The office smelled like fresh ink and ambition.
It always did, even after hours. The copy machines rested like sleeping beasts, and the fluorescent lights flickered over empty cubicles, casting long shadows across the open-plan workspace. But that night, the energy in the building pulsed differently - charged, alive, like secrets were embedded in the carpet and whispered in the air vents.
And I was the reason.
I stood by the corner glass office, the city lights winking at me through the windows. Five-foot-nine, honey-slicked caramel complexion kissed by the gods, waist snatched into oblivion, hips made to sit on desks and ruin careers. My blouse - white silk, snug - parted slightly at the top, teasing a full, round cleavage that had sparked more than one HR complaint in whispered side chats. My black pencil skirt hugged me like it was sculpted on, and my stilettos clicked a slow rhythm of power and seduction across the marble floor.
But I wasn't here for a meeting.
No, I was here for him.
Devon Mitchell.
Six-foot-two of walking temptation. Skin a deep cinnamon brown, smooth like velvet and strong like bourbon. His beard? Perfectly trimmed, kissed by a fresh line-up, framing his full lips in a way that made every woman in accounting lose their train of thought mid-sentence. And when he smiled - white, straight, movie-star teeth - it could melt the ice in your cup. But it wasn't just his looks.
It was his scent.
Dior Sauvage. Spicy, masculine, and unforgettable. The kind of smell that followed you in dreams. The kind that lingered in elevator corners and made you close your eyes, remembering how his chest felt under your palms.
Devon wasn't just a man. He was the man. Mine.
Well, almost.
The office bitches couldn't take it.
Tiana and Jasmine from sales, always cackling like middle schoolers around him - high-pitched laughs, fake accidents spilling papers near his desk just to bend over slow. They'd whisper behind their hands, then glance over at me. They hated how I walked past him and didn't need to flirt. How he would smile only for me.
They'd guzzle my coffee out of spite - my name labeled clearly on that lavender Yeti cup - and act like they didn't know. But when he started bringing me Starbucks every morning with two straws, they fumed. Especially when it was our custom order: brown sugar shaken espresso with extra foam, just the way we liked it.
One day, he walked in carrying the drinks, passed right by their fake hellos, and placed the cup on my desk.
"Taste that and tell me you're not addicted to me."
I sipped. Slow. Deliberate. Locked eyes with him.
"Oh, I'm addicted," I purred.
The silence after that was louder than the phones ringing.
The company threw a rooftop party one Friday - DJ spinning, cocktails flowing, everyone half-drunk and pretending not to be. I walked in fashionably late. Tight satin wine-red dress, slit up the thigh. My curves did all the talking. I didn't even have to look for Devon. I could feel him watching.
He found me by the edge of the dance floor, slid behind me with a low chuckle.
"You came to cause a riot, huh?"
I leaned into his chest, feeling the heat through his tailored suit.
"Only for you."
He wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me in close, his lips brushing my ear. "Meet me upstairs. Ten minutes."
Back in the office.
The floor was dark except for the emergency lights. His office door clicked shut behind me. I barely had time to turn before his hands were on me - one gripping my waist, the other sliding down my thigh. My back hit the glass. His mouth claimed mine with hunger. His beard scratched against my neck in the most sinful way, his tongue trailing fire.
I unbuckled his belt like my life depended on it, and he hiked me up on the desk, pushing aside files and knocking over pens. My skirt rode up, his fingers tracing the line of lace under my thighs.
"You know they hate how I look at you," he growled against my mouth. "How I need you."
"I know," I whispered, tugging him closer. "Let them watch through the glass next time."
He moaned. Low. Dangerous.
We made love right there, on that cold mahogany desk. Our rhythm set to the hum of the vents and the heartbeat in our ears. His cologne, my perfume, our sweat - it all mixed in the air like a spell. Clothes half-on, half-off, skin against skin, his name whispered like a prayer. No titles. No emails. Just want. Just heat.
After, he kissed me slow. Like he had all the time in the world.
The next morning?
Tiana tried to crack jokes at the copier.
"I heard someone was burning the midnight oil…"
I smiled, sipping my coffee - the one he brought.
"Oh, honey," I said, licking foam from my lip. "It wasn't oil. But something was burning."
Devon passed by, winked.
She dropped her stack of papers.