#assistant!reader

Oftentimes, he would perch on the edge of your desk and screw around with your pens and markers or comment on the framed photos of your family and pets. And it wasn't so much his touching your things that diverted your attention but his close presence.

All of Gotham—and probably most of the country—knew that Dick Grayson was God's blessing on earth. Mussed inky black hair, cobalt blue eyes, strong features, kissable pink lips, and a strong musculature of six plus feet that had your fingers itching for just one touch. Yeah. He was the epitome of 'pretty boy' and it was disconcerting to have him constantly in your space while you tried to keep your focus on filing papers and organizing meetings. Maybe, if he weren't so affable and smiley all the time, it would be easier to ignore him, but he just so happened to be both those things. Ugh.

You didn't know why he visited you so often and neither did half the women in the office. Though they were only so confused because they couldn't imagine him wanting you over any of them.

Perhaps he thought you were easy conversation or he felt like he had to be friendly with his father's personal assistant? Either way, you had no valid logic for his frequent visits.

"-that's why I'm not allowed near the Lamborghini or Aston Martin anymore." He chuckled bashfully, fooling around with your stapler and a random piece of paper.

"I wouldn't let you near my car either with your reputation." You remarked with an amused smile, holding out your hand for the stapler. Of course he had to be funny on top of everything.

He put it in your hand and watched curiously as you straightened a stack of papers and attempted to staple them together only to be met with a click. You tried again to no avail.

"Is it broken?" Dick asked. "I can go get Bruce's if you'd like."

You shook your head. "It's only empty. Someone," you sent him a faux glare to which he beamed at, "was playing with it."

He held up his hands in mock surrender.

You stood and straightened your pencil skirt, drawing Dick's eyes to your stocking-clad legs. You swallowed thickly at the heat of his stare and croaked out, "I'm going stop by the storage closet quickly."

He hopped to his feet with the kind of agility you could only dream of. Despite his broad size, he was as lithe as a cat. "I'll come with you."

"Scared you'll actually have to do your work?" You tease as you make your way past empty glass offices and to the closet that was located at the end of the floor. Most everyone was away for lunch or conferences.

"Har har," Dick matched your stride, his long legs eating up the distance in no time. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his ironed slacks. "Am I not allowed to engage in conversation with the prettiest girl in Gotham?"

Pink stained your cheeks at his compliment. It wasn't as if you were constantly being charmed by the man; he seemed to always have flattery on the tip of his tongue.

"I say that because I don't know if you actually do anything when you fill in for Mr. Wayne."

"He doesn't leave much to do. Bruce is always on top of the game when it comes to, well, practically everything." A corner of Dick's lips turned up in fondness for his old man.

You knew they weren't biological father and son, that Dick's parents were incredibly talented acrobats who tragically died when he was young. Bruce Wayne then took in the orphan and raised him, along with three other younger boys, as his own, teaching them the ropes of business and providing them with ample opportunity for schooling and socializing. There was no wonder people envied the Wayne children, often describing them as nepo babies who'd had everything served to them on silver platters. You could only think of how they had deserved this kind of life after enduring what they had before meeting Bruce and being orphaned.

You came to the storage door and pushed it open, flicking on the light switch on the side to illuminate the columns of shelves. You shoved the stopper under the door and ventured inside, reading labels. The room itself wasn't too large, perhaps as long as two Dick Grayson's and as far as half of one.

"Staples, staples, staples..." your finger dragged along the boxes until you found what you needed just as the door closed and locked into place with a decisive click.

Uh oh.

You turned and found Dick mid-step, hand stretched out to the door handle in a just too late attempt. He looked over his shoulder sheepishly. "Oops."

You put down your box of staplers and jiggled the handle with no budging. You sighed. "You'd think that a billionaire would have some type of emergency unlocking system for when his employees accidentally lock themselves in rooms."

Dick leaned a shoulder along the wall, not at all worried as to how you were going to get out. "I doubt any billionaire has time to think of something so specific as that."

Now was most definitely not the time for joking around. You had a fear of confined spaces, and though this room was fairly sizable, you found it hard to find anything funny. You could only think of the walls pressing closer, the lights turning off and leaving you in the all-consuming dark, the chance that no one would find you until hours later, the-

"Hey hey hey!" Dick gripped your shoulders, bringing your eyes to his and your focus to his grounding touch. You hadn't realized your shallow breaths or fidgeting fingers. "Don't be making this worse than it is. We're here together, in a safe place and someone will be along soon to find and help us."

You counted your breathing at his comforting words and nodded slowly. You were sure that if he weren't here with you you would have been slouched against the wall in a panic attack. Thank goodness he liked bugging you.

"Do you have a spare key on you?" you asked, voice hoarse.

He shook his head with a grimace. "No, unfortunately. But..." he fished around in his pockets and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and read it, dark brows furrowed. "I do have this note from Alfred telling me that my underpants are clean."

You couldn't help but laugh at that. Dick joined in, obviously relieved at having made you laugh.

"Look," he moved his large hands up and down your arms in a soothing motion. "We could always play a little game while we wait. Wanna do that?"

Anything to get your mind off things.

A few minutes later and you were both settled on the floor, legs stretched out beside each other and backs leaning against either wall. "You go first," Dick offered.

"Oka-ay. Truth or dare?"

"Truth."

You tapped a finger against your chin. What were you most curious about for the boy who had it all? "Does your butler starch your underwear after cleaning them?"

You snickered at his rolling eyes. "Alfred doesn't clean them, thank you very much. And I would have no idea. Besides me wearing them, my underpants are of no concern to me."

"Considering they touch only your junk, they should be only your concern."

"Junk?!" Dick scoffed, "Do not refer to my family jewels as junk!"

"Ew! As if family jewels is any better!"

"Agree to disagree. My 'assets' are far too valuable to be deemed as 'junk'." He huffed, arms crossed over his chest to display bulging biceps. Your mouth might have watered a bit. "Now my turn. Truth or dare?"

"Ummm dare."

"I dare you to kiss me on the cheek."

Your heart stuttered. Had he really just said that?

"I did." He tossed you a self-satisfied smirk to which you wished to kiss—no! smack off! Definitely, obviously smack off!

Alas, you were no chicken, so you crawled forward, hands on either side of his lap, and pressed a kiss to his smoothly shaven cheek. You were close enough to smell the expensive mahogany cologne he wore and feel the heat of him on your lips. You lingered for a second longer, ears twitching at the soft inhale of his breath. It would seem you weren't the only one affected by close contact then.

Once you were safely situated in your previous spot, you asked him the question to which he chose truth again.

"Afraid?" you taunted before continuing. "Why did you choose a kiss?"

At the mention of the kiss, cobalt eyes dropped to your lips, making them tingle. Your moment of haughtiness dissipated and suddenly you weren't so sure of yourself.

Instead of avoiding the question, Dick smiled and you knew you were in for it.

"I like you."

You waited a beat. "Okay?"

He shook his head. "No. I really like you. Like, 'I wanna ask you out on a date' like you."

Not what you expected.

You watched him, dumbfounded before gathering enough with to say, "Why?"

"Because," he chuckled, "you're smart and genuine and very very very pretty."

Wow.

He continued despite your fish-like expression, "Ever since Bruce introduced me to his young, new assistant, I knew you'd be mine. Why do you think I bother you every time I'm in the office? I want to keep me in your head."

"Don't you have a girlfriend?" You weren't sure that he did but who knew with a man as amazing as that.

He motioned you closer and your legs obeyed without proper communication with your mind. You then knelt in front of him, awaiting instruction like a dog with a treat.

Dick didn't disappoint, grabbing your hand and stroking your pulse with his thumb. "Do you know who refreshes the flowers on your desk every Monday?"

You shook your head although you could already tell where this was going. His hand crawled up your arm and curled around your neck softly, tilting your gaze to meet his. His pupils were blown so wide his eyes looked black.

"What about why Bruce has a private driver at your disposal whenever you need?"

Oh.

"And why do you think I've told everyone in this building that you're off-limits?"

You didn't know that but heat was simmering low in your stomach at the confession anyway. You never would have assumed Dick to be possessive and yet he went to the trouble of guarding off any men who might have turned your way?

You weren't thinking rationally as your lips collided with his.

Apparently, neither was he.

The lips you'd often dreamed about kissing were impossibly soft and demanding at the same time. You yielded to his instruction, letting your arms wrap around his shoulders and chest lean against his, enjoying the press of his hardness to your softness.

He whimpered softly, only adding fuel to the fire simmering inside of you, and traced your lips with his tongue, encouraging you to let him in and learn your mouth. You let him in, sighing yourself when his free hand squeezed your backside.

You were near to crawling in his skin when he pulled away from you, albeit reluctantly if his frown was anything to go by. "As much as I'd like to defile you in my father's supply closet," he smiled wryly, lips swollen from your attention, "I would like to take you out on a proper date first."

How could he be any more perfect?

He helped you to your feet, retrieved the box of staples you'd nearly forgotten about, and then brandished a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. You gawked at him, receiving a sheepish smile in turn.

"You had a key the entire time?" you could also spy a suspiciously door stopper shaped lump in his back pocket.

"Kiss and makeup later?"

author's note: muahahaha all the things i'd do to Dick Grayson in a supply closet 😁

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes. Even just thinking his full name made your stomach flip. You had read it on campaign posters, heard it on the news, rehearsed it in your head when you applied for the position last week.

But you hadn’t actually met him–not in person. Not until today.

And that was what made your palms sweat against the fabric of your skirt, what made your chest feel too tight as you sat there waiting. This wasn’t just another job. This was his office. His world.

You smoothed your skirt again, fingers brushing over the crease you’d already ironed three times that morning. Your thoughts kept circling back to the same place: last week’s interview, the moment you had stepped into this very building for the first time, clutching your resume like it was a lifeline.

You had expected to be laid straight into his office, to see him face-to-face, but instead the secretary had smiled tightly and gestured you down the hall.

“Mr. Barnes is busy, so unfortunately you won’t meet him today,’ she had said, her heels clicking against the floor as she guided you into a smaller office, tucked beside his.

It wasn’t disappointment that had bloomed in your chest then—it was relief, tangled with something sharper. Meeting him outright would have been too much, too soon. Instead, you sat across from the secretary’s desk, trying to keep your posture professional, as she skimmed over your application.

She glanced up at you, expression unreadable. “The position is demanding,” she explained matter-of-factly. ‘Late nights, long hours, travel when necessary. Congressman Barnes expects his assistant to be reliable, discreet, and quick on her feet.”

You nodded and slid your resume across the desk with fingers that didn’t feel steady. She picked it up, scanning over the neat lines of text you had agonized over for days.

“Looks good,” she said at last, setting it back down. No smile, no inflection. Just those two clipped words that somehow made your chest ache with both pride and dread. “Someone will call you,” she continued simply, as though the matter had already been decided.

You blinked at her, your mouth opening slightly before you caught yourself.

That’s it? No questions? No chance to prove I’m more than just words on paper?

But her gaze was already dropping back to the files on her desk, her posture making it clear the conversation was over. You rose carefully, thanked her for her time, and left with your stomach knotted tighter than when you had walked in.

You hadn’t actually expected a call. Considering how quick the conversation had been, how impersonal, you were sure you just weren’t the right person for the job.

But a few days later your phone rang.

And here you were.

You had spent the entire weekend hunched over the files the secretary had handed you after the second meeting—another one before you actually started working here. A neat stack of papers meant to be a “walk-through,” something to prepare you for the position… but it had felt more like a test.

