Riley sits in her leather back chair, the Hartford merger file in front of her, waiting for Walker to arrive, she desperately wants to postpone it, but understands how vital this is.
Walker strides into Riley’s office, his broad shoulders filling the doorway like he owns the place, which, professionally speaking, he doesn’t. But the way his rolled-up sleeves cling to his forearms, veins tracing paths Riley’s fingers itch to follow, makes her throat go dry. His black slacks hug his thighs just right, the fabric pulling taut when he leans against her desk. The top button of his white shirt is undone, teasing a glimpse of collarbone she’s imagined biting more times than she’d ever admit.
“Good, you’re here,” Riley says, gripping her pen tighter. Her pulse thrums in her wrists, betraying her. She uncrosses her legs beneath the desk, the hem of her pencil skirt riding up just enough that she catches Walker’s gaze flicker down. “Hartford’s pushing for exclusivity,” she continues, forcing her eyes back to the contract. “But their numbers don’t justify it.”
Walker leans in, close enough that she catches the faint musk of his cologne—something woodsy with a bite. “I’ve only had a glimpse,” he murmurs, voice low, “but I noticed the same issue.” The rough edge of his tone sends another shiver down her spine. His knuckle brushes against her wrist as he taps the clause in question, and she nearly jerks back from the static charge of the contact.
Riley’s thighs press together beneath the desk, her pussy throbbing in time with her heartbeat. The air between them feels thick, charged, and she swears she can smell the heat rolling off him—like leather and salt and something darker. Her blouse clings to the sudden sweat at the small of her back. She should shift away. She doesn’t.
Walker’s fingers drum against the polished mahogany, slow and deliberate, each tap echoing louder than it should. He leans closer to point out a discrepancy in Hartford’s projections, his breath ghosting over her ear. “See this?” he murmurs, voice rough. “They’re padding the numbers.” Riley nods, swallowing hard. She sees nothing but the flex of his jaw, the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he speaks. His cufflink glints in the afternoon light, and she imagines scraping her teeth over the tendon in his wrist.
The sun dips lower, painting the office in gold and shadow, but neither of them moves to turn on the lights. Papers pile up—contracts annotated in red ink, coffee cups half-empty, forgotten. Riley’s heels dig into the carpet as she shifts, the ache between her legs relentless. Every accidental brush—his knee bumping hers beneath the desk, his thumb grazing her palm when passing a file—feels like a brand. She catches herself staring at the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders when he reaches for the stapler, the fabric straining.
Walker exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair, and Riley’s nails bite into her thigh. The urge to yank him down onto the desk, to feel his weight pin her against the leather, coils tight in her stomach. She imagines the mess they’d make—ink smearing, paper rustling, the muffled thud of his belt buckle hitting the floor. Her breath hitches when he adjusts his stance, the fabric of his slacks pulling tight over his thighs. She could drop to her knees right here, taste the salt on his skin through the expensive wool. The fantasy burns so vividly she flushes, her pulse jumping when he glances at her.
“Riley,” Walker murmurs, brow furrowing. His thumb swipes absently over a coffee stain on the contract, the motion slow, deliberate. “Are you okay?”
She licks her lips—chapped from biting back moans all afternoon. “Just tired,” she lies. The lie tastes bitter. His knuckles flex against the desk, tendons stark under tanned skin, and she knows he doesn’t buy it.
Walker exhales sharply, nostrils flaring as he straightens. The distance between them suddenly feels cavernous. “It’s been a long day,” he says, voice gravelly. His fingers twitch toward his loosened tie like he wants to yank it off. “Let’s continue tomorrow.”
Riley lets out a sigh internally, thankful for the break. Her whole body thrums with pent-up energy, muscles coiled tight enough to snap. The sun dips below the skyline, painting Walker’s silhouette in gold as he moves toward the door—his shoulder blades shifting under crisp cotton, the dimple above his belt catching the dying light. She wants to press her tongue there. Wants to leave bruises.
