Riley twirled her pen in her hand mindlessly, while focusing on a case file, when she noticed the ink smudge across her thumb. She’d always thought it was funny how she could meticulously argue corporate litigation but couldn’t seem to keep her hands clean. The late afternoon light slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of her firm’s office, casting elongated shadows across the stacks of paperwork crowding her desk. The faint smell of toner lingered in the air—another all-nighter waiting to happen.
She leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms overhead, and caught sight of herself in the reflection of her laptop screen. The pencil skirt clung snugly, her blouse riding up just enough to expose a sliver of toned stomach. Riley smirked, adjusting her glasses—she knew she looked good, but that wasn’t why she was still here. The firm had fresh blood working cases, and she wasn’t about to let her new junior associate status slow her down. Not when her name could be on the door one day.
A soft knock pulled her attention toward the doorway. Walker stood there, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a few loose receipts crumpled in one hand. His usual easy grin was in place, but there was something hesitant in the way he hovered, like he wasn’t sure if he should interrupt. “Burning the midnight oil again?” he asked, nodding at the mountain of case files. The scent of his cologne—something woodsy and warm—drifted across the space between them.
Riley smirked and twirled her pen again. “You know me,” she said, shrugging one shoulder. The phrase lingered, heavier than she meant it to. His grin softened into something quieter, almost private, as if those three words had unlocked a door between them. She could feel her pulse kick up a notch—stupid, really, when all he’d done was lean against her doorframe like he owned it.
Walker pushed off the frame and stepped inside, dropping the crumpled receipts onto her desk. “Expense reports,” he said, nodding toward them. “Thought you might want a head start before the partners start breathing down your neck.” His voice was low, warm, like the whiskey he sometimes sipped at after-hours firm events. Riley swallowed, her gaze trailing over the broad set of his shoulders, the way his rolled sleeves clung to his forearms. There was something unfairly tactile about him—the slight stubble shadowing his jaw, the faint scar along his thumb. Details she shouldn’t be cataloging.
The firm had no official policy against fraternization, but the unspoken rule hummed like faulty wiring: don’t fuck where you eat. Last year, two senior associates had imploded spectacularly—mid-case, mid-argument, mid-restraining-order. Riley traced the edge of her pen along the desk, the sharp click of plastic against wood punctuating the quiet. “You didn’t have to play messenger,” she said. “I could’ve grabbed these from accounting tomorrow.” Her tone was light, but the air between them thickened anyway, charged with something she couldn’t name—or didn’t want to.
Walker hesitated, halfway turned toward the door, his silhouette framed by the dimmed hallway lights. “Yeah, well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured you’d be here.” The implication curled between them—he’d known she’d be here, had probably walked past empty offices to find hers still lit. Riley’s stomach tightened. She watched the way his fingers flexed absently, the way his shirt strained just slightly across his shoulders when he shifted his weight. God, this was dangerous.
The receipts sat innocently between them, a flimsy excuse neither of them was buying. Outside, the hum of the office AC buzzed like white noise, the kind of sound that made late nights feel intimate, like the world had narrowed to this space, this moment. Riley tapped her pen again—*click, click*—just to give her hands something to do. “Thanks,” she said finally, softer than she intended. “But you’re one to talk. I know accounting’s got their own midnight oil burning.” She tilted her head, catching the way his lips quirked at the corners.
Walker exhaled a laugh, low and rough. “Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta keep the partners from hemorrhaging money.” He hesitated, fingers brushing the doorframe. “Don’t stay too late, Riley.” Her name in his mouth felt deliberate, weighted. Then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the hall, the scent of his cologne lingering like a challenge.
The second the door clicked shut, Riley sagged against her desk, letting out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her ribs ached with it. Pathetic, she scolded herself, pressing her palms flat against the cold glass surface to ground herself. The office was too quiet now, the hum of the AC suddenly oppressive. She could still feel him—the way his presence had stretched the room, the way his gaze had lingered on the exposed strip of her midriff before flicking back up. A flush crept up her neck. She should be focusing on the goddamn case files, not the phantom warmth of his voice.