You studied every page until the words blurred together: his schedules, his upcoming meetings, his committee notes, his speeches. And him. You had researched him more than you probably should have, reading between the lines of the public record, watching clips of his interviews late into the night.

This job wasn’t just a paycheck. You needed it. So of course you tried to do your best, to make sure when you finally walked into this office, you weren’t walking in blind.

And yet, sitting here now, waiting to actually meet him, all that preparation didn’t feel like nearly enough.

Your eyes drifted to the mug of coffee waiting on his desk. You’d made it the way the secretary told you he preferred—black, two teaspoons of brown sugar, nothing more.

The steam had already thinned, curling lazily, into the air, and you wondered if he’d even notice. If he’d take a sip and know instantly that you hadn’t stirred it enough, or that the ratio was off.

It was such a small thing, a cup of coffee, but the secretary’s words echoed in your head: He likes things a certain way.

So you sat there, staring at it like it held the verdict of your entire future, your pulse jumping every time you thought you heard footsteps outside the door.

The handle turned and the sound made you jolt in your seat. The door opened, and he walked in.

Congressman James Barnes.

You scrambled to your feet so quickly the chair scraped faintly against the floor. Your folder was pressed tight to your chest like a shield, and you hoped he couldn’t see the way your fingers trembled against the cardboard edge.

His presence filled the room easily, more commanding than any headline or photograph could’ve prepared you for. Broad shoulders under a perfectly tailored suit, tie loosened just slightly at the collar, hair brushed back but not stiff. He looked tired in the way powerful men always did–yet alert, eyes sharp as they landed on you.

“You must be…” His voice was lower than you expected, a rough timbre that made your stomach flip.

You managed to get your name out, though it felt like it caught in your throat on the way up.

“Right.” His mouth curved, not into the politician’s smile you’d seen in interviews, but something softer, quieter. A flicker of warmth as his gaze swept over you, taking in the nerves written all over your face and posture.

He set a folder on the edge of his desk and nodded toward the chair you’d just abandoned. ‘Don’t look so nervous,” he said lightly. “You’re not on trial.”

He moved past you, unhurried and slipped out of his jacket before draping it neatly over the back of his chair.

You sat quickly, spine too straight, fingers tight around your own folder.

As he reached for his chair, his eyes flicked briefly to the mug of coffee waiting at the corner of the desk. The glance was quick, unreadable… And he said nothing. He only picked it up, took a sip, and set it down again as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then he flipped open his folder, voice setting into something clipped and focused. “All right. Let’s get started.” His eyes scanned the first page before he leaned back in his chair.

“As my assistant, you’ll handle scheduling, correspondence, and research. That means keeping my calendar clean, making sure I’m where I need to be and filtering what reaches me.” His gaze lifted to meet yours, steady and sharp. “People will try to pull you in a dozen directions at once. Don’t let them. If you’re unsure, you bring it to me.”

You nodded quickly, clutching your folder impossibly tighter.

“I need you to be organized. Efficient. And discreet.” The last word lingered in the air a fraction longer but his expression was steady. Then he tapped the folder with his knuckle, brisk again.”You’ll travel with me when necessary and late nights are inevitable. If that’s a problem, this won’t work.”

Your mouth felt dry, but you managed words out, “I know. It’s not a problem.”

He gave a short nod, satisfied, his eyes flicking over you once more. “Good. Then let’s go over next week.”

Mr. Barnes flipped another page in the folder, glancing down at the schedule. “Next week, there’s a budget meeting Monday morning. I’ll need all the preliminary reports on my desk by Friday afternoon. Tuesday, I have a series of briefings with the committee–nothing too complicated, just background notes and talking points.”

You scribbled furiously in your notebook, trying to capture every detail, your handwriting messier and faster than usual. “Got it,” you murmured, glancing up only occasionally to make sure you weren’t missing anything.

“Wednesday’s mostly open, but there’s a fundraiser Thursday evening. You’ll coordinate the guests and make sure everything runs smoothly. And Friday, I have a town hall in the morning. Prep materials for that as well.”

You nodded, writing each point down, your brain spinning with all the information he was giving you.

Then, just as you paused to take a breath, he stopped mid-sentence and lifted his gaze from the folder. His eyes met yours, and a small smile tugged at his lips.

“Relax,” he said softly, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. “You look like you’re about to explode.”

Heat flooded to your cheeks. You bit your lip and stammered, “I–I’m sorry, Congressman… I just… I want to get everything right.”

He chuckled, a low easy sound that made your stomach twist and your hands tighten around your pen. “I know. Just… breathe. You’ll be fine.”

You took a shaky breath, forcing yourself to calm down, letting your shoulders loosen fractionally.

He noticed immediately, his eyes softened again. “I can see you’re trying. Don’t worry. We’ll start with something simple, okay? I have a list of calls to make. Appointments and–”

“I’ve already done it.” Your voice cut in, a little shy, your fingers brushing over the edge of your folder as you reached for it.

He froze, blinking at you. “What…?”

“Your secretary handed me the list last time I was here… I… already took care of it.”

You held out the folder, letting the neatly organized papers fall just so. The list of appointments, calls, and scheduled meetings was all there.

He leaned forward slowly, eyes scanning the pages and you noticed the slight pause in his movements, like he wasn’t quite believing what he was seeing. His fingers reached for the papers, brushing against yours in the process. The contact was fleeting, accidental but enough to make your heart skip a beat.

Finally, he lifted his gaze from the folder, eyes meeting yours with something caught between surprise and approval. “Impressive,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

“Well… Guess I underestimated you.” He continued, voice a touch lighter, the faintest smile forming at his lips. “Let's take care of next week then. You just proved you know what to do, so it shouldn’t be a problem for you."

You nodded, raising from your chair and grabbing your folder as he handed it back to you, leaving himself only the papers meant for him. Your chest felt tight. Your pulse thundered in your ears, hot and insistent, and for a moment you were hyper-aware of every detail in the room–the polished desk, the faint scent of his cologne, the subtle hum of the air conditioning.

“Come back to me when you’re done with it, okay?” he added, and you nodded again, swallowing hard.

You turned toward the door, trying to steady your breath. Again. But then his voice stopped you.

“Loosen up,” he said, much softer this time, almost a murmur. “You did well.”

Your cheeks flamed. The heat spread across your neck and chest, and you could feel your hands trembling ever so slightly as you clutched your folder. You forced a tiny, awkward smile and whispered, “Thank you.”

———

You closed the door to your office behind you and leaned against it for a second, letting out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. The office was quiet with the faint scent of paper and pens around you.

You sank into your chair, still gripping your own folder and trying to straighten your breathing, trying to make sense of how flustered you felt over someone who hadn’t even spoken to you more than necessary.

You began sorting through the papers, double-checking the appointments and calls. Everything was in order, nothing out of place. You scribbled a few notes, rearranged a couple of things, and tried not to think too much about the brief interaction–the folder you handed him or the slight smile he’d given you.

It’s fine. You did what you were supposed to. Keep it moving.

The quiet of the office pressed around you as you settled into the work. Typing, jotting, and making sure everything was ready for the next week.

That was all that mattered.

———

The next day, the summary plan for the week was finished. Every appointment and call laid out in neat lines, double-checked until you were sure there was nothing left to adjust. You slipped the pages into a folder and carried it down the hall, rehearsing in your head how you’d present it.

His office door was open and Mr. Barnes was on the phone, voice low and even as it carried across the space. You hesitated on the threshold, second-guessing yourself. Maybe you should come back later. Maybe you should wait until he wasn’t busy. You shifted the folder in your hands and started to turn away—

“Stay.” His voice cut through the air, not loud, not sharp, but enough to stop you in place. He didn’t look up from the papers spread across his desk. He lifted a hand, gesturing for you to wait.

You nodded, the sound caught in your throat, and you stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the noise of the hallway.

The chair opposite his desk sat waiting, and you lowered yourself onto it, careful not to make a sound. The folder was pressed into your lap, palms flat against the cardboard, holding it steady like it might betray your nerves if you didn’t.

He spoke in an even tone, attention fixed on the conversation. The words were measured, his voice carrying an edge of authority that filled the room.

You sat still, but your eyes wandered. His hair wasn’t as neat as it had been yesterday. A strand had fallen loose over his forehead, and when he pushed it back, it settled in a softer wave. His sleeves were rolled up, fabric straining against the breadth of his arms. The light hit the polished metal of his left one, catching the edges and gleaming surfaces, impossible to ignore.

You forced your gaze down to the folder.

The call ended with a hum of agreement and a clipped goodbye. He set the receiver down, leaned back in his chair, and for a moment rubbed his temple with two fingers. The tension in his shoulders eased as he exhaled. The corners of his eyes softened as his gaze lifted to you.

“You’ve got the schedule I asked for?” His voice was both low and steady, carrying across the desk without effort.

“Yes,” you said, pushing up from the chair before the word had fully left your mouth. The folder felt heavier in your hands as you crossed the space and set it on his desk.

“Thank you,” he said, glancing up at you as he pulled it closer. A smile flickered across his mouth, softer than you expected. “Settling in alright? Or have we scared you off already?”

The question caught you off guard. You shook your head, probably a little too fast. “No, not at all. It’s been… good.”

“Good,” he echoed, as though filing the answer away. His eyes dipped back to the folder, his fingers unfolding the cover with care. The smile lingered a moment longer before his expression sharpened into focus.

You sat back down as he began to read, fidgeting with your fingers in your lap while silence filled the room again. The only sounds were the faint rustle of paper and the steady tick of the clock.

His eyes skimmed another page, then another, and then his brow furrowed. He tilted his head slightly. The corner of his mouth twitched. “What’s that?”

He flipped the sheet around and slid it toward you with a single finger. A yellow sticky note clung to the margin. Your own small doodle–just a quick sketch, a little symbol, you’d used to mark an important point–stared back at you.

Heat rushed to your face. “Oh. That–um. It’s a… just… something I do sometimes. I read that it helps with memorization, so I thought–”

He chuckled, low and sudden, leaning back in his chair “You think I’m in fifth grade?”

Your eyes widened. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I just–God. I wasn’t–”

“I’m just playing with you,” he cut in, still smiling. The sound of it softened the words, took the sting out of your panic. He let the page fall back into place and tapped it once before closing the folder.

“It’s okay,” he said, quieter this time. “It’s…cute.”

“Oh…” The sound slipped out before you could stop it. Small, awkward, nothing close to a real response.

His eyes caught the faint flush rising across your cheeks and his smile deepened lazily. “You’re cute too when you’re flustered.”

Your breath snagged. You could feel your face burning hotter, and your hands knotted together in your lap.

What the fuck?

Was he flirting with you–? No. No, he couldn’t be. That had to be another joke, the same way he teased you about the sticky note. Just a throwaway comment. Nothing more.

He straightened in his chair, the shift almost seamless, like he’d flicked a switch. His metal hand rested on the closed folder as his expression settled back into focus. “Now,” he said, tone even again. “about the fundraiser next Thursday.”

You blinked, scrambling to catch up. "Right. The dinner at the Grand Hotel."

He nodded. "It's going to be crowded. Press, donors, half the state's board members. I'll need talking points prepped, but nothing too stiff. They'll want me approachable."

You grabbed your notepad, grateful for the distraction and the familiarity of pen against paper. "Casual but polished," you murmured, jotting the words down.

"Exactly." His gaze lingered on you as he spoke, though it was impossible to tell if he was watching your notes or your face. "And make sure I've got five minutes with Gary before the main speech. He's… sensitive. Needs the right attention or he'll sulk for weeks."