The moment the door clicks shut, Riley exhales sharply through her nose, fingers twitching against the armrests. Another minute, and she’d have climbed him like a goddamn jungle gym. Her thighs stick together with slick heat, the silk of her panties ruined. The scent of him lingers—bergamot and something darker, muskier—and she inhales greedily, committing it to memory. The office feels too big without him crowding the air.
Her heels click against the hardwood as she paces, skirt swaying with each agitated step. The Hartford file lies abandoned, her red pen bleeding into the margins. She should review it. Instead, Riley leans against the desk, palm skimming the spot where Walker’s hips had pressed into the edge. The leather is still warm. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip hard enough to sting.
The fantasy crashes over her unbidden: Walker’s hands wrenching her skirt up, the sharp rip of her panties, his growl against her throat as he lifts her onto the desk. Paperwork flutters to the floor like confetti. His belt buckle clatters—she hears it—before his cock slaps against her stomach, hot and heavy. No preamble, no tenderness. Just his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise as he drives into her, the desk creaking under their combined weight. She’d arch into it, nails scraping through his hair, mouth open against his shoulder to muffle the noises building in her chest.
Riley’s breath comes shallow. She reaches beneath the desk, fingertips brushing the damp silk between her legs. A whimper escapes as she presses harder, imagining Walker’s calloused thumb instead, circling just shy of where she needs it. Her free hand fists in her blouse, wrinkling the pristine fabric. The Hartford file blurs. The clock ticks. Somewhere, a phone rings unanswered.
She hooks a finger under the lace, peeling the soaked fabric from her skin with a quiet, wet sound that makes her stomach flip. The scent—musk and salt and her own desperation—hits her nostrils. She balls the ruined panties into her palm, pulse hammering in her throat as she shoves them into her bag. The empty ache between her thighs throbs in protest.
Riley grabs her coat with jerky movements, her blouse still untucked from where she’d frantically touched herself minutes earlier. The Hartford file lies abandoned, her hastily scrawled notes bleeding into the margins like the heat still pooling low in her belly. Her heels click against the hardwood as she strides out, the office door locking with a decisive snick behind her. The elevator ride down is torture—every jolt sends a fresh pang of want through her, the memory of Walker’s knuckles brushing her wrist replaying behind her eyelids.
The cab smells like pine air freshener and stale cigarette smoke, but Riley barely registers it. Her thighs press together as the city blurs past the window, her mind slipping back to last night—the way Mia had leaned against her bedroom doorframe in nothing but a sheer chemise, one hand working between her own thighs as she watched Riley ride her favorite dildo. The wet slap of Riley’s hips meeting the base punctuated by Mia’s breathy little moans. She’d been so close when Mia was noticed by her, but she was too close to stop, as they climaxed together.
Riley adjusts her skirt, the memory making her shift uncomfortably in the vinyl seat. The driver’s eyes flick to her in the rearview mirror—she catches him staring at her bare legs where the fabric’s ridden up—and she glares until he looks away. The apartment complex looms ahead, its glass facade reflecting the setting sun like a warning.
Her keys jangle in shaky hands. The elevator ride to the 14th floor stretches impossibly long, the mirrored walls taunting her with reflections of her own dishevelment—hair escaping its bun, lipstick smudged from biting her lips. She smells Walker on her skin still. Mia will too.
The door unlocks with a click, Riley feels in her molars. She exhales, stepping into the dim apartment—no scent of jasmine candles burning, no rhythmic thump of Mia’s playlist vibrating through the hardwood. Just silence and the faint hum of the refrigerator. The tension bleeds from Riley’s shoulders as she toes off her heels. No Mia means no explanations. Yet.
She shrugs out of her blazer before the door’s even shut, buttons popping free on her blouse as she yanks it over her head. The silk catches on her watch—she growls, wrenching it loose—then pools at her feet. Cool air licks her exposed midriff. The pencil skirt follows, zipper screeching, and she kicks it toward the laundry hamper. The sports bra she tugs on is thin, black, the fabric stretching tight over her nipples. Riley shudders at the sudden pressure, the memory of Walker’s gaze like fingertips tracing her skin.
