Over The Desk Novels & Stories

"Yes, sir." "Yes, right?" Ronan tilted his head slightly. "Who do you think deserves to work overtime tonight? You, or me?" "Me, sir. Of course I do." Chris lowered his head resignedly, dropping the last shreds of his dignity onto the desk. "Good," Ronan snorted softly, pulling back his keyboard. "Ah, one more thing. Order a new desk for this room." Chris blinked, quickly registering the instruction in his mind. "Is your desk uncomfortable, sir? I'll have a member of staff replace it immediately—"

“No donuts. Just crushing pressure and passive-aggressive emails.” I gave a faux-cheerful thumbs up. “My favorite combo.” Inside his office, the air had some kind of fresh, clean woodsy scent that made it hard to focus if I stood too close. I stayed a safe distance from the desk and opened my laptop. He slid into his chair with a sigh. “I’ll owe you after this.” “You already do,” I said sweetly. “You made me proofread a twenty-page deck titled ‘Synergizing Future Growth.’ I still have PTSD.”

AUTHORS POV Tessa sat at her large glass desk in the top-floor corner office of her firm, morning light spilling through floor‑to‑ceiling windows. Outside, Monterrey’s skyscrapers formed a jagged horizon; inside, the quiet theatre of productivity reigned. A pristine white mug filled with coffee steamed gently before her, dispensed moments ago by her assistant, Carla.

The combination provides a charming contrast to the gleaming white marble floor, adding a sense of spaciousness and cleanliness. In the center of the room, there was a large work desk made of glass and metal with a minimalist yet elegant design. The desk is equipped with the latest technology, such as an ultra-thin touchscreen monitor, wireless keyboard, and various other devices arranged neatly. "Welcome to my space," he said in a tone full of pride. I smiled, trying to fit in. "Thank you, Darren. Your room is very impressive," I said, eager to get started on my mission to find out more about Darren and his family.

From where she was standing, she could see that he observed all that came and went, the window was a vantage spot over-looking the company’s grounds. Then there was his large oak desk, she stifled a satisfied growl as she imagined what it would be like to bent over the table while he impaled her from behind. Brushing off the dirty thoughts, she saw a monitor and several neatly stacked piles of folders on the edge of the table, a landline phone, a pen holder filled with pens of different brands and a picture frame.

She closed the door and turned around. Evander’s large desk sat in the center of the room. She walked closer and noticed there was not one item on is desk. Of course he would not keep things out in the open. Paranoid much, Veronica rolled er eyes. She walked around the desk quickly and began to open the drawers on his desk. Each one that opened revealed normal office supplies one would expect to find in a desk.

I wonder if I still get something to eat before I leave this place. I walked inside his office . inside the room, there is a large wooden grey color desk and a black rolling chair . To one side are all the books, files neatly arranged in racks and the other side is the lounge . There lays a sofa and a small coffee table . He has his back to me as he is talking to someone over the phone. I couldn't control myself any longer . So, I walked towards him. I tapped his shoulders and turned him . " what the hell? can't you see I am on phone? " he shouts at me.

The door swu‍ng open. We walked in. The office was a di‍saster. File cabin‍ets were overturned. Papers cov‍ered t‌he floor like snow. And‌ th⁠ere,​ be⁠hi‌nd the mas​sive mahogany desk—Lo​renzo⁠’s desk—sat Marcus.​

“There’s a contract waiting for you on your desk. It came in late yesterday.” “I’ll check it out,” I replied, offering a quick smile as I pushed open the glass door to my office. I set my bag down and spotted the thick folder on my desk, labeled “Evosphere: Project Nexus.” My curiosity piqued, I sank into my chair, the leather creaking softly, and flipped it open.

I’m still leaned over the desk, one hand near the flash drive, the other gripping the mouse. Then he says, voice smooth as ever, “Working late, Mrs. Moretti?” It takes every ounce of control not to look at the flash drive as my fingers twitch against the desk.