"Got it." You wrote quickly, nodding along.

The conversation carried on for another ten minutes. All logistics and fine-tuning. You asked questions, he answered with the same deliberate quality. His words were careful but never cold.

"Press will want a soundbite at the end," you said, scanning notes. "Do you want me to draft something in advance or—"

"Draft it," he cut in gently, "but keep it flexible. I like to read the room first."

You scribbled the line down, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your focus. And Mr. Barnes continued watching you as you did so.

Finally, the last point was covered, the last detail tucked neatly into your notes. You closed your folder and looked up, waiting for the dismissal.

But he didn't speak right away. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, studying you across the desk in a silence that stretched just long enough to feel intentional. His expression was neutral, professional of course, but his eyes tracked your face like he was reading something written there.

You shifted in your seat, suddenly aware of the way your hands clasped in your lap. "Is there… anything else?"

His mouth twitched again, almost the start of a smile, but it never quite broke through. "No," he said after a beat, voice low. "That's all. You've done well."

Your breath caught, ridiculous in its reaction to such a simple phrase.

He reached for the phone on his desk, already moving on. "You can go."

You rose quickly, your folder—as always— hugged to your chest. And at the door, you glanced back without meaning to. Your eyes caught on him again. The way the light fell across his broad shoulders, the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the way he…

God, why was he making you feel like this? It wasn't supposed to be like that. He was your boss, and this? This was work.

But he didn't even look at you. His attention was already fixed on the receiver in his hand, his expression already sharpened into something businesslike, distant. The fleeting softness you thought you'd seen earlier might as well have been imagined.

You swallowed, heat prickling at the back of your neck. You slipped out of the room before you could think yourself into another spiral. The door clicked quietly behind you, sealing him back in his world and you in yours.

The hallway stretched ahead, silent except for the echo of your own footsteps. You clutched your folder tighter, willing yourself to focus on the work, on the schedule, on anything but the echo of his voice.

———

Mr. Barnes' office was quiet on the Monday afternoon, and suddenly the ticking clock on the wall sounded louder than it should. You sat on the leather couch, notebook balanced on your knee, pen moving idly across the page. Little lines, loops, nothing important. Just doodles to keep your hands busy while you waited.

Congressman Barnes was still in his budget meeting, the one everyone in the building had been talking about since morning. You were supposed to go over final details for the Thursday's fundraiser once he got back, and until then, all you could do was wait.

You kept telling yourself not to think too much. Not about him, not about the way the last few days had felt. He'd been all professionalism since then.Composed and careful with every word. Yet underneath that, there had been moments, too fleeting to name, that made something in your stomach flutter.

A smile that lasted too long. The warmth in his tone when he praised you. Little things that shouldn't mean anything but somehow did.

You pressed the tip of the pen harder to the paper, shading in the corner of a doodle until the page threatened to tear.

Focus.

Thursday was all that mattered. The seating arrangements, the order of speeches, the press briefings. You had to stay ahead of it all, not just sit here and thinking about his voice like it meant more than it did. You leaned back into the couch, notebook slipping down into your lap.

The door clicked open, breaking the stillness.

"Good morning," Mr. Barnes' voice carried easily into the room, unhurried, as if the budget meeting hadn't drained the life out of him.

You straightened on the couch, notebook in your lap again like you hadn't been doodling your nerves away. "Good morning," you echoed, too quickly.

He shut the door behind him with one hand, the other already tugging at his jacket. The navy wool slid from his shoulders in one practiced motion. He draped it over the back of his chair, then reached for his tie, loosening the knot with a short tug. His fingers worked the silk down, leaving the top button of his shirt undone.

You looked away or… tried to. Your eyes betrayed you, dragging back over the sharp line of his shoulders, the slow shift of muscle under crisp white cotton, the gleam of metal at his wrist as he rolled his sleeve once. You caught yourself staring and dropped your gaze to the mess of pen marks in your notebook, cheeks warming already.

He didn't move straight to his desk. Instead, he crossed the room toward you with unreadable expression. For a second you thought he'd ask you to join him there, where the work always happened. But then he lowered himself onto the couch beside you, the cushion dipping under his weight.

He leaned back, one arm draped casually over the backrest. The position was effortless, commanding space without even trying. From this close you could see what the distance of his office desk usually hid—how faint shadows lingered beneath his eyes, the lines of strain carved faintly into his brow. He looked… tired.

You turned your notebook closed in your lap, glancing at him before you could think better of it. "How did the meeting go?" The question sounded softer than you intended, almost careful.

His mouth tugged at one corner, not quite a smile. "Long," he said, voice edged with a dryness that wasn't unkind. He shifted, letting his head fall back briefly against the couch. A quiet exhale escaped his mouth before he angled toward you again.

"Long," he repeated then let out a short laugh under his breath. 'You'd think with half the staff in there, we'd get through a budget in under three hours. But no. Half of them argue for the sake of hearing themselves talk."

You turned toward him. He didn't sound angry, just… worn out.

"They tore into transportation first," he went on with a faint shake of his head. "Then healthcare, then someone thought it'd be a great idea to tack on a discussion about education reform. None of it on the agenda. Just… derailed everything." His hand lifted, metal fingers tapping lightly against the armrest. "Sometimes I wonder if they want progress at all, or if they're just addicted to the sound of their own voices."

You listened, not just nodding along—no. You really listened. Your eyes followed him as he spoke, taking in the way his shoulders shifted when his frustration rose, the way his jaw worked before he forced himself calmer. Every word he let out, you held onto like it mattered.

Because to him, it did.

And he mattered to you.

He finished with a low exhale, eyes dropping to the space between you. For a moment he stayed quiet, as if weighing whether to say more. Then he swallowed hard and glanced back up.

The weariness softened in his face, replaced by something quieter and… gentler. He studied you for a beat too long before the corner of his mouth lifted into a tiny smile.

Heat rose to your cheeks and you blushed before you could stop it. The weight of his smile sat heavy in your chest, making your breath stumble. You shifted in your seat, eyes darting down to your notebook, anywhere but at him.

He noticed. Of course he did. His head tilted slightly, as though he was trying to solve a puzzle he found amusing. Then, mercifully, he let the moment slip away.

"The fundraiser," he said and his voice slipped back into the steady cadence of work. "Did you manage to correct the draft of my speech?"

"Yes… Of course." The words came out quick, your relief bleeding through. You reached for the folder at your side, flipping it open with fingers that trembled just enough to annoy you. The papers were crisp, neatly marked. You handed them to him.

His hand met yours in the exchange, fingers brushing over yours for a second too long. Warm against your skin, steady and grounding. You hated how it made your stomach twist. You pulled back carefully, hoping he hadn't felt how your pulse jumped at the contact.

He scanned the pages, eyes moving quickly, his lips pressing together in thought. Then, with a faint sound in his throat, he read one of the lines out loud.

"…a promise not just for today, but for every tomorrow we want to build together." His brow arched slightly as he glanced sideways at you. "You think that's convincing?"

Your hands twisted in your lap before you found your voice. "I think you are convincing, Mr. Barnes…"

The silence that followed was heavy, charged. He didn't immediately answer, just let the words hang there. His gaze dropped back to the paper in his hand, but instead of continuing, he set it down slowly on the glass table in front of you.

His tongue swept once across his bottom lip. Then his eyes lifted to yours. "You think?" he asked, quieter now, almost testing and a thread of curiosity wound tight through it.

Your breath caught. His eyes didn't leave yours, almost like he was waiting to see what you'd do with the space between you. He leaned in just slightly, his arm still draped along the backrest, closing the distance without fully crossing it.

The air shifted. Somehow it felt heavier, warmer. Your pulse thudded against your throat and you swore he could hear it. The faintest trace of smile tugged at his mouth, not the polite one he wore in front of cameras, but something different.

Something meant for you.

It was only an inch closer, maybe less. Just enough to make your body tense with awareness, to make you wonder if you were imagining it, if you were reading into something that wasn't there.

But his gaze stayed on you, unblinking, patient… Testing.

His head tilted and there was the faintest spark of amusement in his eyes. "Do I still make you nervous?"

Your throat went dry. You shook your head, quickly though the heat raising in your face betrayed you. "No…no, Mr Barnes. I just—"

"Just what?" The words cut in smooth, playful, his voice dipped low like he already knew the effect he was having on you.

Your chest tightened, the weight of his attention pressing down until you could hardly sit still.

He was enjoying this—you could see it in the twitch of his mouth, in the quiet patience with which he waited for your answer. Enjoying how flustered you were, how you stumbled under his calm.

You opened your mouth, trying to form words that made sense, but they tangled. "I—just…" Your voice faltered.

He didn't rush you. Instead, one hand moved deliberately, setting lightly on your thigh. Just enough to press and enough to anchor your pulse in a way that stole your breath.

"Is that better?" He whispered, his gaze still on you.

Your own eyes shot down to his hand. Then up. Then back. You froze. Heart hammering, throat tight, every rational thought abandoned. The world had narrowed to the weight of his palm, the heat of his presence, the soft teasing in his tone—and you.

His hand didn't stay still. It shifted slightly, brushing along the curve of your thigh, firm but gentle. The contact sent the heat crawling through you.

"I've been thinking about you, you know?" His voice was a whisper that felt way too intimate.

Your breath hitched and your body locked up, every muscle tense. Your mind screamed at you to move, to pull away—but something in the warmth of his touch and the softness beneath all the playfulness of his words rooted you to the spot. You blinked at him, unable to speak, unable to believe this was real.

His thumb stroked once across your leg, lazily. "You sit here all flustered, trying so hard to keep it together. You know how hard that is to ignore?"

He leaned in closer, the couch shrank beneath the weight of him. His arm behind you brushed your shoulder, caging you in, pulling you into his gravity. The scent of him filled your lungs—cologne and faint coffee.

"Use you words, sweetheart," he murmured, lips curving like he knew the chaos inside your head, "Tell me—" his hand slid higher, fingers grazing just under the hem of your skirt "—does this make you nervous?"

Your thighs tensed and you felt the heat pooling low and insistent. Your lips parted, some broken excuse catching at the back of your throat "I—"

But his hand kept moving. Up your thigh. Slow strokes, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin inside, inch by inch. The fabric of your skirt bunched under his palm, every touch making your breath stutter.

Your gaze was fixed there—on his hand. On the way his fingers teased and lingered. You couldn't tear your eyes away.

His metal hand lifted, smooth and unyielding. Cool fingers brushed your jaw, tilting your face toward him. Firm, but gentle. A command disguised as a caress.

"Eyes on me," he murmured as his gaze burned into yours. "Not my hand. Me."

Your chest rose sharply, caught in a breath you couldn't release. The warmth of his palm on your thigh contrasted with the cool steel on your skin, both grounding and undoing you.

"You hear me?" he asked, thumb grazing your cheek as his other hand pushed your skirt higher, leaving the edge of your panties just in reach.

You nodded. Still dazed with whatever the fuck was happening.

His finger toyed lazily with the thin lace, brushing the hem of your panties like he had all the time in the world. Just enough contact to make your pulse thunder but not enough to satisfy.

"Do you want this, baby?" he asked softly, eyes never leaving your face. His thumb stroked the fabric once, twice, right where your body burned for more.

Your throat worked as you tried to swallow, the answer trapped somewhere between your chest and your tongue. Instead, you just nodded.