The sweatpants are Mia’s—stolen last week, still smelling faintly of her lavender detergent—and Riley buries her nose in the waistband as she pulls them up. Too big; they sag low on her hips. She tugs the hair tie from her bun with a snap, shaking her head until light brown strands tumble past her shoulders. The freedom prickles her scalp. No more tight coils, no more corporate armor. Just Riley, flushed and restless, padding barefoot toward the kitchen.
Then the front door opens. Mia’s cheerful personality fills the apartment as she steps inside, humming under her breath. Riley freezes mid-pour, the water bottle suspended above her glass as Mia’s keys clatter onto the entryway table. The scent of takeout—something spicy, garlicky—drifts toward Riley before Mia herself does, her ponytail swinging with each step.
“Good, you’re here,” Mia says, tossing a plastic bag onto the counter. Her eyes rake over Riley’s disheveled state—the stolen sweatpants, the sports bra clinging to her chest—and her grin turns wicked. “Looks like someone had a stressful day at the office.” Riley flushes, the water bottle slipping from her fingers with a clatter. Mia’s nose wrinkles as she leans in, sniffing. “Damn, you reek of expensive cologne.” She drags a fingertip along Riley’s collarbone, collecting sweat. “And desperation.”
Riley swats her hand away, but Mia catches her wrist, thumb pressing into the pulse point. “Anyway, about last night,” Mia murmurs, stepping closer until Riley’s back hits the fridge. “It was spur of the moment, but we both enjoyed ourselves.” Her breath ghosts over Riley’s jaw. “So are we good?”
Riley exhales sharply through her nose, the scent of Mia’s coconut shampoo mixing with the lingering musk of Walker’s cologne still clinging to her skin. Mia’s thigh nudges between hers, the pressure deliberate, and Riley’s hips jerk forward before she can stop them. “Sure,” she mutters, teeth sinking into her lower lip. “I guess.” The words taste like surrender.
Mia grins, pressing a chaste kiss to Riley’s lips before sliding away—her ponytail brushing Riley’s bare shoulder like a taunt. The takeout bags rustle as she unpacks them, revealing steaming containers of pad thai and chilli oil dumplings. The aromas make Riley’s stomach growl.
Riley eats mechanically, chopsticks clacking against the cardboard container while Mia chatters about her day—some client who kept insisting his screenplay would “revolutionize vampire fiction.” The words blur into white noise. All Riley can focus on is the phantom weight of Walker’s thigh pressed against hers, the memory of his knuckles brushing her wrist like a brand. The food turns to ash in her mouth. She excuses herself mid-bite, abandoning her half-finished noodles on the counter.
The shower scalds. Riley braces her palms against the tiles, letting the water sluice down her spine, imagining it washing away the scent of Walker’s cologne, the sticky heat between her thighs. But when she inhales, she still smells him—bergamot and leather clinging to her skin like a second layer. Her fingers drift lower, tracing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. The showerhead pulses against her shoulders, mimicking the rhythm she craves. Teeth sink into her bottom lip. She could—just for a minute—
Her fingers slide through slick folds before she can stop them, the pad of her thumb finding her clit with practiced precision. A gasp punches from her lungs, muffled by the roar of the water. She grinds her hips forward into her own touch, the ache so sharp it borders on pain. The tile digs into her forehead as she pictures Walker’s hands replacing hers—rough palms dragging up her thighs, thumbs spreading her open before his tongue—Christ—she rubs harder, circling faster, her knees threatening to buckle. The steam fills her lungs, thick and suffocating, and she swears she can taste him on her tongue.
A ragged moan escapes as she curls her fingers deeper, the stretch delicious. Her other hand braces against the shower wall, fingers splayed, the tile cold against her palm. She imagines Walker pinning her there, his cock driving into her from behind, her back arching to meet each thrust. The fantasy burns brighter—his teeth at her nape, his grip bruising on her hip—and she chases it desperately, her fingers pumping faster. Water sluices between her breasts, her nipples pebbled tight. Close, so close—
Her knees buckle. She collapses against the shower wall with a wet slap, her orgasm ripping through her in waves. The tile digs into her bare shoulder as she rides it out, teeth clenched to stifle the cry building in her throat. Her fingers slow reluctantly, dragging through slick heat as aftershocks shudder through her. The water turns lukewarm, then cold, but she stays slumped there, forehead pressed to her forearm, breathing ragged.
