Two weeks of filing, stapling, and pretending I wasn’t dying inside had left me raw. My back ached, my hands smelled like paper and sanitizer, and my patience had frayed. I was ready to clock out, throw my badge on the desk, and never look back. But apparently, the universe had other plans.
The last stack of reports clattered in my hands as I shoved them into the office door. Ready to leave, I froze.
The door was cracked.
And there he was—Mark Holloway, my boss. Naked from the waist down, c**k hard, veins pulsing, hand moving fast. The laptop on his desk blared some ridiculous, over-the-top porn, and the smell of him—musky, slick, urgent—hit me like a punch to the gut. My stomach dropped. My c**k twitched painfully in my jeans. My cheeks went hot before I even had time to think.
“Chris