Fuck. Of course you wanted this. You wanted it so badly your skin was buzzing. Your blood was hot and frantic in your veins. But you hated yourself how cowardly you must've looked, wide-eyed and trembling under his touch. Pathetic.

Still, how could you not be scared? No one ever touched you like this before. Not there. Not like this. Every brush of his fingers over the lace felt like fire, like was unraveling you stich by stich, peeling back something you weren't sure you knew how to give.

You squeezed your thighs together on instinct, as if you could stop the ache building there. Your eyes flicked up to him, just for a second and it was enough to ruin you.

Because, fuck— He was so close. So handsome it was unfair. Unfair that he got to look at you like that— eyes heavy, lips curled like he already knew the answer you couldn't say out loud. It didn't even feel real. It felt like a scene out of a movie, the kind you'd never admit you fantasized about. The powerful man, the forbidden touch, the way your breathing was uneven just because he chose you.

And you wanted him. You wanted to give in, to sink into the couch and let him do whatever the fuck he wanted with you, because wasn't that what you'd been dreaming of every single night since the moment you met him?

But then the panic twisted in your chest, mixed up with the need. Because it wasn't just anyone—it was him. Your boss. The man who was supposed to sign your paychecks, the man whose name sat on the plaques in the hallway… The man who trusted you to sit in his office like you belonged here.

And you didn't belong here. Not really. Not with him looking at you like this.

Is this what you are? Some fucking sex toy for him to use as he wants?

The thoughts piled faster, crashing over each other. You were a virgin. You'd never even been on a real date, never let anyone close enough to see you bare, to touch you like this. And now—now it was him. The man you weren't supposed to want. The one you couldn't stop wanting.

You wanted to surrender. You wanted to stop thinking and just feel. But fear rose in your stomach, pulling you back just as your body screamed to go forward.

He was still there, still waiting. His metal thumb was stroking lazily at your jaw, other hand resting at the hem of your panties like it was nothing. Like he wasn't your boss. Like you weren't his assistant.

It was almost like he noticed the thoughts fighting in your mind. His touch on your face softened, thumb now brushing along your cheekbone like he could soothe the storm inside you.

"Hey," his voice dropped low, coaxing and steady. "It's okay… I won't do anything If—"

The words should have calmed you. They should have untangled the knot in your chest, because maybe you weren’t in this position just because he wanted to fuck you. Maybe he did care about you. But the words started to blur, as if your mind shut down and instead, your throat closed around a sob you didn't mean to let out. A hot tear slid down your cheek, slipping beneath his thumb.

His brows drew together instantly. "Hey…Hey, sweetheart—"

You couldn't bear it. You shot up from the couch so fast the folder nearly slid down from the couch but you caught it, clutching it to your chest like a shield.

"I'm sorry," the worlds tumbled out from your lips, broken and frantic. "I'm so fucking sorry—"

You could hardly breathe as you backed toward the door, every nerve on fire with shame and want and fear all at once. His hand lifted, reaching for you, like he could stop this from unraveling.

"Wait—"

But you were already pulling the handle, already fleeing. The heavy door thudded shut behind you before he could rise from the couch.

———

You didn't even remember the way back.

The city blurred past you, streets folding into one another, your legs carrying you without thought. All you knew was that you had to get out. Away.

By the time you stumbled through your front door, your hands were shaking so badly you nearly dropped the keys. The folder slipped from your arm and landed on the floor with a dull slap, papers spilling across the tile. You picked them up quickly and got into your apartment.

Your phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Over and over and the name "Mr. Barnes" lit the screen. You couldn't even look at it anymore. You held down the power button with trembling fingers. The silence that followed was almost worse than the sound.

Fuck.

You sank onto the edge of your bed, pressing your palms into your eyes until stars bloomed behind them.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You ruined everything, hadn't you?

The perfect job—gone. You couldn't possibly show your face there again, not after bolting like that. Not after leaving him sitting there, hand half-reached toward you and eyes soft in a way you'd never seen.

You had him, God. You had the man you wanted in front of you, wanting you back and you'd thrown it away.

What the fuck?

What the fuck were you even doing?

Your chest felt too tight, air caught in your throat as you doubled over, elbows on your knees, fingers tangling in your hair. You wanted to disappear. To rewind. To fix it somehow. You dragged in a shaky breath, lifting your head but it didn't make anything clearer.

What the hell were you supposed to do now?

Call in sick? Pretend the whole thing hadn't happened, like you'd just been feeling under the weather and ran for the door?

Call him back? You looked at your phone, black screen reflecting your blotchy face and the thought of hearing his voice right now made you want to throw up. What would you even say? Sorry I ran out like a lunatic while you had your hand on my thigh? Sorry I cried because I don't know how to let myself have something I want?

Show up tomorrow like nothing happened? Walk into his office, hand him the fundraiser notes and pretend your heart and brain were cooperating again?

Every option sounded impossible.

You pressed your fists into the mattress with stuttering breath, trying not to cry again. Why were you like this? Why did you have to be such a coward?

Why couldn't you just open to him?

———

By afternoon, you'd managed to drag a blanket off your bed and onto the couch. Cocooning yourself like that could keep the world out. The TV flickered across the room, some sitcom rerun with canned laughter echoed far too loud in the quiet of your apartment. You weren't watching. Not really. Just letting it fill the silence so you didn't have to sit alone with your thoughts.

Your phone was still off. You hadn't dared turn it back on. The idea of seeing his name on the screen—whether the missed calls or unread messages—made your chest feel like it was caving in.

You pulled the blanket tighter. God, you were so fucking afraid. It wasn't supposed to go like this.

You wanted him—wanted him in ways you hadn't let yourself admit until his hand was on your thigh and his voice was in your ear—but not like this. Not with your panic rising and with tears spilling before you even understood why.

It was new. Too new. And you'd been scared. Scared of him seeing how little experience you had. Scared of what it meant if you gave in. Scared of what happened after.

Now everything was a mess.

The sitcom laughed again, high-pitched and cruel. You pressed your palms hard against your eyes until the static behind your lids drowned it all out.

You snapped back to reality the moment you heard someone knocking on the door. You jolted so hard the blanket slid off your body. For a second, you thought you'd imagined it. That it was your nerves playing tricks on you. But then it came again. Firmer.

Your heart pounded as you dragged yourself off the couch, each step to the door was slow and hesitant. You didn't know what you expected when you opened it. But definitely not him.

Mr. Barnes stood in the dim light of your hallway, hair slightly disheveled, suit wrinkled in a way you'd never seen before. He looked… upset. Tired. Worn… And worried—so worried it was like the air around him pulsed with it.

For a split second you wondered if all of it was because of you. Because you'd run. Because you hadn't answered and left him there alone.

Before you could get a word out, his voice broke the silence, low and ragged. "I'm so sorry. I know I shouldn't come here, but you weren't picking up the phone and— fuck. I'll go. I just had to make sure you're okay. I'm… I'm so fucking sorry."

He turned already, shoulders tight as if the weight of his mistake was dragging him away from you.

"Wait…" The word left your lips before you could stop it. barely more than a whisper, but it stopped him cold.

He froze. Then slowly, he turned back toward you. His eyes searched yours, disbelief flickering there like he hadn't heard right. His gaze softened and his brows furrowed as though bracing himself.

"I…” His voice cracked once, then steadied. "I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, I thought you wanted this… I must've read the signs wrong. I'm so sorry. I'm such an idiot."

The way his voice broke on the word idiot made your chest tighten. Your throat felt tight, words caught somewhere between fear and relief. All that finally tumbled out was, "How did you even find me?"

He let out a weak chuckle, though there wasn't much humor in it. His hand raked through his hair, tugging at the strands like he hated himself for the answer. "I… I found it in your insurance papers in our system." His voice was rough and tired. "I'm sorry. I just… I was worried."

Something in your chest cracked.

You should've been angry. He had no right to look up your address. No right to show up at your door uninvited. Especially after what happened. But the way his shoulders hunched forward, the exhaustion written into the lines of his face, the quiet sincerity in his voice… it didn't feel invasive. It felt desperate.

And fuck, he did care.

Your lips trembled as you bit down on them, nerves making your stomach chum. For a long second, you stood in the doorway. The air was thick between you. Then, slowly, you stepped back, opening the door wider.

"Come inside."

His eyes flicked to yours, searching, almost hesitant before he finally nodded. He stepped past you, careful and quiet, as if he was afraid even the sound of his shoes on your floor might push you away.

The door clicked shut behind him, and suddenly the silence of your apartment felt deafening. You hovered by the arm of the couch, twisting your fingers together until your knuckles ached.

"I…" Your voice was small. „You didn't read the signs wrong. It was just… me"

His head lifted, eyes locked on yours, waiting.

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out before you could choke them back down. "I was scared. Because… Well, first of all, you're my boss. And I don't even know where this is supposed to lead.. And, god, I didn't want you to just… fuck me and pretend it was nothing. Especially since I—"

"I like you."

The words cut clean through your ramble. They were firm and steady with no hesitation. His voice was soft like he knew the weight they carried.

"Really like you," he added, and there was the faintest curve of a smile on his mouth, even though it didn't reach his eyes. A sad smile. One that said he was just as vulnerable standing there in front of you as you were admitting the truth.

Your gaze softened and your chest ached with something that felt like guilt. Because you managed to think less of him, and yet… here he was. Saying what no one had ever said to you before.

No one had ever thought of you that way. No one had ever told you they liked you. And hearing it now—hearing him say it—made your chest feel like it might shatter.

Your feet moved before you had time to think. One step. Then another. Until the distance between you was gone and you had to tilt your chin up just to keep your eyes on him.

For a heartbeat, he just looked at you like he couldn't quite believe you were standing so close. Then his hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing along your jaw. His palm cupped your cheek and his thumb traced a feather-light stroke over your skin.

"I'm sorry…" The words spilled out from your mouth. Small and cracked.

"Hey," his voice was gentle and the sound vibrated through your chest as mush as your ears. He shook his head slightly, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Don't… Don't apologize."

His eyes became tender and for a moment, it felt like the whole world narrowed to just the two of you in that tiny space.

"I…I was just so scared and—"

"I know," he broke in quickly, his voice tight with his own guilt. His thumb still traced your cheek, but his gaze faltered, dropping as if he couldn't quite stand to meet your eyes. "I know, I shouldn't… I shouldn't have done that. I pushed too far. I'm so sorry—"

"No, James…" The sound of his name on your lips cut through like a blade. He stilled instantly, eyes flicking up to yours again, something raw flashing there. You could see it hit him like the sound alone was enough to knock the air out of him.

You shook your head, forcing the words out even as they felt stuck in your throat. "I just… I've never…"

The rest disintegrated. You couldn't say it. Couldn't bring yourself to saying the truth out loud.

The realization spread across his features slowly, piece by piece. His brow drew together first. Then his mouth parted, but no sound came. His hand stilled against your face, thumb hovering frozen near your skin as if he'd touched fire.

And then his eyes widened—not with shock, not even pity but with something heavier. Some kind of ache that appeared on his face before he managed to hide it.

You were a virgin.

The silence stretched, thick and fragile. You could feel your heart hammering against your ribs, feel your lungs straining for air as if the admission had left you bare in a way you'd never been before.

His jaw tightened. He swallowed hard, throat working. His touch softened and his fingers curved more carefully along your jaw as though you were glass he hadn't realized he'd been holding this whole time.

"Sweetheart, I—" The word was rough, torn from somewhere deep, almost reverent. His gaze searched your like he was looking for confirmation, for any sign he'd misunderstood. But he hadn't. He knew.