She watches the water swirl between her thighs—clear rivulets catching on the remnants of her arousal before vanishing down the drain. A few stubborn droplets cling to her inner thighs like reluctant goodbyes. She exhales sharply through her nose, suddenly hollow. Empty. The fantasy evaporates with the steam, leaving only the ache of unfinished business.
The towel is rough against her flushed skin, her reflection blurry in the fogged mirror as she dries herself with mechanical efficiency. Her fingers tremble when she runs them through her damp hair, the scent of lavender body wash now overpowering the last traces of bergamot and musk. She catches her own gaze—pupils still blown wide, cheeks pink—and quickly looks away.
The sheets are cool when she slips beneath them, the weight of the day finally settling into her bones. Her limbs feel heavy, her thoughts syrupy slow as exhaustion seeps in. The tension that had coiled in her shoulders since Walker leaned over her desk—since Mia’s thigh pressed between hers—dissipates like smoke. She stretches her toes toward the foot of the bed, sighing as her muscles unwind one by one.
Morning comes softer than expected. Sunlight filters through the blinds in lazy stripes, painting warmth across Riley’s bare shoulders. She wakes slowly, blinking away the remnants of a dream she can’t quite remember—just the ghost of hands on her hips, a voice murmuring against her neck. The apartment is quiet, the hum of the city outside distant.
She showers briskly this time, water lukewarm, scrubbing away the lingering stickiness between her thighs from last night’s indulgence. The lavender soap foams over her skin, erasing the last traces of Walker’s cologne, Mia’s smirk, the phantom weight of imagined touches. Towel-dried and sharp-edged again, she dresses with precision: crisp white blouse tucked into a charcoal pencil skirt, the silk lining cool against her skin. The blazer follows—structured, authoritative—and she adjusts the lapels in the mirror until the reflection feels right. Herself again. Mostly.
The Hartford file waits on her desk, its red-inked annotations glaring. Riley flips it open with one hand, sipping her black coffee with the other. The bitterness grounds her. She’s outlining counterarguments when the office door swings open without a knock—Walker’s signature move. Her pulse stutters despite herself.
He’s wearing gray today, the suit tailored to the inch, his tie knotted tight enough to make her fingertips itch to loosen it. The sight of him pushes her desire to the forefront again, hot and insistent. His cologne hits her before he does—smoky cedar this time, deeper than yesterday’s bergamot—and her thighs press together under the desk.
Riley realizes it with sudden, brutal clarity: the only way to ease this tension is to let him claim her. Not in some polite, controlled way—not with whispered words and careful touches—but messy and raw, right here on the desk where Hartford’s merger papers still lie scattered. She wants him to ruin her carefully curated professionalism, to leave fingerprints on her blouse and bite marks on her throat.
Walker leans over her desk, his knuckles whitening as he grips the edge. His gaze drops to her mouth—lingers—before dragging back up to meet hers. “Hartford’s meagre is soon,” he murmurs, voice rougher than yesterday, like he’s been thinking about her throat all night. “But I’d rather discuss clause 12.B.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Again.”
Riley arches a brow, tapping her pen against the contract. “Which part? The exclusivity terms?” Her heel hooks around his calf beneath the desk, dragging him closer. The leather of his oxfords brushes her bare ankle—warm, deliberate. “Or the penalty fees?”
The night shift had emptied the floor hours ago. Their hushed voices echo in the vacant office, every rustle of fabric amplified. Riley’s pulse thrums in her throat as Walker leans in, his tie brushing the edge of the Hartford file. His fingers slide over hers, prying the pen free with a slow twist. “Neither,” he murmurs. The pen clatters to the desk as his palm pins her wrist to the mahogany.
