.”
Her eyes swept over him—not with hunger, not with any overt claim. Just evaluation. The way she looked at proposals. Details. Deadlines. The same eyes that had weighed his performance week after week.
He wasn’t classically attractive. Not polished. But he was solid. Broad across the shoulders. The sleeves of his shirt still rolled. His forearms strong, lightly freckled. His mouth slightly parted as though still waiting to be told what came next.
“I know,” she said.
She undid the top button of her blouse.
Just one.
Then another.
She looked at him.
“I’m giving you a task.”
Elias swallowed.
“You’re going to unbutton the rest. Slowly. Neatly. As if it were a privilege.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t lean in. She simply waited.
He stepped forward.
His hands hovered, breath tight. Then he reached for the next button. His knuckles brushed the silk. Her skin beneath was warm, smooth. The scent of her perfume drifted into his lungs—crisp, cool, and expensive.
Each button opened like a page.
By the time he reached her waist, her blouse hung open. Not pulled aside. Not exposed. Just open. The satin of her bra caught the light—black, understated, perfect. He could see the soft rise and fall of her breath.
“That’s enough,” she said.
He stepped back, uncertain whether to speak, but her gaze had already shifted. Her hands moved forward.
Without a word, she began unfastening his shirt.
Each button slipped open with slow precision. She kept her eyes on him—not his body, not the work. Just him.
When she reached the last, she pressed her palm flat to his chest. Her skin was cool against his. His breath stuttered.
Then she moved to his sleeves. Rolled them higher. Neatened them.
He didn’t dare move.
She stepped back and studied him. Quiet. Unrushed.
“You wear tension like armor,” she murmured.
He had no answer. She didn’t need one.
Her fingers moved behind her back. A soft motion. Practiced.
The clasp came undone.
The garment held—suspended by the open blouse. A quiet provocation. No movement to remove it. No invitation.
She stepped forward again. Her thumb found the button at the waist of his slacks.
She undid it.
Nothing more.
Her hand remained there, resting at the open edge. His shirt still hung loose around his shoulders. Her blouse hung open. The bra no longer fastened. But they hadn’t touched. Not really.
Her voice dropped low.
“Tell me, Elias… what do you think I brought you here for?”
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