His mouth parted but it took him a moment to find his voice. "Fuck, I'm… I really am an idiot."

The words were so raw, so self-condemning that for the first time all day, a laugh escaped you. Small and nervous but real. You shook your head, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes even as your lips curved faintly.

"You're not," you whispered. "I wanted it. I swear, I did… just… not like this. Not when I was panicking. Not when I couldn't even breathe. And I should've told you instead of running away like that."

He exhaled, long and shaky. His shoulders loosened as if your words had cut through some invisible cord holding him too tight. His mouth twitched. His thumb brushed over your cheek again, catching the edge of a tear before it could fall.

You leaned into his touch without thinking and his gaze dropped to your lips, then flicked back to your eyes.

"Can I…?" he whispered, his breath warm against your face.

You didn't answer with words. You didn't need to. The tiny tilt of your chin with a nod and the way your lips parted just slightly was enough.

He leaned in, slow and cautious, as if every second gave you a chance to pull away. And when his mouth finally brushed against yours, it was feather-light, almost trembling.

But the moment you felt him, something in you snapped. The fear, the shame, the aching want—all of it collided. You kissed him back, harder, surer, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt as if you were terrified he might disappear.

His sharp inhale, stuttered into the kiss, surprise melting into something deeper. He pressed closer, still gentle but no longer tentative. His lips moved with yours like he'd been waiting for this as long as you had.

Your fingers curled tighter into his shirt, tugging until the kiss broke just long enough for a shaky breath to leave you. His eyes were glassy, pupils wide, his lips swollen from your mouth.

"Please…" you whispered, your voice barely holding together. Desperate and fragile all at once.

He swallowed hard, steadying himself but the moment your hands slid lower—gripping at the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer—he let you guide him. Each step backward you took, he followed. His lips caught yours again and again, more frantic and more consuming.

By the time you entered your bedroom and your legs hit the edge of the bed, his breathing was ragged. His chest was rising and falling as if he'd run miles. You sat down, tugging him with you, your hands roaming over the the solid muscle of his chest, down to his waist. You were greedy and scared this was just another dream you'd wake up from.

"Sweetheart…" he rasped, kneeling between your thighs, hands braced on either side of you. "I… I don't wanna rush you, fuck—" he breathed. "I don't wanna hurt you again."

You grabbed his wrist and guided his hand to the hem of your panties right under your skirt. His touch lingered there. Your pulse trashed so hard you thought it might kill you. But you needed this. There was no way you'd run away again.

"I want this," you said and even though your voice trembled it was certain. "I want you."

His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as he searched your face, looking for ever the slightest hesitation. But he found none. You held his gaze, unblinking and that was all he needed.

He bent forward, capturing your mouth in another kiss. This one was much hungrier, claiming. His hand slipped beneath the thin fabric at your hips, fingers tracing along the heat of you, teasing and coaxing, while his other hand cradled your face.

Your back arched and a gasp of yours broke the kiss. James groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin.

"God, you're perfect," he muttered, lips trailing hot down your jaw, your throat, marking you in ways words never could. "I wanna make you feel good, baby."

His hand shifted then. pressing firmer against your clothed core. You jolted, a strangled sound tore from your lips.

"Fuck… you're soaked," he breathed. The curse nearly swallowed by the reverence in his voice.

Your body burned and heat pooled between your thighs. And when his fingers curled around the edge of your panties, tugging them aside, you couldn't stop the moan that broke free. Cool air hit your slick folds for a moment before his touch followed. Two fingers sliding down, gently parting you.

You whimpered, helpless and trembling. The sound was so raw it made him shudder against you. His metal hand cupped your jaw, steadying you and tilting your face toward his so he could watch every flicker of your expression.

"Shh, sweetheart," he whispered, tracing slow circles over your clit. "I've got you, baby… Let me take care of you."

Your thighs quivered, clenching around his arm as the pleasure rolled through you—foreign, overwhelming but so fucking good. You tried to form words. Something… anything, but all you managed was another whimper that had his jaw clenching tight.

"No one ever touched you like this before, huh?" he rasped, his eyes flicked up to meet yours.

"No—No…" you answered through your moans.

His fingers slid lower, stroking your entrance, collecting the wetness there before circling back up. Every movement was patient and delicate. His lips brushed over your temple as his fingers slid just a bit lower. "Just relax for me, baby. Gonna make you feel so fucking good."

James pressed the tip of his finger against your entrance. Your breath hitched and your entire body tightened instinctively.

"It's okay…" he soothed, his metal hand tilting your jaw so you couldn't look away, couldn't hide. "Just look at me, baby. It's just me." He rested his hand on your hip then, keeping you in place—just where he wanted you.

You nodded, and with that he eased one finger inside. The stretch burned and a cry slipped from your lips.

He cursed under his breath as his forehead pressed to yours. "Fuck… so tight. It's okay baby. It's okay." He repeated. His finger stilled inside you, giving you time to adjust. "You're doing so good for me."

Your nails dug into his shoulders, grounding yourself in both warmth and safety of him. Slowly—achingly slow—his hand began to move.

A moan ripped out of you, much louder than you meant.

"That's it," he groaned, pumping his finger a little deeper. "There you go. Taking me so fucking well." He kissed your cheek. 'Gotta stretch you for me, sweetie. Wanna feel you ready before I'm inside you."

Your hips twitched, rocking forward without your permission, chasing the friction. It just felt too fucking good. "James—"

"Hmm?… You want more, don't you?" he chuckled darkly. His breath ghosted over the skin of your neck.

„Y—Yes, please…”

„Fuck, baby," he murmured. The thumb of his metal hand stroked softly over your hip while his fingers kept working you open. "So perfect for me. So. Fucking. Perfect." His forehead pressed to yours again. "I'm gonna give you another, okay?"

"Yes, Yes—Please, James—" you pleaded, desperately.

He kissed your lips gently, swallowing your shaky yes before sliding his second finger in beside the first.

"Just like that…" he whispered, lips brushing over your jaw. "Breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe for me. You're doing so good… fuck— So, so good."

His fingers stretched you. It felt almost uncomfortable but your body craved it. And his touch? Fuck, it was so grounding. Like he was never letting you go. His metal hand cradled your cheek again. Thumb now sweeping away a tear that slipped free.

"Hey, baby," he tucked a strand of hair away from your face. "You're beautiful like this. You don't even know, do you? How perfect you are. How much I want you."

The words had you melting. Your body adjusted slowly into a fullness that had you moaning against his mouth.

"Oh yeah," he breathed, finally moving his fingers with careful thrusts. "God, baby… That's my girl. Taking my fingers so well. Letting me make you feel good."

Your hips shifted again, chasing the rhythm. James' lips curved into a cocky smile against your temple. "You're so fucking sweet like this. So tight, so wet for me. You're everything I ever wanted, pretty girl."

He curled his fingers then just so. Dragging against a spot inside you that had your back arching off the mattress with a strangled moan.

"Mhm," he groaned, watching your face twist with shock and pleasure. "Right there, huh?"

He pressed into it again. Each curl of his fingers pulled another broken sound from your throat. Then another. And another. Your legs trembled as heat coiled tight in your belly. Tighter than it ever had before.

"James— fuck!" you gasped, voice breaking but he shushed you with a kiss to your lips. His pace never faltering.

"I know, baby. I know, you're close, aren't you? Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me." he cooed and pressed a kiss to your temple. "Fuck— I can't wait to feel you squeeze my cock like that… Let go for me. I've got you."

It hit so fast you could hardly breathe. The pressure snapped. Your walls fluttered desperately around his fingers as you cried out, clinging to him like you'd fall apart if you let go.

He groaned against your neck, still moving inside you and coaxing every wave from you. "Yes, fuck— Yes, baby. Look at you…. You're so perfect, so beautiful when you come."

Your whole body shook. Your legs twitched as aftershocks rolled through you. His metal hand stroked gently over your ribs, grounding you while his other hand stayed buried inside, easing you down slow.

"So proud of you, baby," he whispered, kissing the damp corner of your mouth. "There you go… Shhh… I've got you."

He pulled his fingers out of you, glistening with your release. For a second, he just stared, chest rising and falling. Then with a low growl, he brought his hand to his mouth.

His eyes stayed locked on yours as his tongue slid over his fingers tasting you. A shudder went through his broad frame and he let out the filthiest sound you'd ever heard—half groan, half sigh.

"Sweetest thing I've ever fucking tasted," he rasped, his tongue chasing the last of you from the seam of his knuckles. "Gonna get addicted to this. To you."

You blushed. Your thighs clenched and your core ached for more.

He lowered, kissing you rough, desperate. His weight pressed you deeper into the mattress as he shifted between your legs. The clink of his belt buckle filled the room, followed by the zip of his pants. He shoved them down. Boxers with them and your breath caught in your throat when his cock sprang free—thick, flushed, the head already dripping with precum.

"Fuck," you whispered before you could stop yourself. He smirked faintly at the sound, but there was nothing cocky in his eyes now—only heat and hunger.

He dragged his length through your slick folds slowly, groaning as his tip caught against your clit, making you flinch.

"You feel that?" he murmured, voice low and ragged. His forehead rested against yours. "That's what you do to me, baby. Been hard for you since the second I saw you in my office."

He didn't push in. Not yet. Instead, he slid his cock along your soaked cunt. The movement was slow, torturous. He repeated it a few times. The thick head dragged against your clit before dipping lower, gliding through your slick.

Your breath hitched every time he pressed against your entrance. Your body twitched with hope that he'd finally sink into you—only for him to pull back again.

"James— Please…" Your voice cracked, high and needy.

He moaned at the way you said his name, cock twitching against your cunt, but still he didn't give in. He moved again, dragging himself up through your pussy, coating himself in your wetness and smearing it along his thick shaft.

"God, you're drenched for me," he muttered, almost to himself. His metal hand gripped your thigh firmly, keeping you spread open for him. "Look at you, baby. I could slide in so easy, but fuck— listen to you. Already whining, begging with those pretty little sounds.”

You clenched around nothing, your nails digging into the sheets. "Please," you breathed, desperation bleeding through. "Please!"

"Please what, sweetheart?" He smirked and leaned down, his thick cock still dragging against you, grinding against your swollen clit until you whimpered. "Tell me what you want. Tell me exactly."

Your cheeks burned. Embarrassment and need colliding, but the feeling of him pressed right where you needed it the most, pulled the words out of you like a confession.

"Please… Fuck me, James. Please—"

"Good girl," he whispered and his tip pressed against your entrance. Firmer this time, no teasing. You breath shuttered and your chest rose fast as you felt him finally push forward.

The stretch was intense, but fuck—your body welcomed him. Inch by inch. He sank into you slowly. You could see how his brows furrowed with focus or… control. As if he was holding himself back from slamming in all at once.

"Jesus Christ," he hissed through his teeth. "You're so tight, baby. I knew you would be but fuck— Baby, you're squeezing me so good."

Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, then at his back. Your thighs were trembling… and so was your entire body. "James— Fuck!"

"Just a little bit more, okay?" He soothed, his voice breaking on a groan as he pushed deeper. "You're doing so well for me, sweetheart."

Every word, every praised wrapped around you, grounding you as he filled you. He stretched you open in ways you'd never felt before. Your eyes fluttered shut, a whimper spilled from your lips when he bottomed out. His hips were finally flush against yours.

He stayed there, buried deep, chest pressed against you as he kissed the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your temple, your cheek.

"Fuck…" He pulled back just enough to look at you. His gaze softened for a moment. "Look at me, baby."