With deliberate movements, she shoved the receipts aside—Walker’s flimsy excuse—and snapped her laptop shut. The reflection in the black screen was blurry, her glasses smudged. She yanked them off, rubbing the lenses clean with the edge of her blouse. Enough. Grabbing her bag, she stuffed the files inside without bothering to organize them. The elevator ride down was mercifully empty, the mirrored walls reflecting back the mess of her: wild-eyed, lips bitten red, fingers twitching for something she couldn’t name.
Her apartment building smelled like takeout and lemon cleaner, the hallway buzzing with the flicker of a dying fluorescent light. She jammed her key into the lock, shoulder-checking the door open—only to freeze halfway in. Mia lounged on the couch in nothing but a terrycloth robe, legs kicked over the armrest, a bowl of popcorn balanced precariously on her stomach. The TV blared some reality show, the shrill voices of contestants arguing, drowning out Riley’s stumbled greeting.
“You sound like you either need a drink or a cold shower,” Mia said without looking up, crunching popcorn between her teeth.
Riley’s fingers twitched against her bag strap—caught. Mia’s gaze flicked over lazily, then sharpened. “Wait.” She kicked her legs down, scattering popcorn. “Is that a blush?” The robe gaped dangerously as she leaned forward, eyes gleaming with predatory interest. “Was it Walker again?”
Riley’s throat clicked shut. She’d mentioned him exactly once—offhand, weeks ago—but Mia had the memory of a bloodhound when it came to potential gossip. The stupid smile betrayed her before she could school her face into neutrality. “No,” she lied, too fast, tossing her bag onto the armchair. The receipts inside rustled accusingly.
Mia stretched like a cat, letting the robe fall entirely open, her bare skin glowing under the TV’s blue light. “Uh-huh.” She plucked a piece of popcorn from her cleavage, flicking it at Riley’s chest. “You’re a terrible liar. Also, your ears are red.” The robe gaped wider as she sprawled back, entirely unselfconscious. They’d shared hangover showers after college parties, swapped clothes mid-crisis—boundaries had evaporated years ago. Still, the casual display felt intentional now, a distraction tactic.
Riley inhaled sharply—and caught the ghost of Walker’s cologne still clinging to her blouse. The collision of senses was dizzying: Mia’s bare thigh pressed against hers, the salt of popcorn on her tongue, the memory of Walker’s forearms flexing as he’d leaned into her space. Her pulse hammered against her ribs. Fuck.
Mia’s fingers grazed her wrist, feather-light. “Hey,” she murmured—softer now, almost tender. Then, quick as a blink, she leaned in and kissed her. Just once, barely a brush of lips, warm and tasting faintly of butter. Riley froze, her brain stuttering like a corrupted file. Before she could react, Mia was already slipping off the couch, her robe trailing behind her as she sauntered toward the bedroom. The door clicked shut behind her with deliberate finality.
Riley’s hands trembled where they clutched the armrest. The tingle between her thighs flared into a flame, sudden and relentless. Walker’s cologne, Mia’s kiss—it all blurred together, a sensory overload that left her skin too tight. She pressed her thighs together, swallowing hard. The popcorn bowl lay abandoned on the floor, kernels scattered like accusations.
Mia’s footsteps padded quickly toward her room—too fast, too deliberate—but Riley couldn’t move. The rhythmic rustle of fabric hitched her breath: pencil skirt unzipping, blouse buttons popping one by one. Each sound was sharp, intimate, loaded with intention. Riley imagined the soft whisper of silk sliding down thighs, the brush of fingers against bare skin. Heat pooled low in her stomach.
She exhaled sharply. Fine.
The bra unhooked with a practiced twist of her fingers, straps slipping down her shoulders like an afterthought. The air against her bare skin prickled—too cold, or maybe just the adrenaline spiking through her. Riley kicked her panties off without ceremony, the lace pooling around one ankle before she stepped free. The absurdity hit her then: standing naked in her bedroom, bathed in the flickering glow of her bedside lamp, her pulse hammering.
