**Chapter 4: Office Secrets**

The fluorescent lights hum like a warning. I keep my eyes on the quarterly projections, but my skin is already burning. Roman’s office is down the hall, glass walls and steel frames, a modern fortress of control. I can feel him through the floorboards, through the quiet clicks of keyboards, through the sheer gravitational pull of his presence. He’s been like this for weeks. Cold. Precise. Unyielding. And yet, when he looks at me, the ice cracks just enough to let something darker bleed through.

I adjust my blazer, smooth a nonexistent wrinkle from my skirt, and force my breathing to stay even. We’re at work. We’re in an office. There are glass doors, there are assistants with clipboards, there are cameras in the ceiling corners. We are not supposed to be doing this. And that’s exactly why my pulse won’t settle.

The door to his office opens. Roman steps out.

He’s wearing a charcoal suit today, tailored to the millimeter, the kind of cut that says he owns the room before he speaks. His tie is perfectly knotted. His jaw is set. His eyes scan the floor, indifferent to everyone but me. When they lock onto mine, the temperature in the hallway spikes. He doesn’t smile. He never does. He just nods, once, a silent command that makes my thighs press together.

I nod back. Professional. Composed. Empty of everything but the secret thrumming between us.

He walks past me. The scent of him—bergamot, expensive cologne, and something inherently Roman—wraps around me like a held breath. His shoulder brushes mine. Deliberate. Unmistakable. A spark jumps between us, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from shivering.

“Tessa,” he says, voice low, smooth, devoid of warmth but heavy with implication. “My office. Five minutes.”

It’s not a request. It never is.

I follow him. My heels click against the polished concrete, each step a reminder of the line we’ve crossed and the line we pretend doesn’t exist. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t have to. I know exactly how he moves. How he claims space. How he expects obedience.

The door closes behind me. The lock clicks with a soft, final sound.

I turn to face him. He’s already at his desk, unbuttoning his suit jacket, tossing it over the back of his chair. His hands are steady. His expression is unreadable. But his eyes are dark, hungry, fixed on me like I’m a problem he intends to solve.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says.

“I haven’t.”

“You have.” He steps closer. “You lower your gaze. You answer me in monosyllables. You pretend I’m just another executive.”

“I am your lead analyst, Roman. Not your—”

“Not your what?” He cuts me off, closing the distance in three long strides. His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, tilting my face up. His thumb presses against my jaw. “Not your mistress? Not the woman who comes apart in the dark for you? Not the one who begs me to keep you?”

My breath hitches. Heat floods my chest. “Don’t,” I whisper. “Not here.”

“Why not?” His voice drops, rough at the edges. “Because someone might hear? Because the cameras might catch it? Because you’re afraid of what we’ve become?”

I shake my head. “Because it’s dangerous.”

He laughs, quiet and humorless. “Danger is what keeps you awake at night. I know you. I’ve always known you.” His grip tightens. “You want this. You want me to ruin you in places you can’t hide.”

I should pull away. I should remind him of boundaries, of professionalism, of the fact that we’re in a building full of people. But my body betrays me. It arches into his touch. It remembers every late night, every locked door, every time he’s pinned me against walls and made me forget my own name.

His mouth crashes into mine.

It’s not gentle. It never is. His lips are demanding, his tongue sweeping past my lips like he owns the space inside me. I moan into his mouth, fingers digging into his chest through his crisp white shirt. He groans, low and feral, and lifts me onto the edge of his desk. Papers scatter. My laptop slides to the floor. He doesn’t care.

He unbuttons my blouse with one hand, quick and efficient, while the other holds my hip like an iron clamp. His eyes never leave mine. Cold. Focused. Possessive.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I do. I always do.

He pulls my top down, baring my breasts. His mouth finds my nipple, sucking hard, and I gasp. My back arches. My thighs tremble. He smiles, just a fraction, before his hand slides between my legs, pushing my skirt up, finding my panties soaked through.

“You’re dripping,” he says, voice stripped of everything but need. “For me. Always for me.”

“Roman—”

“Shut up.” His fingers slip inside me, two at first, then three, stretching me with practiced ease. I bite my lip to stifle a cry. He knows exactly how sensitive I am. Exactly how to make me unravel. He curls his fingers, hits that spot deep inside, and my knees buckle. He catches me, holding me up with one arm while he works me with the other.

“Take it,” he orders. “Take every inch. You don’t get to hide from me. Not now. Not ever.”

I whimper, nodding, pushing my hips forward to meet his hand. He pumps in and out, slow at first, then harder, faster. The sound of his fingers sliding through me is wet, obscene, but the room is quiet. Too quiet. I can hear the building’s HVAC system. I can hear my own ragged breathing. I can hear the distant murmur of voices in the hallway.

His thumb presses against my clit, circling, and I break. My orgasm hits like a shockwave, tearing through me, leaving me shaking against him. He doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking me through it, drawing out every last spasm, making me cry his name into his shoulder.

When I finally still, he pulls his hand out, wipes it on my skirt, and buttons my blouse with calm precision. My legs are jelly. My skin is on fire. My heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

He straightens his cuffs. Looks at me. “Next time, don’t avoid me.”

I can’t speak. I just nod.

He steps back. The mask slides into place. The cold CEO returns. “Get dressed. We have a strategy meeting at three.”

I dress with trembling hands. He walks out without looking back. The door clicks shut. I lean against the desk, breathing hard, staring at my reflection in the glass. My lips are swollen. My hair is messy. My skirt is wrinkled. I look ruined. I look mine.