Your lashes lifted and your gaze locked with his. The heat in his stare made you clench around him, making him let out a quiet whimper.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, voice hoarse.

You shook your head quickly and your lips parted in a shaky moan. "No… just—full. It feels… full."

He kissed you again, slower this time. His hips shifted, testing a shallow thrust and your body arched in response.

"Good girl," he rasped, brushing his thumb along your cheek. "You take me so good."

James moved slowly at first, almost painfully so. His hips rolled forward in a steady rhythm. He dragged his cock out just enough to make you feel the stretch again before sinking back into the heat of you.

Each thrust stole your breath. Your body trembled as he filled you to the hilt every time. His hand cradled your jaw, thumb brushing tender circles against your cheek as if to ground you through the intensity of it.

"God… You feel unreal, baby. So fucking perfect around me," he whispered right into your mouth before pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

Your nails raked gently down his back, clinging to him as the slow, deep strokes built a pressure inside you you'd never known. Your lips parted on a moan, every sound breaking free without you intending to.

He continued kissing you, swallowing the noises. His tongue slid against your in sync with the languid drag of his cock. It wasn't rushed or frantic. Just deep, steady and consuming.

"I— God, it feels so good, James—" you gasped against his mouth.

He pulled back a little to look at you, his hips still working. "I'm here," he murmured. His eyes were focused on your face. "I'm right here. You're mine. Just mine."

The words made your walls clench tight around him, making him groan. The sound was guttural and broken. His metal hand gripped your hip more firmly as he began to thrust deeper, hitting that sweet spot of yours.

"You like that, baby?" he whispered, testing the angle.

You couldn't even answer. Just a sharp cry left your throat as your body arched into him. He smiled softly, kissing you again and again as he gave you exactly what you needed.

Your breaths quickly turned into ragged, short gasps, breaking into moans and your nails dug into his skin like you were holding on for dear life. "Yes! James, I— fuck, please! Don't stop!"

His hand slid down and his thumb found your clit. He began rubbing soft, steady circles in time with his thrusts. "I can feel you—fuck—you're so close."

Your vision blurred. Tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as the pleasure built too fast, too much. And just a few seconds later you came.

Your pussy clenched around him and your back arched off the bed as your orgasm ripped through you. A sob left your throat, your entire body trembled under the feeling.

James moaned as he felt you spasm around him. His thrust slowed even more, rocking into you and fucking you through the waves. His thumb didn't stop either, coaxing every last pulse from you until you were left gasping and limp beneath him.

After a moment his thrust grew rougher, deeper. The control he’d held onto finally slipped away. Each snap of his hips drove his cock harder into you, filling you to the edge of pain but keeping you rooted in the bliss of it.

"Oh my god," you gasped. Every nerve felt raw and oversensitive and you grabbed the sheets impossibly tight, trying to anchor yourself.

"Just a little longer, baby," he cooed and pressed his forehead to yours, sweat dampening his hairline. His hands gripped you tight—flesh digging into your hip, metal spreading across your thigh—anchoring himself as mush as you. "I'm so close, just—fuck—"

The words broke out with a desperation of a man at his breaking point. His thrusts stuttered, pace faltering as he buried himself as deep as your body would take him.

And then the shattered.

A moan tore from his chest as he came, hips pressed flush to yours, cock twitching deep inside you. Hot, thick pulses spilled into you, filling you until you swore you could feel it spill over, marking you from the inside out.

His breath came ragged against your lips. You felt the weight of him pressing you into the mattress as he groaned through every last pulse, refusing to pull away.

"Fuck," he panted, voice trembling with the aftershocks. His hand cupped your face again as his body finally stilled inside you.

You lay there. Chest rising and falling, hair sticking to your forehead as your body tingled with the intensity of it all. Your eyes met his, dazed and small. An exhausted smile tugged at your lips.

He chuckled softly. His thumb caressed over your flushed cheeks.

"I fucking love you," he murmured, amusement softening the roughness in his voice. Then he leaned down to press a slow, lingering kiss to your lips.

Your hands found his shoulders, clutching lightly and you melted into the warmth of him.The world outside—his office, your nerves, everything—felt impossibly far away. There was only this. Only him and the quiet, sweet aftermath of having everything you wanted pressed into a single, stolen moment.

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She chuckles, low and dry and crawling down your spine. As if suddenly remembering the heat, she straightens and gathers up her hair, scraping her nails along the sides to get it all into her hand. You watch, entranced, as she loops it in messy jet-black coils high above her nape.

Holy arms.

Your mouth dries, your hold on your phone going limp as she secures the knot with a claw clip. Shorter bangs immediately wilt out of her updo, artfully kissing her cheekbones in soft waves; she tucks them behind her ear, setting her chin in her hand as she glances at your phone.

"What are you getting?" She asks, tapping at the menu when it darkens.

You try to reconnect the fried wires in your brain.

"I'm…uh. Stuck." You say dumbly. Her brows raise at your following silence. You hurry to elaborate on your dilemma. "Cherry or rocky road."

She gives an easy shrug. "Get a scoop of each."

"Too indulgent." You mutter, scrubbing your face before sliding into your notes app.

Birthday cake for Garcia, you type with unsteady fingers. Your brain blanks on the rest of the orders. You scrunch your face, writing down cherry without much fight. The rest of them come back slowly. Almond fudge for Tara. Butter pecan for JJ. Strawberry for Matt, pina colada for—

"Honey."

"Yes, beautiful." You murmur, writing down a raspberry for Reid. You glance up at the ringing silence, recognizing your mistake in Emily's poorly hidden amusement. She smiles placidly, thumb skimming along her bottom lip, and the heat slams into you all at once.

Wonderful.

"I just realized you were saying the flavor you wanted. And…not in fact addressing me endearingly." You stammer.

Emily nods, her smile cracking.

"Sorry."

She rubs your knee. "No hard feelings, babe."

You jerk it away, gawping. A pit opens up deep in your stomach, your heart falling through. "Stop that right now." You demand.

Emily smiles, sickly sweet and with her eyes squinting. She pats your knee once before taking her hand back, dimples still firmly in place.

"Whatever you say, angel."

"Emily Prentiss." You hiss.

She blinks innocently. "Yes, baby?"

Jesus Christ on a pogo stick.

You stand abruptly, entirely, wholly composed of flames. My clothes are gonna burn off, you think. She's gonna see me naked. She calls me baby and I'm boiling so hard I'm gonna flash her with my wildly unsexy—

"You really think I'm beautiful?" She calls out after you, coy and laughing. You can't look back at her, too busy making a beeline for her door. "No, wait! Get back here."

You pause right at the threshold, itching to bolt.

"What?"

Emily's face is pink with pleasure, her tongue wetting a path across her lips. "Come here, honey, don't be shy." She coaxes, so sweet your teeth ache.

Amongst other things.

You spin back around, waving your phone over your head.

"I'm canceling your order."

"Sweetheart, I was kidding." Her voice trails after you, low enough for you to nearly trip over. "Don't be like that."

You take the steps two at a time and hand Reid your phone. He doesn't comment when you take it back out of his hand, flustered, and paste the list to your text thread.

"And honey." You add, fumbling, still hot to the core. "For Emily."

The car ride had been quiet and tense, neither of you sure how to fill up the time. Most of your conversations centered around work, meeting notes, employee performances, nothing that seemed appropriate when your knees were still sore, when you could still taste the salt of his come in the back of your throat, and especially not when you were struggling to sit still in your seat because your ass still stung from his earlier spankings. No music played, either, silence consuming the whole drive. The air conditioning was turned up too high, chilling you to the bone, but you were much too nervous to ask him to turn it down.

His door opens and he's pulling you through unceremoniously, like it means nothing to be walking past this threshold. While he locks the door, taking the time to hang his jacket in the closet and put his shoes away, you catch a quick glance around his home. There's a lot more color than you expected, more personality than his sterile office. A framed poster of the Beatles’ A Hard Day's Night occupies the wall to your right, his living room is cluttered with vinyl records and spine-cracked books, and an aquarium rests on a stand, multi-colored fish swishing their flashy tails in the water.

“Can I help you with your heels?” his voice comes from behind you, interrupting your inspection. Looking over your shoulder at him, you notice a sheepish flush on his cheeks, his hands tucked behind his back, nervous ticks you’ve never seen him display before. He's already dropping to his knees before you've answered him. Delicately, he undoes the buckle, his fingers curling around your ankle as he sets your foot down onto the floor. Your fingers skim along his back as your balance wavers, almost daring to touch him, before you retract them, unsure if it was allowed.

Once both your shoes are neatly tucked away with his, Mr. Styles leads you to his staircase, encouraging you up each step with the press of his hand along your spine, bypassing the knick-knacks and decorations without commentary. Then he’s reaching around you, opening the door to a bedroom, his bedroom presumably, and pushing you inside, only a step behind you. You don't have time to admire the navy sheets that compliment the chestnut wood frame before his hand changes its position, moving around to your hip and halting your movement.

“I want you to strip,” Mr. Style orders in a low voice, tight with control, “then I want you to get on the bed and wait. Think you can do that?”

Your pussy flutters at the shift, from the shy apprehension downstairs to this dominant power upstairs. With a shaky inhale, you nod your head, holding back a needy whine. But that's not the correct response.

His nails pinch into your flesh, indenting your skin through your clothes. “What was that? I couldn't hear you,” he coos, his tone mocking and patronizing and so fucking deep.

“Yes, sir,” you breathe, vaguely recalling his earlier rules.

“Good.” Mr. Styles pats your ass, a whimper sneaking out of your lips as he makes contact over where his rings had branded you. “Get moving then.”

Hurriedly stepping over to the bed, you pull down the zipper on the side of your skirt, eager to comply, eager for what he promised. The skirt drops to the floor as you hear the clink of glass behind you. While you unbutton your shirt, you sneak a glance over your shoulder to see Mr. Styles has his back to you, fixing himself an amber colored drink. You watch as he brings the drink to his lips and shoots it back, gulping it down quickly. Unhooking your bra, your mouth goes dry as he rolls his sleeves up his arms, showing off his decorated arms, watching the art flex as he pours himself another drink, swallowing it just as fast as he did the first one.

As you step out of your underwear, you wonder what you should do with your pile of clothes before casually kicking them underneath the bed. You crawl across his mattress, questioning how he wanted you. Were you supposed to stop as you were, on your hands and knees, presenting yourself for him, or did he want you splayed on your back, legs spread wide, on display for his viewing pleasure? Completely unsure of what he wants, the very thing he pays you to do, you choose to sit back among his pillows, leaning against his headboard, crossing your ankles. Your hands nervously brush through your hair, while you wait for him, needing something to do.

“We should go over the rules,” Mr. Styles says before turning around, his breath catching when he sees you, naked and in his bed, just as he asked, better than he imagined. Blinking a few times, he comes out of the trance your body holds him under. “First, you can only say ‘yes, sir' and ‘no, sir', do you understand?” he tests you, swirling his third whiskey, the glass filled near to the brim.

“Yes, sir,” you respond correctly.

“Second,” he proceeds, walking up to the edge of the bed, “you will do exactly as I tell you, unless you tell me ‘no, sir'.” He pauses, expectant, raising his eyebrows at you.

“Y-yes, sir,” you stumble through your words, remembering your place, the role you’re supposed to play. Your gaze starts to drift from his stern eyes, the tight tick in his jaw, down his neck to where he's unbuttoned his shirt, the dip of his collar bones, tracing the lines down to his tattooed arms, trying to decipher each piece of art, trying to work out what they could mean.

