Powder Room
The mirror threw her reflection back at her in sharp, unforgiving lines. Fluorescent light bled the warmth from her skin, but she studied what mattered. The controlled set of her mouth, the smoothness of her hair where she'd brushed humidity back into place. Her jacket was already off, draped neatly over the chair; the silk blouse clung faintly at her collarbone from walking across the street for coffee. Her lipstick had worn soft at the center, and when she reapplied, the careful crimson steadied her.
She leaned closer, exhaling once. Not to calm herself. To choose.
Fingers skimmed the edge of her skirt, then slipped beneath. She drew down slowly, black lace, catching once at the curve of her calf before pooling at her heels. The air touched her bare thighs, sharp and secret. She bent, folded the wisp of fabric, and placed it into her handbag.
When she straightened, her reflection was intact: lawyer, advocate, armor sharpened. Only she knew what had been stripped away.
Boardroom Temptation
Julian didn't look up when she entered. Not until she crossed her legs, bare beneath her skirt. Then his eyes lifted, pausing just long enough to undo her breath.
It swept from her green eyes, the red of her lips, to the line of her skirt and paused. Just long enough to turn her stomach before rising back to her eyes.
Her phone buzzed.
Careful.
She kept her face smooth, even as her pulse hammered. She answered a partner's question, voice even, pen steady in her fingers. But when she shifted in her chair, the subtle arch of Julian's brow stopped her cold.
She obeyed.
The rest of the meeting blurred, each minute stretched tight across her nerves. By the time the room emptied, she was raw from holding still under his eyes.
Her phone lit again.
Outside. Now.
Rooftop
The wind struck sharper than yesterday, biting against the tops of her bare thighs. The glass barrier trembled faintly under her palms, the city a blur of light beneath. Her jacket whipped against her hips, but the skirt rode high, unshielded now that no lace softened the cold.
Julian stepped behind her, tall and steady, his heat cutting the chill in a single line along her back.
"Hands," he said, sliding her handbag carefully off her shoulder.
Leather whispered. He opened it one-handed, withdrawing the folded scrap of lace she'd hidden there. Black against his pale wrist.
Her breath fogged the glass. "Sir…"
"Bold," he murmured again, into her ear, voice almost a smile. The lace disappeared into his breast pocket.
He gathered both wrists and lifted, forcing her reflection into posture: arms stretched, shoulders open, chin tipped back. His hand braced the backs of hers, warm, immovable. Restraint not for force, but for certainty.
"Now?" he asked softly, though they both knew the answer.
"Green." Her voice steadied.
"Good."
He stepped closer, chest aligned with her back. Wool pressed against silk, static sparking where fabric met skin. His free hand traced the line of her waist, over her hip, down until his thumb brushed the inner seam of her thigh. She startled, muscle jumping beneath his touch.
"Eyes forward," he said.
The mirror of glass betrayed everything. Her flushed cheeks, parted lips, pupils dilated. She watched herself as his thigh slid between hers. He set the angle, forcing her to move against him, not the other way around.
"Count."
She inhaled on four, exhaled on four, the rhythm binding her even as she pressed herself slowly against him. When she rushed, his hand tightened at her wrists, a silent correction that rewrote obedience through her body.
Wind caught her blouse, plastering silk against damp skin. Her calves shook in heels, her thighs aching, the ache sharpening into need. She felt herself chase the friction until his mouth brushed her jaw in a warning that felt like a kiss.
"Don't chase," he murmured. "Let it come to you."
She obeyed, inch by aching inch. The friction built clean, precise, each movement tightening the coil inside her. Her reflection looked wrecked and unafraid, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes without falling.
"Tell me," he breathed.
"I'm…close." The words cracked out of her.
His thumb slid higher. Her whole body quaked against the glass, breath jagged, eyes locked to the woman staring back.
He stopped.
Stillness. Absence. Every muscle seized in denial, her body straining on the cusp with nowhere to go.
"Please…"
His palm found her throat, thumb resting on the wild pulse. His mouth skimmed her hair.
"You'll remember this," he whispered.
Her legs trembled violently; her heels squeaked faintly against concrete. He held her through it, not relenting, not mocking, simply present. Until her body stilled into shuddered breath.
Then his hand smoothed down her arms, as though reseating her back into herself. He tugged her skirt into place, each gesture merciful only in its denial.
"Hands down."
Her palms left pale prints on the glass that vanished in the wind.
He stepped back, cool air rushing in to fill the space. The lace peered from his pocket.
"Tonight," he said, voice low, "you learn patience."
She nodded because words failed. He waited until she found one.
"Yes, Sir."
He turned toward the elevator, suit unruffled, hair still cruelly neat. She lingered, letting her reflection swallow the last tremor, before following. Her legs wavered; she corrected them. Chin up. Shoulders squared.
In the elevator's steel, she caught the faint smear at her lip where she'd bitten too hard. She wiped it with her thumb, steadying her reflection.
The need didn't recede. It refined, stretched inside her body until it felt, impossible to breathe.