Page 158 of The Owner's Temptation

Fuck.

But that’s not even the worst part.

It’s thepanties.

Red. Dark. Soaked.

I saw them when she crossed her legs during the morning finance briefing. One inch too wide, just long enough for the hem of her dress to pull, just long enough for me toseethe thin lace stretched over her soaked little cunt.

That wet patch?

It’s not innocent.

It’s not accidental.

She’sgetting offon this.

Turning herself on by driving me to the edge while I sit through back-to-back boardroom briefings, pretending to give a shit about cost reports while my cock is hard as granite and my blood is boiling.

She’s doing it onpurpose.

Testing me. Poking the bear. Playing with fire.

The conference call ends.

I don’t even wait for the final bullshit pleasantries.

I slam my laptop shut with a sharpcrack, ending the meeting mid-sentence. My jaw is locked, hand clenched around the edge of the desk as I breathe through the storm building in my chest.

I hear her voice before I see her.

Soft. Sweet. Sweet enough to make me fucking dangerous.

“What’s the matter?” she says, honey dripping from every syllable. “You seem tense.”

I don’t answer.

I just slide my chair back, slow and deliberate, rotating it toward her. Letting her see exactly what she’s been doing to me.

She saunters forward like she owns the fucking room.

That black-and-white dress hugging her hips like it was made to be torn off. Her heels click with every step—black leather, sharp enough to kill. In her hand, a crystal glass of whiskey—my favorite, neat, precisely two fingers.

She stops in front of me. And then—fuck me—she drops.

Right to her knees.

She slips her shoes off one at a time, placing them neatly beside her. Then she settles, slowly, into the pose I taught her. The one I praised her for. Back straight, shoulders soft, chest high and proud. Knees wide. Hands resting perfectly on those silky, creamy thighs.

Her eyes lift to mine, calm and clear—but there’s fire underneath.

“Can I help you relax…sir?”

My cock throbs behind my zipper.

It’s not the whiskey.

It’s not the posture.

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