The intoxication was strange. Sweet. Viscous. Even at home, I'd never drunk like this. Something inside told me: this wasn't just alcohol.
Along with this strangeness, a sense of freedom grew within me. All the usual shackles vanished. As if the world had stopped holding me back. Everything around felt accessible, allowed, almost desirable.
And in that moment, Theron entered the office.
No knock. No apology. No gratitude.
He just walked in, in an expensive suit, wearing that infuriatingly recognizable scent, and without any preamble, began asking questions. About work. About tasks. Spoke as if nothing unexpected had happened.
I blinked. There was no logic in his appearance. No reason. No goal. No explanation. Yet he continued, calm, cold, as always.
"I still think the ban on meeting with Travis is inappropriate. And the subsidiary still has unresolved issues," I said, a bit softer than I should've. The wine and this blurry warmth inside had shifted my boundaries.
I leaned my hips back against the edge of the table. Stayed standing in front of him. Calm. Face to face. Unusually free, and I didn't care.
When I mentioned that at the subsidiary, I'd literally been thrown out with one of the folders, his face changed for a moment. Weakened. Almost like an inhale.
But the intoxication kept me warm. In that strange, viscous relaxation.
He stepped closer. Scanned me with his eyes like a predator checking if the prey was still intact.
"Did they touch you?" he asked quietly.
I was still lounging against the table. No anxiety. No fear. Everything was drifting.
"The manager shoved me a couple of times." I shrugged. "Nothing new."
A shadow flickered in his gaze. He came even closer. Now standing right up close, looking down at me. Almost looming.
My eyes paused on his face. First on the cheekbone. Then the lips.
He really was handsome. At this distance, he looked like someone from those clichéd novels: rich, powerful, striking. Only in my case, frighteningly severe. Toward me.
I caught myself staring at his lips. I wondered: do they taste like they look?
He looked at me as if he knew exactly where my gaze had landed. As if he was reading not just my face, but my thoughts. My desire. My weakness.
His hand suddenly gripped the back of my head, fingers locking into my hair, and he pulled me in.
He kissed me strangely. Deeply. Greedily. Almost roughly.
I didn't realize what was happening right away. But I didn't push him off. I was still floating.
When awareness caught up with action, I made an attempt to break away. Weak. Pitiful. He was stronger. He pinned me to the table, not letting me retreat. My body seemed to memorize his strength, his scent, his weight.
I gave in. Intoxicated. Free. Permitting.
He squeezed my thighs. Greedily. Sharply. As if trying to push me closer. Press me harder. Feel me completely.
When he realized I wouldn't slip away, he took off his jacket. Silently. Without commentary. Not a single extra word. Only the tension building between us, now finding its release.
He seated me on the edge of the table with a sharp, decisive movement. As if he no longer intended to wait.
My legs wrapped around his hips on their own. Without request. Without command. My body reacted faster than my mind.
He pulled back from my lips, froze at the edge of the next touch. His gaze burned.
The silence between us was louder than any scream.
He didn't say a word. Just looked. Like no one ever had.
I didn't look away.
The fire inside flared too quickly. Almost dangerously.
He began lifting the hem of my dress slowly, as if testing exactly where I would break. But I wasn't going to.
I reached for his jacket, pulled it from his shoulders, and threw it on the floor. The fabric rustled behind his back, but our eyes didn't break for a second. Everything happening was soundless.
A rip - short, muffled - as he tore my tights. His hands were rough, but precise. I didn't flinch. Didn't tremble.
My fingers found his belt blindly. I unbuckled it with determination, then the button of his expensive trousers, feeling the tension hidden beneath the thin fabric. Real. It meant more than any explanation. More than all his damned control.
I looked down. And he exhaled.
"Fuck."
One word. Dull. Torn from him.
The next kiss was different. Hungry. Almost cruel. He pressed into me with growing intensity, as if trying to erase everything between us. Erase the boundary. Make the impossible real.
His body pressed against mine. His silence screamed.
And I yielded. Not because I couldn't resist. But because I wanted to.
I felt the heat through the fabric too distinctly, too close.
Theron pulled away from my lips. Left them deliberately. Like a punishment. Or a game.
But even in that pause, there was no relief.
He lifted the hem of my dress higher. My legs clung tighter to his hips. Breathing became difficult. Not from fear. From tension. From what was happening inside me.
I touched him through the fabric. Confidently. Directly. He was hard, alive. As if with each passing second he was becoming more dangerous. My breathing faltered. So did his.
"Mirey," he exhaled.
But in that sound, there was no name. It was a warning. Or permission. I couldn't tell.
Theron lowered his head to my neck. Slowly, as if giving me a chance to change my mind. I didn't move. He kissed me, pushing the collar aside. He teased. With gesture, with motion, with the weight of his hands.