Their faces were mere inches apart—close enough for Riley to count the flecks of gold in his irises, to trace the faint scar above his eyebrow from a college rugby match she’d heard about in passing. His breath smells of black coffee and something darker, mint giving way to the rich bite of bourbon. She licks her lips reflexively, watching his gaze drop to follow the motion. The air between them crackles like a live wire.
Then he goes for it—kissing her with an urgency that steals her breath. His mouth crashes into hers, hot and demanding, teeth scraping her lower lip as his free hand fists in her hair. Riley gasps into the kiss, her body arching off the chair instinctively. His grip tightens, tilting her head back to deepen the angle, his tongue sweeping against hers with a roughness that makes her toes curl in her Louboutins. The desk digs into her spine, but the discomfort barely registers over the sheer thrill of finally feeling him—tasting him—after months of stolen glances and suppressed fantasies.
With a sharp inhale through her nose, Riley shoves against his chest. Walker stumbles back a step, pupils blown wide with surprise, his tie now askew. She rises from the chair in one fluid motion, heels clicking against the hardwood as she advances. He retreats on instinct—back, back, back—until his calves hit the low leather couch against the far wall. Riley doesn’t pause. Her palms land on his shoulders, shoving him down onto the cushions with a force that makes the frame creak. Walker’s breath gusts out in a surprised laugh as he sprawls backwards, his jacket riding up to reveal the holster of his shoulder harness and the glint of a watch beneath his cuff.
Riley removes the tie from her ponytail with a single sharp tug, letting her light brown hair tumble free around her shoulders in a messy cascade. The movement sends her glasses askew—she plucks them off with two fingers and tosses them onto the coffee table without looking. They skid across a stack of deposition transcripts. The world blurs at the edges, but she doesn’t need clarity for this. Not when Walker’s throat bobs under her gaze, his pulse visibly hammering beneath tanned skin.
She hooks a finger into his loosened tie and yanks, pulling him forward until their foreheads bump. “Clause 12.B,” she murmurs against his mouth, voice rough with intent. “Penalties for breach of contract.” Then she bites his lower lip—hard enough to sting—before sealing her mouth over his in a kiss that tastes like vengeance and surrender. Walker groans into it, his hands finding her hips through the thin fabric of her skirt, fingers digging into the soft flesh above her stockings.
The first button pops free with a sharp twist of her fingers. The second follows—a flick of her wrist sending it skittering across the hardwood. Riley pulls back just enough to watch Walker’s gaze drop to the exposed sliver of skin between her blouse, his breath hitching as she drags the parted fabric wider. His knuckles brush her stomach when he reaches for her, the contact electric even through the silk of her camisole. She catches his wrist, pinning it to the couch beside his head. “No,” she breathes against his jaw. “My terms.”
Her blouse joins his tie in a crumpled mess on the floor, silk pooling like melted snow around their feet. The air prickles against Riley’s exposed skin—nipples pebbling beneath the lace of her bra, goosebumps racing down her arms—but she doesn’t shiver. Not when Walker’s hands are already mapping the dip of her waist, thumbs circling the sensitive skin just above her skirt’s waistband. His grip tightens as she straddles his lap, her knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his thighs. The wool of his slacks rasps against her bare legs, the friction delicious.
Then she feels it—the unmistakable ridge of his erection pressing insistently against her inner thigh, hot even through the layers of fabric separating them. Riley rocks forward experimentally, eliciting a choked groan from Walker as his hips jerk up to meet her. His cock twitches against her, the outline unmistakable beneath the fine Italian wool. She can smell the musk of his arousal now—spice and salt and something uniquely him—and it makes her mouth water. Her fingers find his belt buckle with practiced ease, the metal cold against her fingertips as she pops it open with a sharp click.
