It was well past 8 p.m. when Emma finally closed her laptop. The office was quiet, the glow of city lights reflecting off the tall glass windows. Everyone else had gone home hours ago — except for Daniel.
She glanced over at his desk. He was still typing, sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened. There was something about him — focused, confident, yet unaware of how much she’d been watching him all week.
“I thought I was the only one working late,” she said, walking over casually.
Daniel looked up, smiling. “Could say the same. You always stay this late?”
Emma leaned on his desk, her blouse slightly unbuttoned from the long day, revealing just a hint of lace beneath. His eyes flicked there for half a second.
“Deadlines,” she replied, her voice soft. “But… I don’t mind working overtime. Especially with the right motivation.”
There was a pause. Silence thick with tension.
He stood slowly, stepping closer. “You saying I’m the motivation?”
Emma didn’t answer with words. She reached out and gently tugged his loosened tie, pulling him toward her. Their lips met — tentative at first, then deeper, hungrier.
Soon, they were against the wall, Emma’s back pressed to the cool glass window as Daniel’s hands slid along her waist, under her blouse, exploring skin that had longed for his touch.
She whispered in his ear, breath shaky, “Lock the door.”
He obeyed.
What followed was slow at first — jackets dropping, buttons coming undone — then faster, more desperate. The office couch became their escape. Her moans were muffled against his neck as he moved inside her, each thrust steady, deliberate, intense.
Papers scattered. Desks shifted. But nothing else mattered — not the office, not the city below, not tomorrow’s deadlines.
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