The Office

‎The morning came too soon. Aurora woke with a headache and a bruise on her neck that she would have to cover with makeup. She stood in the shower for twenty minutes, letting the hot water pound against her skin, trying to wash away the memory of his touch. It didn’t work. Nothing worked.

‎She got out, dried off, wrapped herself in a robe that had been her father’s, and sat at her kitchen table with coffee that tasted like ash. Her phone was full of messages from her business partner, Maya, asking how the charity event had gone, if she had made any good contacts, if she had seen anyone interesting. Aurora typed back a lie: Boring. Rich people talking about money. Nothing useful.

‎She didn’t mention the penthouse. She didn’t mention his hands. She didn’t mention that in three days she was scheduled to walk into Vale Industries headquarters for a preliminary meeting about a merger consultation, and that she had no idea how she would look him in the eye without remembering exactly how he had looked at her when she came.

‎She finished her coffee and stood up, walking to the window. The city stretched out before her, full of people who had no idea that Aurora Miller was a ghost wearing a fake name, and that she had let the enemy touch her, and that she had liked it.

‎“I hate you,” she said to the empty room, and she didn’t know if she was talking to Lucian or to herself.

‎Her phone buzzed again. An email this time, from an address she didn’t recognize. It had no subject line, she opened it with a finger that trembled.

‎"Aurora,  

‎I don’t do regrets. But I do follow-through. The meeting Thursday just became more interesting.  

‎~L"

‎She stared at the screen until her eyes burned. He knew, somehow, impossibly, he knew who she was, what she did, that their paths would cross again. Or maybe he didn’t know anything, maybe he was fishing, maybe this was how he operated with every woman who ran from his bed.

‎It didn’t matter. Thursday was three days away. Three days to rebuild her walls, to remember her purpose, to prepare herself for the moment when she would have to sit across from Lucian Vale in a conference room and pretend she had never moaned his name while his fingers were inside her.

‎She could do this, she had to do this. Her father’s memory deserved it.

‎But as she got dressed for work, as she carefully applied makeup, she caught herself in the mirror and saw something in her own eyes that she didn’t recognize. Not hate or grief it was 'want.'

‎

‎She looked away, grabbed her bag, and walked out into the city to work thinking of the man who had destroyed her family and then given her the best orgasm of her life with just his fingers.

‎

‎

‎***

‎Aurora spent the next three days building walls. She rehearsed her presentation until she could deliver it in her sleep. She chose her outfit with precision; a navy pencil skirt that ended exactly at the knee, a cream silk blouse buttoned to the throat, a blazer that added inches of authority to her shoulders. The bruise on her neck had faded to yellow. She covered it with foundation and forgot about it.

‎She did not forget about the email. She read it seventeen times, analyzed the sentence structure, searched for hidden meanings. I don't do regrets. What did that mean? Was he mocking her? Did he know who she was, what she wanted, how thoroughly he had dismantled her and her principles in that penthouse?

‎She told herself it didn't matter. She was Aurora Miller a consultant, a professional, woman who had rebuilt her life from the wreckage of her father's mistakes. She could sit across from Lucian Vale for an hour without remembering the weight of his hand on her hip.

‎Thursday morning arrived she took the subway to Midtown, and emerged into the canyon of Vale Industries headquarters with her heart hammering against her ribs. The building was a glass and steel, sixty stories of dominance. 

‎The lobby was marble and silence. A security guard checked her ID, a receptionist directed her to the express elevator, and then she was alone in an elevator she watched the numbers climb and felt her carefully constructed composure leaving with each floor.

‎Forty-seventh. Forty-eighth. Forty-ninth.

‎The doors opened with a soft chime.

‎She stepped into a hallway, a woman sat at a desk she was blonde and efficient, looking up with a smile that was genuinely fake.

‎"Ms. Miller? Mr. Vale is expecting you. His office is the last door on the left."

‎Aurora nodded. She walked down the hallway, past closed doors and many windows that showed the big city.

‎His office door was open.

‎She stopped in the threshold. Lucian stood with his back to her, staring out at the skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows. He wore a suit the color of charcoal. His hair was shorter than she remembered, or maybe it was just trimmed. She couldn't see his face but she knew his hands, knew the way they had moved inside her, knew the taste of his mouth.