The zipper follows—a slow, deliberate drag downward that makes Walker’s breath hitch. Riley watches his throat work as she palms him through his briefs, the damp heat of him seeping into her palm. His hips buck into her touch, a strangled curse slipping past his lips when she squeezes lightly. The fabric is soaked where the tip of his cock presses against it, the dark patch spreading as she rubs her thumb over the head. Walker’s fingers dig into her hips hard enough to bruise, his jaw clenched tight as she teases him through the thin cotton.
Her skirt pools around her waist as she wriggles out of it, the fabric catching on her stockings before she kicks it aside. Walker’s hands are already on her bra clasp—fumbling in his haste—until Riley arches away with a smirk, unhooking it herself. The lace falls open, baring her breasts to the cool office air, her nipples pebbling instantly under his hungry gaze. His groan is raw, reverent, as he palms her, his thumbs circling the stiff peaks with agonizing slowness. Riley grinds down against him in retaliation, the wet heat between her thighs smearing against his slacks. Walker’s head thuds back against the couch, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows another curse.
She yanks his shirt open, buttons pinging against the glass coffee table. His chest is warm under her palms, the dusting of dark hair tickling her fingertips as she rakes them downward. His belt clatters to the floor, followed by the whisper of wool as his slacks slide down his thighs. Riley doesn’t bother with finesse—she fists his cock in one hand, stroking him roughly from root to tip, her thumb swiping over the bead of precum glistening at the head. Walker’s hips jerk off the couch, his fingers tangling in her hair as he pulls her into another searing kiss. Their teeth clash, their breaths mingling in sharp, uneven gasps.
She rises onto her knees, positioning herself above him, her wetness dripping onto his stomach. The scent of her arousal mingles with the musk of his—something primal and intoxicating. Riley drags her soaked folds across the head of his cock, coating him in her slick with slow, deliberate rolls of her hips. Walker’s groan is guttural, his hands gripping her waist like a vise as she teases him, the tip catching against her clit with every pass. His thighs tremble beneath her, his cock twitching against her heat, desperate for more friction. “Fuck, Riley—” he rasps, his voice frayed at the edges.
Then she lowers herself onto him, the stretch bordering on pleasure and pain. It’s been a long time since Riley slept with someone—not since that disastrous situationship during law school—and the burn of his girth stretching her makes her gasp. She pauses halfway, her body clamping around him instinctively, her breath coming in shallow pants. Walker’s hands slide up to cradle her ribs, his thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts as he watches her adjust, his own jaw clenched tight. “Easy,” he murmurs, though his fingers dig into her skin like he’s holding himself back from thrusting up into her.
She rocks her hips back and forth unashamedly, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the glass walls of the office. Riley doesn’t care who hears—let the night janitors pause their mopping, let the security guards adjust their cameras. Her moans are raw and unfiltered, each thrust wringing another gasp from her lips as Walker’s cock drags against every sensitive inch inside her. The leather couch creaks beneath them, the sound drowned out by her ragged breathing and the slick, rhythmic noise of their bodies joining.
Then—without warning—Walker flips her onto her back along the couch, his hands pinning her wrists above her head in one fluid motion. The sudden shift sends Riley’s hair fanning out across the cushions, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist to keep him buried deep. His hips snap forward, driving into her with a force that punches the breath from her lungs. The angle is deeper now, his cock hitting a spot that makes her toes curl, her heels digging into the small of his back. Walker’s mouth finds her throat, his teeth scraping over her pulse point as he sets a punishing pace.
The feeling was indescribable—not pleasure, not pain, but something molten and primal that obliterated thought. Every thrust dragged against sensitive nerves, lighting up her spine like a live wire. Her moans came ragged and unfiltered, lost in the wet heat of Walker’s mouth on hers. His grip on her wrists tightened, his fingers lacing through hers as he pinned her harder into the couch. The leather stuck to her sweat-slicked skin, the scent of sex and expensive cologne thick in the air.
“Oh my god, Walker, it feels so good.” The words tore from Riley’s throat unbidden, her voice cracking on a moan as his hips pistoned against hers. Her thighs trembled around his waist, the muscles taut as bowstrings, her calves locking him deeper with every thrust. The leather couch groaned beneath them, the sound drowned out by the wet slap of skin and the ragged symphony of their breathing. Walker’s mouth crashed into hers again, swallowing her whimpers as his tongue mapped the roof of her mouth with proprietary precision.