Taking a sip of his drink, he clears his throat before continuing. “Third, if you need to take a break, or want to stop, just say ‘stop' and we will. That's the only other word you're allowed to use.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No, I need you to look at me,” Mr. Styles demands, commanding your attention, your focus snapping back up to his face. “If you need to stop, you say ‘stop'. Understand?”

Maintaining eye contact, you nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” he growls, the only praise he's offered to you, and it's all you need to feel your pussy slick, your thighs clenching together. “And lastly, you will signal to me when you're about to come. Just pat the bed twice when you're close. You will not be allowed to come unless I say so.”

Your cunt tenses with the threat. “Yes, sir.”

“If you break any of these rules, you will be punished. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you like to make any adjustments to the rules?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then spread those legs and let me get a look at you,” Mr. Styles orders, lifting his drink up to his lips while keeping his eyes glued to your crotch.

Without removing your gaze from his face, you uncross your legs, bending your knees and exposing your glistening center to your boss. You catch as his eyes darken, the dip of his tongue as he licks his lips, the flare of his nostrils as he exhales deeply.

“Do you ever touch yourself?” he asks, his grip flexing around the glass.

A blush creeps onto your cheeks, embarrassed by the question, despite being completely exposed to him. “Yes, sir,” you admit bashfully.

“Show me how.”

Obedient to his words, his accent seductively entrancing, your fingers press into your clit, the sensitive nub engorged and pulsing beneath your touch. As you rub circles into your bud, you watch him watch you, his gaze refusing to move from your pussy, taking another sip of his drink. A drop of condensation seeps from the bottom of the glass, dripping onto the carpet. If Mr. Styles keeps his heated gaze on your roving fingers, keeps darting his eyes over your quivering lips, keeps smirking when your breath hitches on a whimper, you're pretty sure you could get your pussy to perform the same trick.

Mr. Styles leans closer, inspecting your masturbation technique as intently as he does business portfolios, not wanting to miss a single detail. “Is this how you pleasure yourself?” he asks, glancing up at your face for confirmation. “Is this how you do it at home?”

“Yes, sir,” you sigh, sinking further into the bed, relaxing underneath your ministrations. Even his intense gaze was becoming soothing to you.

“Do you ever use toys?”

Your teeth pierce into your bottom lip, holding back a moan before you answer. “Yes, sir.”

Raising an eyebrow at you, he presses on, “What do you use?”

It's a trick. You're not allowed to answer him, remembering the first rule he gave you, scared of what punishment he would dole out. So you clamp your mouth shut, rolling your lips into your mouth, keeping silent while rubbing yourself, the growing pressure in your belly taking up your concentration.

His mouth curls up into a proud, lopsided smirk. “Just testing you, babygirl.” Your legs twitch at the pet name, making your boss's face light up at the movement. “Oh, do you like that? Do you like being called names?” he quizzes you, resting his knee on the mattress, the bed sinking underneath his weight as he nears.

“Yes,” you whine, your fingers circling faster, his proximity edging you closer, hastily adding on, “sir.”

“That's good to know…” he mutters to himself, his head cocking to the side as he loses himself to the pulsing beat of your lips.

Your hips buck forward, into your hand, pressing against yourself harder, making your eyes roll as the pleasure mounts, building up more and more. Smacking your hand against the bed, you give Mr. Styles the signal of your impending orgasm, eager to have your release.

“Close already? It's that easy to get you off, huh?”

Without the freedom to argue back, you can't inform him that no, it usually isn't this easy to get you off. That when you do this at home, you couldn't smell his citrus scented shampoo wafting from the pillows, couldn’t feel his penetrative stare deep in your core, couldn't imagine the filthy way he talked to you.

“Go ahead, babygirl,” he encourages, almost pleadingly, reaching out to grasp your ankle, running his thumb over the bone. “Show me how you make yourself come.”

The gentle caress of his touch, coupled with his words sends you toppling over, your orgasm spilling over you and onto his sheets, arousal dripping out of your lips. Your legs shiver, your hips stutter, and your cunt clenches around nothing but the memory of his cock as you come undone, your mouth dropping open as you moan out your pleasure.

“Oh, Jesus…” Mr. Styles trails off, watching you completely awestruck as you leak onto his bedspread. “Making such a mess…”

Quaking with aftershocks, your fingers slow as you come down from the high, removing them when your clit grows too sensitive.

“Don't stop!” he orders, his grip tightening on your ankle. “Did I tell you to stop?”

“N-n-no, sir,” you stammer, gasping when your fingers connect back onto your still throbbing clit, the brief touch making you jolt.

Mr. Styles shakes his head, plucking an ice cube from his glass. “And you were doing so well…” He sticks both the ice cube as well as his wet fingers into his mouth, sucking the whiskey from them both. Then he spits the ice cube back into his hand, leaning forward until he's laying down in front of your crotch. “Move your fingers,” he demands.

Grateful for the break, you drag your hand up your body, resting it along your stomach, taking a breath to ease yourself down from the pressure already beginning its second rise. Your eyelids droop down, your legs fall open more, your body relaxing without the pressing stimulation.

Until you're surprised by the chill of the ice cube pressing into your worn out clit, suddenly tensing up underneath his cold fingers. Droplets of water melt down your pussy, some curving around your fluttering lips, others dipping into your heated center. He doesn't move, keeping the ice still, and you can't decide if that makes it more bearable or more torturous. The ice’s freezing effect takes over your body, shocking your system and halting your mind on a singular thought.

Who knew punishment could feel so excruciatingly good?

He removes the ice and places it back into his mouth, groaning as he slurps up the beads of your arousal that cling to the cube. “Keep going, I wanna see you come again,” he speaks around the melting ice, taking another sip of his whiskey.

When you press into your clit, the icy bud twitches beneath your warm hand, startled by the stark temperature difference. A yelp squeaks out of you at the contact, your fingers dancing along your nub in a stuttering attempt to warm it up.

“Here, let me help,” Mr. Styles offers kindly, generously, a little too sweetly, only making you suspicious of his help. He leans up so he’s hovering above your crotch, puckering his lips as a swirl of spit leeches from his mouth. The glob dangles then breaks off, slipping through your fingers and soaking through to your clit, the mixture cool and warm at once. “Go ahead, rub that in for me, nice and gentle,” he instructs lowly, grabbing your wrist and moving your hand in a slow rhythm. “That’s it…”

Your body doesn’t feel under your own control anymore, too lazy to fight back against the overwhelming ache of pleasure coursing through your body, your limbs twitching and jolting at every little feeling. Mr. Styles controls your movement, mirroring the way you showed him, following the pattern you set. All you can do is cry out and fight to keep your eyes open, not wanting to miss the way your boss admires your cunt, his eyes dark and wide with veneration.

“Do you remember the rules, babygirl?” he questions you, resting his head against your thigh, his hair tickling the inside of your legs.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” you panic, your words racing out before you can think them through, quickly amending them. “No, sir!”

“Thank God…” he sighs. He swallows down the last of his alcohol before his head dives into your crotch, tossing your hand aside before slurping your clit into his mouth.

“Oh fu-” you moan before catching yourself, holding back what you really want to say. “Oh, yes, sir… oooh, yes, sir!” You repeat the words over and over, using your reduced speech to your advantage.

His tongue is still cool from the ice cube, the chill press of it against your bud is equal parts a salve and an irritation. The focus on your clit makes it overworked, tired from all the attention, but his mouth feels too good to ask him to stop. He moves further down, prodding at your core before his tongue enters inside, lapping at your muscles that convulse around him. His groan rivals yours as he eats you up, feeling with his tongue, filling his mouth up with anything that drips out of you. It’s a messy mixture of melted ice, his saliva, and your arousal, but he takes it all, sucking up every drop.

“Sir, yes, oh God, yes! Oh, sir, please, yes,” you babble, no longer capable of paying attention to what you say. “Please, sir, fuck, yes, please sir!”

Shoving his face further into you, his tongue delves deeper, his nose nudging along your tender clit. His whole face is pressed into your crotch, breathing you in as easily as he does air. He rolls his tongue all around, lapping at you like a dog at a water bowl, drinking from you more intently than he did the whiskey. Each shake of his head, makes his nose brush across you, flicking the nub and adding to the immense pressure growing bigger. Nothing else matters, just the approaching pleasure you’re desperate to feel, desperate to release onto your boss..

But you do remember to pat the bed twice as he keeps licking, keeps consuming you, sucking you closer to your second orgasm.

Mr. Styles flattens his tongue and licks up your entire slit, circling once around your clit before retreating back into his mouth, sitting himself up and pulling away from you.

“N-no, no, sir, stop please, no!” you cry, hoping your whining will make him return, that your pleas will convince him to let you come.

He pushes out a heavy sigh, running his hand over his mouth, collecting all the wetness surrounding it. “That was a lot of rules you broke there, babygirl.” Mr. Styles stands up from the bed, walking back over to his minibar. Rummaging in a little bucket, he pulls out a few more cubes of ice, showing them off as his smile deepens. “We’re gonna have to do something about that.”

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The baristas at Cafe Gallant knew you by name, they even had your order ready before you arrived on particularly slow days.

Which worked out today, because you were running late this morning.

With your Rust Syndicate jacket slung over your shoulder, you pushed the cafe door open. Alongside the door chime, the green-haired barista calls out your name with a wave.

“Hey, good morning!”

You step up to the counter, greeting the familiar face.

“Your usual? I have it ready.”

“Oh, thank you.” You let out a sigh of relief as the barista points out a drink carrier with three drinks. There was a dark roast (for Corbeau), a caramel macchiato (for Phillippe), and your drink of choice. “I’m running late. You're a life savior.”

“Someone’s gotta do it.” The barista chuckled, running the company card you handed over. They handed it back, “have a good day.”

“Thanks! You too!” You took the drink tray and card, slipping it in your wallet before running out.

The Rust Syndicate headquarters was only a few minutes away from the cafe, thankfully. As the clock struck 8, you walked through the front doors of the building. Grunts greeted you as you approached the elevator, riding all the way to the top floor. When the door opened, Corbeau glanced up at you, already seated at his desk.

“Good morning.” He said, focusing back on his laptop.

Great, he didn’t notice you were late.

“Good morning, sir. Phillippe.” You said, smiling as you approached. You set the drink carrier on the corner of Corbeau’s large desk, handing Philipee his drink directly.

“Good morning.” Philippe grinned, patting your back way too hard. You were used to it by now, though, and just chuckled.

You grabbed Corbeau’s coffee. You went to set it on his desk, but he held his hand out, taking it directly from you. His hands brushed by yours as he took the drink, and it sent a spark up your arm. His skin was cold.

“What’s on the schedule for today?” Corbeau grunted. His golden eyes looked you up and down as he held his coffee in both palms, to warm them up, you assumed.

“Uh.” You rushed to pull out your hybrid laptop from your bag, folding it over into a tablet and opening the calendar. “You have a meeting this afternoon. Nothing else though. A few meetings tomorrow.”

Corbeau nodded, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “Who am I meeting with?”

“Jules Dubois.” You open the man’s file, skimming over it.

“I thought he paid everything off?”

“Um, no, he stopped making payments…” Opening up an excel sheet, you huffed. “About two months ago.” You turn your tablet for Corbeau to see. He took a quick glance and sighed.

“Alright.” He took a slow sip of his coffee, setting it on a coaster. “Have we seen any payments from Miss Bellerose lately?”