His fingers slid along the inside of my thigh. He felt everything. My readiness. Weakness. Surrender.
His palms settled on my thighs. Gripped.
The look he gave me after was piercing. He studied me. Like a threat. Or like something valuable. Something he wanted to keep.
And then, pushing my panties aside, he began to move himself between my legs. Not entering. Just frighteningly close. As if testing how much I could take.
I tried not to give myself away. But my body betrayed me. I bit my lip. And in that moment, I noticed his smirk.
Quiet. Almost invisible. But it was there.
He was enjoying my self-control. And how easily he could destroy it.
Theron entered me sharply. Without warning. Without asking. And the world, for a moment, seemed to disappear. No fear. No pain. Only one clear, all-consuming sensation: I belonged to this moment.
No man had ever brought such a feeling: pleasure that almost bordered on pain, nearly happiness from how deeply he could feel me.
His movements were precise, furious, relentless. It was as if he were chasing something he had long tried to forget. Or suppress.
I held back my voice, refusing to show weakness from pleasure. But he knew. He saw it in my eyes, in the way I clenched my lips, in the trembling of my thighs.
He relished it. Powerfully. Silently. Absolutely.
One of his hands still held me by the waist, like an anchor. The other rose to my face. With his thumb, he parted my lips. Touched my tongue. Slowly.
Theron knew I couldn't resist anymore. And still, he waited for an answer. I ran my tongue along his finger, letting him in, as if it were a kiss in another form.
His breathing quieted. But the pace did not.
He moved roughly. Mercilessly. Each thrust like the release of something he couldn't say aloud. And all of it — for me. Only me.
When I closed my eyes, the wave surged. So powerful, I forgot how to breathe. I clutched the edge of the table. At him. At myself. A moment of complete dissolution.
But before I could fully fall apart in that orgasm, I felt his body tense. His breathing grew shorter. His hand moved to my neck, not harshly, but with dominance. He wanted me not to look away. To see everything. To the end.
He looked into my eyes when he came. And in that moment, for the first time, I saw in him not just strength, but pleasure. In the form of sparks in his eyes.
And I accepted it. Not with words. Not with a gesture. Just with my gaze.
We stood there. He was still inside me. And in the silence between our breaths, in that frozen instant, for the first time, I wasn't afraid.
Just… quiet. Just… him.
Theron steadied his breathing, leaning his hands on the table. He lowered his gaze, as if looking for support not only in the furniture but in his own thoughts. I was still sitting on the edge, unable to believe what had just happened.
His movements were calm. Almost routine. He bent down, picked up my torn stockings from the floor, and… without any particular emotion, wiped the inside of my thigh and adjusted my panties back into place. As if it was a familiar, insignificant gesture.
Something about that act felt so real, so mundane, it hit me like an electric shock.
What had I done? What had we done?
Thoughts thundered through my head. My heart pounded, no longer from arousal, but from realization.
Shock. Disbelief. Panic. I still couldn't move. As if my body no longer obeyed me.
He lowered my dress, helped me down to the floor, and silently buttoned up, adjusted his clothes. Picked up my blazer from the floor, brushed off invisible dust — as if restoring the image of the impeccable Theron Vescari. And once again, he was cold. Composed. As if nothing had happened.
He didn't say a word. Just looked at me. Not with tenderness. Not with gratitude. There was anger. Or maybe despair. Something dark. Something that made me uneasy.
"You were there too," I said silently. "You wanted it too. Why that look now?"
He silently helped me put on the shoes that had come off in the heat of passion. And then…
He just left. Without a word. Without explanation.
And I stayed standing by the table. Completely disoriented. Still not fully believing it had really happened.
I fixed my clothes. My hair. Still distant from myself, I gathered myself and left the office, heading toward the elevator.
There, one of Theron's personal bodyguards was waiting. Tall, muscular, in a classic suit.
"Come with me," he said almost as an order. "The gentleman has called a car for you."
I almost burst out laughing right there. All the confusion and shock disappeared in an instant.
"He sent the girl a ride home after sex."
The thought was so absurd, the laughter kept rising.
"How very manly of you, Mr. Theron."
I was smiling, barely holding back a laugh. The bodyguard gave me suspicious looks but said nothing. I calmed down and followed him.
One of his black luxury cars was waiting in the parking lot. In complete silence, through the noisy streets, it brought me home.
Once inside the apartment, I didn't want to think about what had happened. Didn't want to think about the consequences. After something like this, it was better to blame everything on the intoxication and hope nothing would change.
But inside, anxiety was rising. Dangerous. Suspicious. This intoxication had been too strange. Too unfamiliar.