She could feel it building—that familiar, inexorable pressure coiling low in her belly, tightening with each snap of his hips. Her nails scored his shoulders, her hips canting up to meet him with reckless abandon. “Fuck—I can’t—” Her voice broke as his thumb found her clit, circling roughly in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation was too much—the stretch of him inside her, the relentless friction against her most sensitive nerve. Her vision whited out at the edges, her body arching off the couch as pleasure crested like a wave. “I’m so close… make me cum!” The plea was raw, desperate, her voice barely recognizable.
Walker obliged, moving faster, chasing both her pleasure and his own. His breath came in ragged bursts against her neck, his thrusts losing their rhythm as he neared his own edge. The slap of skin against skin grew louder, punctuated by Riley’s keening moans and the creak of the leather couch beneath them. His fingers tightened around hers, his grip almost painful as he drove into her with a final, punishing thrust. Riley’s back bowed off the cushions, her cry muffled against his shoulder as her orgasm ripped through her, her walls fluttering around him in rhythmic pulses.
Walker followed with a choked groan, his hips stuttering against hers as warmth flooded deep inside her. The sensation—hot, intimate—drew another gasp from Riley, her thighs trembling as aftershocks rolled through her. He collapsed against her, his chest heaving, his forehead pressing into the crook of her neck. For a moment, neither spoke, the only sound their shared, labored breaths and the distant hum of the office’s ventilation system.
The leather couch stuck to Riley’s back, still warm where their bodies had fused together. Walker’s weight pinned her pleasantly, his sweat-slick skin sliding against hers as he shifted to prop himself up on his elbows. His breath fanned across her collarbone, sending a fresh shiver down her spine despite the heat still pooling low in her belly. His fingers, still tangled with hers, loosened slightly, his thumb tracing absent circles against her pulse point.
Riley blinked up at the ceiling, the fluorescent lights above blurring through unshed tears of exertion. The Hartford file lay forgotten on the floor, pages scattered like fallen leaves, one corner soaked with the water bottle she’d knocked over mid-thrust. A dark chuckle rumbled in Walker’s chest as he followed her gaze, his lips brushing her temple. “So much for professionalism,” he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction.
He collapsed beside her with a groan that rattled the couch springs, one arm flung over his eyes. Riley watched his ribs expand with each breath, the sweat-damp hollow of his throat glistening under the emergency exit sign’s red glow. The scent of sex clung to them both—salt and musk and the faint metallic tang of her arousal—mixing with spilled coffee and leather conditioner. She turned her head to study his profile: the stubble darkening his jaw, the pulse still hammering visibly beneath his skin, the way his lips remained slightly parted as he fought to regulate his breathing.
She wrapped an arm over his chest, nestling closer to him, her bare thigh draping across his hips in a silent claim. The hair on his chest tickled her fingertips as she traced idle patterns over his sternum, counting each heartbeat beneath her palm. Walker exhaled sharply through his nose when her nails scraped lightly over one nipple, his abdominal muscles tensing beneath her touch. His arm slid from his face to wrap around her shoulders, fingers toying with the damp ends of her hair. “Hartford’s going to notice those missing pages,” he muttered, voice gravelly with post-coital lethargy.
“No more work talk,” Riley said with a soft voice.
Walker noticed a wool blanket draped over the backrest of the couch—left behind by some associate during late-night revisions, no doubt. He snagged it with one hand, shaking it out with a sharp flick before spreading it over their tangled limbs. The soft fabric smelled faintly of stale coffee and printer toner, but its weight was comforting as it settled over Riley’s bare shoulders. She burrowed deeper against his side, her knee hooking possessively over his thigh as the blanket trapped their shared body heat beneath it.