You opened her file up, easily navigating between files you had organized yourself. “No.”

Corbeau shook his head, leaning back in his chair. “Philippe, pay her a visit to gently remind her she does have a debt to pay off, will you.” While phrased like a question, both you and Philippe knew it was a command. Corbeau did that a lot.

“It’ll be done.”

“Great.” Corbeau waved his hand, effectively dismissing both of you for the time being. “Thank you for the coffee, (Y/N).”

You smiled even though it was in your job description to grab coffee every morning. “My pleasure.”

~

Your ‘office’ was downstairs, the floor below Corbeau’s office. Really, it was just a glorified cubicle next to the copier and supply cabinet, but you were rarely there anymore. Corbeau had gotten annoyed with you “being so far” a few months back, and the next week you had been gifted your hybrid laptop, so you could work from anywhere. The following week, your office phone was forwarded to your personal cell during working hours, so all you needed to go downstairs for was the copier, and to file papers away.

You missed your office, just a bit, in the way that you could get away not working when you weren’t busy. It was harder to get away with reading on the job when you worked from the leather couches five feet from your boss’s desk.

Finishing with the copier, you made your way back upstairs. Corbeau was still at his desk, but Philipee was gone from his side, presumably dealing with Miss Bellerose.

“I need you to sign this new-hire paperwork.” You said as you approached, setting the small stack of papers on Corbeau’s desk. He glanced up at you from the top of his glasses, still typing on his laptop. His golden gaze lingered on your face, just long enough for you to notice, until he turned his attention back to his laptop.

You were used to his looks and his expressionless stares, at least enough to not be as intimidated by them as you once were.

Corbeau pressed his lips together, humming in response as he finished typing. He pushed his laptop out of the way, and pulled the paperwork closer, freehand pulling a pen out from his desk drawer.

“Philippe battled her last week, and passed her. She’s coming in today. I’ll finish her orientation, and get her uniform ordered.” You explained.

Corbeau nodded, flipping through the pages and signing where he needed to. When he finished, he slid the stack back to you. “What about your own uniform?” He asked.

Your eyebrows narrowed. “What?”

Corbeau pointed to your arm.

You held your arm up, inspecting your blazer. Nothing seemed off.

Corbeau sighed through his nose, and suddenly grabbed the cuff of your jacket with both hands. He then yanked the cuff, and you, by extension, over. Again, his hand bumped yours, as if he pulled you too close for a moment. The touch was cold, much colder than this morning, and made you shiver.

“Look.” He said, retracting one hand, motioning to the spot he was still holding.

You followed his eyes and looked down at the spot Corbeau’s thumb rested on your blazer.

Your eyes widened. There was a rip in your jacket seam. It was small, but now that Corbeau held it, you couldn’t take your eyes off it. That hadn’t been there this morning, had it? Crap.

“I, I didn’t know it was ripped.” You stammered, looking back at Corbeau. His expression hadn’t shifted from its usual resting frown. “I’m sorry. I will get it fixed.”

Corbeau nodded. “We have a reputation to uphold, you can’t be walking around like this.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Corbeau tugs at the jacket. “Take it off.”

You frown, embarrassment flushing your cheeks. How could you have been so careless? Still, you shed your jacket. Corbeau held his arm out, and it took you a moment to realize he wanted the jacket. You draped it over his arm.

“Order yourself a new one. This one is old anyway, isn’t it?” He said, looking over the blazer again, before back at you.

At least Corbeau wasn’t mad. You had seen him mad, hell even just disappointed, and this wasn’t that. Not even close.

“It is. I got this jacket on my first day.”

Corbeau nodded. “And that was so long ago, wasn’t it? Doesn’t feel like it.”

He was right. How long had it been since you started as his assistant? Almost a year? “Yeah, no, it doesn't."

Flinging your jacket over the side of his chair, he crossed one leg over the other and turned back to you. “Sushi for lunch? If I put in an order, you’ll pick it up once you're done with the new hire.”

“Sure, yes sir.” Was he not going to give you your jacket back?

“Great.” Corbeau nodded, pulling his laptop into his lap. “I’ll forward you the confirmation email.”

“Alright.” You guessed not. That was fine, it was a little warm outside anyway, you guessed.

~

The sushi place was empty save for you, an orange-haired man and an older woman who he referred to as “mom” loudly when you walked in, and two younger girls giggling in the corner. Still, it took a while to prepare your pickup order, and you felt naked without your jacket.

Seriously, how embarrassing was it that your jacket was ripped? Corbeau didn’t seem too upset, and, admittedly, you had done more embarrassing things in front of him during your time there (You cringed at the memory of the time you stepped wrong in his office, and tumbled to the ground in front of him), but you had prided yourself on keeping up with your uniform.

The chef called for you, holding a large bag over the counter. It was heavy, and awkward to carry. Ugh, how much sushi did Corbeau need?

You thanked the chef, and headed back to headquarters.

~

By the time you got back, Philippe was back as well, standing at his usual place at Corbeau’s side.

“Miss Bellerose sends her deepest apologies, and promises to make more consistent payments moving forward.” Philippe explained, glancing over at you as you approached.

You didn’t miss the large stack of money in Corbeau’s hands, or the smirk on Philippe’s face, as you set the bag of sushi on Corbeau’s desk.

“Wonderful, that’s what I like to hear.” The corners of Corbeau’s lips turned upwards into a smirk that still lingered on his face as looked over at you. “Even better, lunch. Thank you, (Y/N).”

“You’re welcome.” You can’t help but smile at the praise.

Corbeau set the large stack of money down and pulled the takeout bag into his lap. “The two of you are free to help yourselves, if you wish.”

Philippe smiled, “Thanks, Boss.”

Before you could say anything, Corbeau suddenly shifted, grabbing your jacket off his arm chair and tossing it to you. You barely caught it. The broken seam had been restitched by a bright, purple thread.

Did…Did Corbeau fix your blazer?

You looked back at him, and he smiled. “Still order yourself a new one. I don’t want any repeats of today.”

“R-right.” You slid the jacket back over your shoulders, Rust Syndicate logo back at its proper place on your back and over your heart. “Thank you, sir.”

Corbeau smiled. “Don’t let it happen again.”

~

“My mom’s illness is only getting worse. I’m, it’s like, I just, feel so helpless.”

The man sitting across from you, Jules Dubois, let out a shaky sigh, running his hands through his orange hair. You continue to take notes on your laptop, glancing over at Corbeau, who sat on the opposite end of the leather couch from you.

Corbeau did not look amused, his face dark and stern, pale hands intertwined tightly over his lap.

This was highly unlike him.

Normally when real helpless people came into the office, Corbeau was quick to show them sympathy. He was not giving this man any of that.

“I don’t know when I’m going to have the money to pay you back. I don’t even know if my mother is going to make it to the end of the week.”

Corbeau exhaled through his nose. “You signed a contract. I helped you, now it’s time you helped us. If you cannot pay me back with the money you owe, then I expect you should be eager to begin working with us.”

Mr. Dubois shook his head. “I-I can’t. I can't leave my mother right now. She’s dying. What part of that is not clicking for you?”

The air around you tensed up. The way Mr. Dubois raised his voice made your stomach queasy, especially in addition to the mood Corbeau was in.

“She’s dying, but she could still treat you to sushi this afternoon?”

Mr. Dubois looked just as confused as you felt, but you did your best to keep your expression neutral.

“What are you talking about?” The man grimaced.

Corbeau glanced over at you now. “My assistant saw you and an older woman getting sushi this afternoon. (Y/N).” Corbeau held his hand out to you.

What the fuck was he talking about? You didn’t-

Oh.

Corbeau was right. You had seen Mr. Dubois at the sushi restaurant with his mom, just a few hours ago.

“Right.” You turned to Mr. Dubois, who was squinting at you now. “I was picking up lunch this afternoon, and saw Mr. Dubois refer to the older woman he was dining with as his ‘Mom’.”

Mr. Dubois’ expression changed, from wide-eyed shock to intense glaring anger. It was clear he finally recognized you. He began to yell. “What the fuck? Are you fucking spying on me? Sending your undercover goons after me?”

Corbeau is quick to step in, pulling the attention off of you and back to him. “It was merely a coincidence. A poorly timed coincidence. And, please, do not yell at me or my employees. I would hate to have to escalate this beyond a professional level.”

“You’re a stalker! This is illegal! I am going to report you to the cops, and they’re gonna shut this whole place down!”

Corbeau pushed his glasses up his nose, his smirk under his palm not going unnoticed to you. “Mr. Dubois, I think you are underestimating who you are dealing with. And, quite frankly, you’re pissing me off.” Removing his hand, Corbeau glared at the man across from him. “So, I recommend you choose your next words carefully.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Mr. Dubois reached in his pocket, but was slammed onto the table between you and him by Philippe before he could grab anything.

You flinched, pulling your feet to your chest.

“Philippe, please deal with Mr. Dubois.” Corbeau said, crossing one leg over the other casually.

“Of course, boss.”

~

“Are you alright?” Corbeau asked, once Philippe escorted Mr. Dubois out. He turned to you, a soft frown on his face. “I apologize for throwing you in the fire without warning. I shouldn’t have done that, I regret it.”

“Yes, I am fine.” You said, giving him a confirming nod. This was far from the first time things had escalated during a meeting. While you were still a bit in shock, your head still spun with questions. “But…How did you-”

“It was a coincidence.” Corbeau shrugged, a smirk suddenly curling on his lips again. He winked at you as he headed back to his desk.

~

You still weren’t sure how Corbeau had caught Mr. Dubois, but perhaps you needed the reminder that your boss had all of Lumiose in his palm. While you weren’t sure how, it was obvious Corbeau knew Mr. Dubois was going to be at the sushi restaurant, and he had pulled your jacket off you on purpose. The details were still unbeknownst to you, no matter how hard you tried to puzzle it all together.

It was only an hour after the meeting with Mr. Dubois before the clock struck 5pm, and you began to pack your stuff to go home.

“(Y/N).” Corbeau said.

“Yes, sir?” You glanced up at him as you stuffed your laptop into your bag.

“Come here, please.” He threw his head back, motioning to himself.

As you approached, he leaned down, digging into one of his desk drawers. You watched as he dug through his drawer, pushing a pair of scissors, some tape, and a seam ripper out of the way before grabbing a white envelope. He placed it on his desk and slid it over to you.

“Today is your 1st anniversary here. Did you know that?” Corbeau crossed his hands over his lap.

Oh, shit. “No sir, I didn’t realize.”

Corbeau nodded. “Well, I did. I am very thankful for all your hard work. You have done well, and have helped lighten the load off my shoulders tremendously. I appreciate it.”

You almost didn’t respond, shocked by the sudden load of praise. It made your head spin, and your heart swell. You really liked hearing it from him. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

Corbeau smiled at you. “In celebration, I am giving you a raise, and a bonus.”

“Oh!” Your eyes widened. “Thank you, so much.” You managed to get out in your shock. You couldn’t help how you smiled at the excitement of getting both a bonus and a raise.

“You’re welcome. Have a nice night, (Y/n). Thank you for all that you do.”

~

Inside the envelope was a plain gratitude card, and 15,000 pokedollars. There was a handwritten note inside the card that you hung on your fridge that night.

(Y/N),

Thank you for all that you do for me, and the Rust Syndicate. You do good work, and your heart is always in the right place. I appreciate you dearly, and I hope to see you at my side for many more years to come. Don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything from me.

Sincerely yours,

Corbeau