‎"You're late," he said, without turning.

‎"I'm exactly on time."

‎He turned then, and she saw his eyes, those big gray-green and knowing, exactly as she remembered, exactly as she had tried to forget. He looked her up and down with a thoroughness that should have been offensive but instead made her skin heat beneath her professional armor.

‎"So you are." He smiled, and it was the smile from the penthouse, small and genuine and terrifying. "Come in, Aurora. Close the door behind you."

‎

‎She stepped inside and locked the door.  The room was enormous, all glass and leather and the faint scent of bergamot that transported her back to the penthouse, to his fingers, to the way she had begged.

‎"I wasn't sure you'd come," he said, moving toward his desk but not sitting. He leaned against it instead, arms crossed, watching her with an intensity that made her want to check her blouse for stains.

‎"I wasn't sure you'd still want me here. After..."

‎"After I made you come so hard you couldn't walk straight?" The bluntness shocked her, sent heat flooding to her face. He tilted his head. "You walked out on me, Aurora. Most women at least stay for a drink."

‎"I'm not most women." she answered sharply

‎"No." He pushed off the desk and moved toward her, close enough that she could smell him, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "Most women don't look at me like they want to kill me and fuck me at the same time. Most women don't run before I can return the favor."

‎She stepped back, her shoulder blades hit the door. She had nowhere to go and he knew it, his smile widening as he placed one hand on the door beside her head, caging her in without touching her.

‎"Why did you run?" he asked, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated in her bones.

‎"Because it was a mistake."

‎"Was it?" His other hand came up, not touching her, just resting on the door on her other side. He was close enough now that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that his breath stirred the hair at her temple. "Because I've been thinking about it for three days. Your taste, your sounds. The way you clenched around my fingers like you never wanted to let go."

‎"Stop."

‎"Make me." His mouth was inches from hers, his eyes searching hers for something she was terrified he would find. "You came here today wearing your armor, Aurora. But I know what's underneath. I know how soft you are. I know what makes you moan."

‎She should push him away, she should remind him that this was a business meeting, that she was a professional, that she hated him for what he had done to her father and what he was doing to her now. Instead she felt her lips part, felt her body lean toward him like a flower toward the sun, felt three days of denial crumbling to dust.

‎His mouth covered hers.

‎It was different from the penthouse. There was no whiskey, no soft lighting. This was fluorescent lights distant sound of phones ringing and soft conversations outside, and his kiss was harder, more desperate, as if he had been starving for her and only now allowed himself to feed.

‎She kissed him back with equal violence. Her hands found his shoulders, gripping the expensive fabric of his suit, pulling him closer until there was no space between them, until she could feel the hard length of him pressing against her stomach. He made a sound against her mouth, something between a groan and a growl, and his hands dropped from the door to her waist, sliding down to her hips and lifting.

‎She wrapped her legs around him without thinking, her skirt riding up, her professionalism dissolving like sugar in water. He carried her two steps and deposited her on his desk, sweeping aside papers and pens with one arm so she lay back against the polished wood, her hair spreading around her like a dark halo.

‎"Fuck," he breathed, looking down at her. "You have no idea what you do to me."

‎"Show me."

‎He did. His hands pushed her skirt higher, baring her thighs, her hips, the lace underwear that was already damp with wanting. He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled, the fabric tearing with a sound that made her gasp. He tossed the ruined lace aside and spread her knees, looking at her with an expression of raw hunger that should have frightened her.

‎"Beautiful," he murmured, and dropped to his knees.

‎His mouth on her was electric. He licked her with the flat of his tongue, from entrance to clit, a long slow stroke that made her back arch off the desk. He did it again, and again, settling into a rhythm that was devastating in its patience. He wasn't rushing. He was savoring her, exploring her, learning what made her gasp and what made her moan and what made her grab his hair and hold on for dear life.

‎His tongue circled her clit, teasing, retreating, returning with more pressure. He slid one finger inside her, then two, curling them in that way that made her see stars. She was making sounds she didn't recognize, high and broken, her heels drumming against the desk, her hands gripping the edge so hard her knuckles turned white.