“I could stay here all night,” Riley murmured into his collarbone, her lips brushing his skin with each word. The admission surprised her—not because it wasn’t true, but because she’d never allowed herself to voice such vulnerability before. Not with him. Walker’s fingers stilled in her hair for a heartbeat before resuming their idle stroking, his thumb tracing the shell of her ear with deliberate gentleness.
She didn’t remember closing her eyes. One moment, she was counting the freckles scattered like constellations across Walker’s shoulders; the next, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest had lulled her into a drowsy haze. Her last coherent thought was how the emergency exit sign’s glow painted his cheekbones crimson, turning his stubble into shadowed brushstrokes. Then sleep claimed her, deep and dreamless, her body curled instinctively toward his warmth.
Dawn arrived not with golden rays but the sterile flicker of fluorescent lights reactivating overhead. Riley jolted awake to the hum of the office’s motion sensors, her bare thighs still tangled with Walker’s under the scratchy blanket. His arm—heavy and warm—lay draped possessively across her waist, his fingers splayed over her hipbone like a brand. The realization hit like ice water: they were naked. Spectacularly, indisputably naked. And the first associates would arrive in—
Her phone screen blazed to life on the coffee table: 6:47 AM. Three minutes before the doors open to early-bird paralegals and caffeine-deprived junior associates. Riley’s pulse skyrocketed—her bare thighs still tangled with Walker’s under the wool blanket, his arm slung possessively over her hip like a claim staked in warm flesh. The emergency exit sign’s glow had faded, replaced by the sterile fluorescence of motion-activated overheads. Someone had already triggered the building’s sunrise cycle.
“Walker.” She jabbed an elbow into his ribs, voice sharp with urgency. He grunted, rolling onto his back with a sleep-slowed reflex that sent the blanket sliding down to pool at his waist. The sight of him—tousled hair, stubble-darkened jaw, the crescent marks her nails had left on his shoulders—stole her breath for a fraction of a second before panic overrode lust. “Wake the fuck up. We have—” Her phone vibrated against the glass tabletop with an incoming email alert. “— two minutes until this floor becomes Grand Central.”
Walker blinked up at the ceiling, processing. Then he bolted upright, sending a deposition transcript fluttering to the floor. Riley was already moving, snatching her blouse from where it lay half-under the couch. The silk was wrinkled beyond salvation, one button dangling by a thread. She swore, yanking it on anyway as Walker lunged for his slacks, hissing when his knee hit the coffee table.
His belt buckle clattered against hardwood as he fumbled with it—wrong hole, too tight—while Riley stepped into her skirt with the grace of a drunk flamingo, nearly face-planting when her stocking caught on a seam. Walker’s shirt was inside out, the tag jutting at his collarbone like a surrender flag. Riley reached over to rip it off, fingers brushing warm skin. They both froze at the contact, then sprang apart like magnets reversed.
Riley’s fingers shook as she attempted to twist her hair into a semblance of professionalism—one rebellious curl clung to her temple, damp with sweat. Walker swiped a thumb across her neck, smearing away what might’ve been a bite mark or a shadow. The gesture was startlingly tender for two people scrambling to erase evidence of raw, desk-shaking sex. His cufflink pinged off the baseboard when he jammed it through the wrong buttonhole.
Somewhere beyond the glass walls, an elevator dinged. Riley’s pulse hammered against her ribs like it wanted out. She kicked Walker’s abandoned tie beneath the couch with a precision that would’ve impressed her torts professor. The wool blanket—still reeking of their sweat—ended up stuffed inside a document drawer. Walker’s choked laugh when she hip-checked it shut was low, intimate, the kind of sound that made her thighs clench with fresh heat despite the panic.
By some miracle, they were mostly dressed when the first paralegal shuffled in—blouse wrinkled but buttoned, skirt twisted but zipped. Walker’s cufflinks were mismatched, Riley’s hair tie snapped from being stretched around too much thickness too quickly. The associate barely glanced up from her coffee thermos as she passed their makeshift warzone. Riley exhaled through her nose. Next time—because there would absolutely be a next time—they’d do this properly: silk sheets, locked doors, and hours to explore every bruise and bite mark without corporate espionage looming overhead.