She slid open the drawer beneath her underwear—soft cotton, silk scraps—and there it was, nestled between folded stockings: the ridged silicone curve of the dildo. Realistic enough to make her mouth dry when she’d first bought it on a whim, half-drunk on cheap wine and loneliness during her last semester of law school. The weight was familiar in her palm now, a silent companion on those nights when ambition wasn’t enough to drown out the ache.
Riley exhaled sharply through her nose, shifting her hips against the sheets. The first slow drag between her thighs—just pressure, teasing—sent electricity skittering up her spine. Her knees fell wider apart, toes curling into the duvet. The scent of her own arousal thickened in the air, mingling with the remnants of Walker’s cologne still clinging to her discarded blouse. She bit her lip hard enough to sting—*his* forearms flexing as he leaned into her space, his low laugh curling in her ear—then arched sharply as the toy pressed inside.
The stretch burned sweetly. She rocked into it, imagining the way his hands—larger, rougher—would pin her hips down. A soft moan escaped her. The sound startled her—too loud in the quiet room—but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Her free hand skated up her ribs, thumb brushing a taut nipple. The dual sensation punched through her: fullness below, the sharp bite of pleasure above. She swore under her breath, twisting the toy deeper.
The slap of skin against skin echoed off the walls. Riley’s glasses slid crookedly down her nose, fogging slightly with each ragged exhale. She didn’t bother pushing them back up. The rhythm was relentless now, hips pistoning, the bedframe creaking in protest. She pictured Walker’s scarred thumb tracing her lower lip, his whiskey-rough voice murmuring filth that’d turn her ears red. The fantasy coiled tighter, tighter—until her back arched off the mattress, toes curling into the sheets.
Down the hall, Mia’s bedroom door clicked open. Riley didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow. Let her hear. Let her know. The toy plunged deeper, hitting that spot that made her vision whiten. She bit down on her own forearm to muffle the scream building in her throat—not out of shame, but sheer, animal necessity. The pressure was unbearable, electric, her entire body taut as a bowstring.
Her glasses tumbled into the darkness of tangled sheets, lost somewhere between the frantic scissoring of her thighs. The world narrowed to the slick heat between her legs, the relentless rhythm of her own hips lifting off the mattress. Time fractured. The ceiling fan spun lazily above, casting shifting shadows over her bared teeth, the sweat-slicked column of her throat. She was close, so close she could taste it—copper and salt and the phantom burn of whiskey on her tongue.
Then—another moan. Not hers.
Riley’s head snapped up, her hips still moving. Mia stood in the doorway, the robe hanging open, the dim light catching the wet sheen between her thighs. One hand was buried under the loose fabric, fingers working in slow, deliberate circles. Their eyes locked, and Mia’s lips parted on a sharp inhale—like Riley had punched the air from her lungs.
Neither of them spoke. Riley didn’t stop. The toy drove deeper, her thighs trembling. Mia’s fingers moved faster, her other hand gripping the doorframe hard enough to whiten her knuckles. The robe slipped further off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her breast, the peaked nipple. Riley swallowed hard. She could smell her—musky, sweet, the faint citrus of her shower gel tangled with sweat.
Their shared rhythm built, the air between them thickening. Mia’s breath hitched first—a soft, punched-out sound. Riley watched, mesmerized, as her knees buckled slightly, her fingers working frantically between her legs. The robe gaped fully open now, revealing the flushed skin of her stomach, the dark curls glistening beneath her palm. Riley’s own climax crashed into her a heartbeat later, sharp and blinding, her back bowing off the bed. The toy slipped from her grasp as her hips stuttered, thighs clamping tight around nothing.
Silence settled, broken only by their ragged breathing. Mia exhaled shakily, leaning against the doorframe like she’d forgotten how to stand. Riley licked her lips, the taste of salt still clinging to them. She should say something—anything—but her brain was static, synapses fried. Mia’s fingers twitched against her own thigh, wetness catching the light.
Without a word, Mia closed the door. The latch clicked like a gunshot in the stillness.