‎"Lucian," she gasped. "Lucian, I-"

‎"Not yet." He looked up at her, his mouth wet with her, his eyes dark with desire. "I want you to beg for it. I want to hear my name when you come apart on my desk."

‎She should have been angry. She was angry, somewhere beneath the pleasure, beneath the betrayal of her own body. But she was also desperate, also aching, also three years lonely and tired of being strong.

‎"Please," she whispered. "Please, Lucian. Make me come."

‎He growled against her, the vibration sending shockwaves through her core. His fingers moved faster, his tongue pressed harder, and she felt the orgasm building with terrifying speed, a wave she couldn't outrun, and didn't want to outrun.

‎She came with a cry that was too loud for an office, too raw for a woman who was supposed to hate this man. Her body bucked against his mouth, her inner muscles clamping down on his fingers, her vision whiting out at the edges. He didn't stop, drawing out every spasm, licking her through the aftershocks until she was limp and gasping on his desk.

‎When she could breathe again, when she could think, she realized he was standing between her legs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, watching her with an expression of dark satisfaction.

‎"Better?" he asked.

‎She couldn't answer. She sat up slowly, her skirt still rucked around her waist, her blouse half-unbuttoned, her hair a mess. She looked at the door, wondering if anyone had heard, if his secretary was sitting at her expensive desk knowing exactly what was happening in here.

‎"I hate you," she said, because it was true, because it was the only true thing left.

‎He smiled, and it was not a kind smile.

‎ "I know. But you still came for me. You still begged." He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch gentle despite his words. "I'll see you at the formal presentation next week, Ms. Miller. I look forward to negotiating with you."

‎He stepped back, giving her space to slide off the desk, to straighten her skirt, to retrieve her bag from where she had dropped it. She didn't look at him as she walked to the door, didn't look back as she opened it and stepped into the hallway.

‎His secretary didn't look up from her computer. Aurora walked past her, past the elevator, down sixty stories in a daze that felt like falling. She emerged into the sunlight and kept walking, not knowing where she was going, not caring.

‎Her phone buzzed. She ignored it. She walked until she found a coffee shop, ordered something she didn't taste, and sat in a corner with her hands wrapped around the cup for warmth.

‎She had let him touch her again. She had begged him for it. She had come apart on his desk in his office in his building, surrounded by the empire he had built on the bones of her father's dreams.

‎And worst of all, worst of everything, she knew she would do it again.

‎The coffee grew cold. Aurora Miller sat in the corner of a coffee shop and tried to remember why she had ever thought revenge would be simple, why she had ever believed she could look at Lucian Vale and see only the monster.

‎Her phone buzzed again. She pulled it out with fingers that still trembled.

‎An email, it was the same address, same address with lack of subject.

‎"Next week. My conference room. I'll have the contract ready.

‎Wear a skirt.

‎~L"

‎She should delete it. She should block the address, withdraw from the project, disappear back to Brooklyn and her small life and her father's stopped watch.

‎Instead she typed back, her thumb moving without permission from her brain.

‎"I'll wear what I want."

‎The reply came in seconds.

‎"You'll wear what I tell you. And you'll thank me for it."

‎She stared at the screen until her eyes burned. She should be furious. She was furious. But beneath the fury, coiled tight and hot, was something that felt dangerously like anticipation.

‎She didn't reply. She didn't delete the thread. She finished her cold coffee and walked back to the subway, to her life.

‎Next week was six days away. Six days to rebuild walls she had proven she couldn't maintain. Six days to remember her father's face, his voice, the way he had looked at her the last time she saw him alive. Six days to prepare for round three with a man who knew her body better than she knew her own mind.

‎The train rattled through the dark. Aurora closed her eyes and tried not to think of Lucian Vale on his knees, his mouth between her legs, his voice commanding her to beg.

‎She failed.

‎The city rolled on above her, indifferent and enormous, and somewhere in its steel heart, Lucian Vale was probably smiling at his phone, already planning what he would make her say next time.

‎She hated him. She couldn't wait.

‎