The risks stopped feeling like risks and started feeling like oxygen.
Monday board meeting. Victor at the head of the table dissecting quarterly numbers while Cameron sat three seats down, tie perfectly knotted, voice steady. Under the mahogany Serena’s bare foot slid up Cameron’s calf, toes tracing the seam of his trousers, then higher. She wore a charcoal skirt suit cut like armor and no panties—he’d watched her dress that morning in the penthouse mirror while Victor showered ten feet away.
By the time the CFO reached slide forty-seven, her toes were curled around the ridge of his c**k through wool. Cameron kept his face neutral, signed the proxy vote, and came silently in his boxers while Victor praised his “focus under pressure.”
He spent the rest of the meeting hard again, the wet