Riley lay there, sweat cooling on her skin, fingers twitching against the damp sheets. The toy lay discarded beside her thigh, still glistening. She stared at the ceiling fan’s lazy rotations, counting each revolution until her pulse slowed. The air smelled like sex and salt—undeniable, irreversible. A soft giggie bubbled up in her chest.
She rolled onto her side, tugging the sheets up to her waist, though the heat still simmered beneath her skin. The apartment was silent save for the distant hum of the fridge, the occasional creak of settling walls. She closed her eyes, willing sleep to pull her under before the gravity of what just happened could fully register.
Morning arrived sharp and sudden—her alarm blaring too loud, the sunlight slicing through the blinds like judgment. Riley groaned, rubbing the grit from her eyes with her palms. The sheets tangled around her legs, slick with sweat and something else entirely. She kicked them off, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, toes curling into the carpet fibers. The toy still lay abandoned on the mattress, gleaming innocently in the dawn light. She snatched it up without hesitation, tossing it back into the drawer with a thud.
The shower was scalding—almost punishing—but she stood under the spray until her skin turned pink. The steam curled around her as she scrubbed, fingers dragging over her ribs, her thighs, as if she could erase the memory of Mia’s gaze, Walker’s forearms, her own desperate moans. The water sluiced between her legs, and she pressed her forehead against the tiles, exhaling sharply.
She dressed mechanically: panties first, then the bra, the pencil skirt, the blouse tucked in just so. The routine grounded her—each button, each zipper a tiny victory. Her reflection in the mirror was all sharp edges and practiced composure, glasses perched perfectly, lips pressed into a neutral line. The Riley who’d come apart last night was tucked away, sealed tight beneath starched cotton and Spanx.
The coffee maker gurgled its last drops into her travel mug, the bitter scent cutting through the lingering musk of last night. Riley took a deliberate sip, wincing at the burn on her tongue. Good. Pain was simple. Pain was clean. Outside, the city groaned awake—taxis honking, heels clicking on pavement, the distant wail of a siren. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
Mia’s door remained stubbornly shut, the silence behind it thick enough to choke on. Riley hesitated, hand hovering near the knob—then snatched her blazer off the hook instead. No postmortem. Not yet. Maybe never. The elevator ride down was mercifully quick, her reflection in the mirrored walls a study in forced nonchalance: shoulders squared, jaw set, fingers tight around her coffee. The only tell was the faint tremor in her grip.
The office building loomed, its glass facade reflecting the early morning bustle of downtown. Riley strode through the revolving doors, the sharp click of her heels swallowed by the lobby’s marble expanse. The security guard nodded—*good morning, Ms. Lewis*—but she barely registered it, already thumbing her access card. The elevator dinged open on the 22nd floor, the scent of fresh carpet cleaner and burnt coffee hitting her like a slap. Better. Cleaner. Controlled. She exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders back.
The elevator doors parted with a soft chime, revealing the hushed hum of the office in its pre-9 AM lull. Riley stepped out, her heels sinking into the plush carpet as she navigated the maze of cubicles toward her office, her personal space. The scent of stale coffee and citrus-scented cleaners clung to the air, mingling with the faint ozone tang of freshly booted computers. She avoided looking toward accounting—*don’t look, don’t fucking look*—but her peripheral vision betrayed her, catching the familiar slope of Walker’s shoulders as he leaned over someone’s desk, pointing at a spreadsheet.
Her pulse stuttered. She was afraid—no, terrified—that if he so much as glanced her way, the confession would tumble out of her like a dropped stack of depositions: I came last night thinking of you while my roommate watched. The words burned at the back of her throat, acidic and humiliating. She gripped her coffee tighter, the heat seeping through the paper sleeve. Just keep walking. Don’t stop. Don’t—
Walker turned his head. Their eyes met across the bullpen—his crinkled at the corners, amused, knowing—and then he winked. Slow. Deliberate. Like he’d caught her red-handed with his hand in the petty cash. Her breath hitched. The wink sent a shiver down her spine, pooling hot at the base of her tailbone. His lips curved, just slightly, before he turned back to the spreadsheet, leaving Riley standing there like an idiot, her cheeks flaming.