I know it’s only a matter of time before someone notices.

***

The rest of the day is a exercise in restraint. I sit at my desk. I answer emails. I smile at colleagues. I pretend my skin isn’t still buzzing from his touch. Roman is in meetings, reviewing code, signing off on budgets, moving through the floor like a ghost. But every time I look up, he’s watching me. Or he was. Or he will be.

At two forty-five, my phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number. I know it’s him. I always know.

*Supply closet. Back wing. 2:50. Don’t be late.*

I swallow hard. My pulse jumps. I type back: *Roman, we can’t—*

His reply is instantaneous. *You can. You will. Bring the spare key.*

I don’t argue. I never do. I slide out of my chair, grab my tote bag, and walk toward the back wing. The office is quiet now. Most people are in lunch meetings or wrapping up presentations. The floor feels empty. Hollow. Perfect.

The supply closet is at the end of the corridor, past the server rooms and the unused conference room. It’s narrow, lined with shelves of paper, toner, cleaning supplies. The door has a simple lock. I pull the spare key from my bag, insert it, turn it. The lock clicks. I push the door open.

He’s already inside.

He’s removed his suit jacket. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His tie is loose. His eyes are dark, fixed on me like a predator watching prey step into its trap. The door clicks shut behind me. I lock it. The space is tight. I can smell the sharp tang of industrial cleaner mixed with his cologne. I can feel the heat of him radiating through the thin fabric of my blouse.

He doesn’t waste time.

He grabs my wrist, pulls me against him, and kisses me like he’s starving. His mouth is hard, demanding, his tongue sweeping into my mouth like he’s claiming territory. I melt into him, hands sliding up his chest, fingers tangling in his shirt. He lifts me, presses me against the shelves. Boxes of printer paper shift. A ream of copy paper falls to the floor with a soft thud. We both freeze.

Silence.

Then footsteps. Distant. Approaching.

My breath hitches. I press my hands over my mouth. Roman’s jaw tightens. His grip on me tightens. He doesn’t let go. He doesn’t pull away. He just holds me there, chest to chest, heartbeats syncing in the dark, waiting.

The footsteps pause. A door opens somewhere down the hall. A voice murmurs. Then fades.

They’re gone.

Roman exhales slowly. His forehead rests against mine. “They’ll never find this place,” he whispers. “But I’ll make sure you’re too wrecked to care.”

His hands are everywhere now. Pushing my skirt up. Tugging my panties down. His mouth finds my neck, biting just hard enough to mark. I gasp, arching into him. He catches my hip, holds me in place, and slides two fingers inside me. I’m already wet. Already aching. Already his.

He pumps in and out, slow and deliberate, his thumb pressing against my clit. The movement is quiet. Intimate. Desperate. I bite my knuckle to stifle my moans. My eyes flutter shut. My thighs tremble. I’m so close I can feel it coiling in my core, tight and heavy.

“Look at me,” he orders.

I open my eyes. His are black with need. Cold. Possessive. Unforgiving.

“I’m going to fuck you until you forget your own name,” he says. “Until you only know mine. Until you come so hard you forget how to breathe.”

He adds a third finger. Stretches me. I cry out, muffled against my hand. He covers my mouth with his, swallowing the sound. His thrusts grow harder. Faster. Deeper. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. He groans into my mouth, his pace erratic now, driven by something feral. His hand slips between my legs, pressing directly on my clit, and I shatter.

My orgasm rips through me, violent and unrelenting. I clamp my hand over my mouth, but my body betrays me, shuddering against him, clinging to him, crying out silently. He doesn’t let me down. He keeps moving, keeping me on the edge, riding me through it, making me take every second. When I finally still, I’m trembling. My skin is slick. My heart is racing. My mouth tastes like him.

He pulls out slowly. His breathing is controlled. His expression is unreadable. But his eyes are dark, satisfied, possessive.

He buttons my panties. Pulls my skirt down. Smooths my blouse. His movements are precise. Methodical. Like he’s restoring order after chaos.

I watch him, breathless, ruined, completely his.

He steps back. Straightens his shirt. Looks at me. “You’ll sit at your desk. You’ll answer your emails. You’ll smile at the team.” He pauses. “And tonight, you’ll be at my place. Eight o’clock. Don’t be late. Don’t make me wait.”

I nod. I always nod.

He turns. Opens the door. Locks it behind him. Walks away.

I lean against the shelf, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor, back pressed to the metal, legs shaking. My skirt is wrinkled. My blouse is untucked. My lips are swollen. My chest is heaving. I press my fingers to my mouth, tasting myself on my skin.

The secret binds us. The risk fuels us. The tension is a live wire, and I’m wired to it.

I know it’s dangerous. I know it’s reckless. I know one wrong move, one careless glance, one moment of weakness, and everything could burn.

But I don’t care.

Because when he looks at me like that, when he takes me like that, when he claims me like that, I don’t want to be safe. I want to be his. I want to be ruined. I want to be trapped in the quiet, desperate dark with him, where the only sound is our breathing, the only truth is his touch, and the only thing that exists is the line between us, blurring, breaking, burning.

I stand. Adjust my clothes. Smooth my hair. Lock the closet. Step back into the hallway.

The office is quiet. The cameras are watching. The world is oblivious.

I walk back to my desk. Sit down. Open my laptop. Start typing.

And I wait for him to ruin me again.