She swallowed hard, forcing her legs to move again, her heels clicking too loudly against the marble. The phantom weight of his hands on her hips last night—imagined, fantasized—suddenly felt as real as the blazer clinging to her shoulders. She could almost feel the bite of his fingers into her skin, the rough drag of his stubble against her neck. The scent of his cologne—god, his cologne—seemed to cling to her still, taunting her. She tugged at her collar, as if that might loosen the tightness in her chest.
The office door was a welcome barrier. She shut it harder than necessary, leaning back against the cool wood, exhaling through her nose. The case files from last night sat untouched, the crumpled receipts Walker had delivered still scattered across her desk. Her lips twitched. Expense reports. As if that had ever been the point. She traced the edge of one curled receipt, the paper rough under her fingertip. Her thighs tingled, the memory of last night’s release—his name in her head, Mia’s gaze burning into her—flooding back in vivid, humiliating detail.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Focus. But the fantasy clawed its way forward anyway: Walker’s strong hands spanning her hips, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows just above her pelvis. The desk was digging into her back, her pencil skirt rucked up around her waist. His weight pinning her down, the deliberate roll of his hips as he— Christ. Riley’s breath hitched. She could practically feel the stretch of him, the way his breath would hitch against her neck when she clenched around him. Her nails bit into her palms.
The intercom buzzed, jolting her back to reality. “Ms. Lewis?” The receptionist’s voice crackled through. “Mr. Nielsen wants to see you in Conference Room B.” Riley swallowed, willing the flush creeping up her neck to subside. “Be right there,” she managed, smoothing her skirt with trembling hands. The fabric clung to her thighs, damp with more than just morning humidity. She adjusted her glasses, squared her shoulders—*professional, composed*—before stepping into the hallway.
The walk to the conference room felt like a gauntlet. Every glance from passing colleagues burned against her skin, as if they could see the filth in her head. She passed accounting without looking, but the low murmur of his voice to a coworker slithered under her skin like a touch. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Get a grip.
She inhaled sharply—stale coffee, citrus cleaner—and forced her fingers to unclench. The conference room door loomed ahead, polished wood gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Mr. Nielsen’s voice rumbled through the gap, sharp with impatience. She smoothed her blazer, fingers trembling against the fabric. Focus.
The door swung open before she could knock. Nielsen stood silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows; downtown’s skyline stretched behind him like a mirage. He was impeccably dressed. “Ms. Lewis,” he grunted, beckoning her in. The table was littered with case files.
“You’re reassigned,” he said, flipping open a folder with a snap. “Hartford merger due diligence. High-profile.” His pen tapped the pages—*tap, tap*—like a metronome counting down her pulse. “Accounting is already running numbers. Walker will be your partner on this.”
The coffee in Riley’s stomach turned to molten lead. Walker. The name reverberated in her skull like a gavel strike. Her fingers clenched around her portfolio until the cardboard edges bit into her palm. Oh no, her mind screamed, this is the worst possible thing that could happen. Every fantasy from last night—his laugh against her neck, her thighs spread over those expense reports—flashed behind her eyelids in lurid detail. Her blouse stuck to the sweat between her shoulder blades.
Nielsen’s gaze sharpened. “Problem?” His eyebrow arched into the territory of a warning shot.
“No.” The word escaped Riley’s lips before her brain could censor it, high-pitched and unconvincing even to her own ears. She cleared her throat. “It’s fine.” The lie tasted like burnt coffee and panic. Walker. Partner. Fuck.
Nielsen’s pen tapped again—*tap, tap*—before he slid the folder toward her with deliberate finality. “Good. He’ll join you in your office.” Her fingers trembled as she took it, the crisp edges digging into her palm like tiny accusations.
Riley walked back mechanically, her heels sinking into the carpet with each step. The bullpen buzzed around her—printers whirring, hushed conversations—but it all blurred into white noise. She counted her breaths, each one shorter than the last. The glass walls of her office loomed ahead, pristine and exposed, offering no sanctuary. She sat in her chair and prepared to face the inevitability of what was coming.
