Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter One

I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, brushing out my long blonde hair until it fell in soft waves over my shoulders. The steam from my shower still lingered in the air, making my skin glow. At thirty-two, I knew I looked good—better than good, if I was honest. My blue eyes were bright and sharp, my lips full and naturally pink, my cheekbones high enough to give me that effortless elegance people always commented on. But it was my body that really turned heads: 34DD breasts that sat high and firm, a narrow waist I kept toned with yoga and running, wide hips that swayed when I walked in heels, and long legs that seemed to go on forever. I was the full package, the kind of woman who could stop traffic in a pencil skirt and blouse.

And yet, as I slipped into my silk nightgown, I felt… empty.

Tom was already in bed, scrolling on his phone when I walked into our bedroom. Our house in the Chicago suburbs was perfect—modern, quiet, paid off early thanks to our dual incomes. We had everything we were supposed to want. No kids yet (we kept saying “soon”), date nights every Friday, vacations twice a year. Tom was sweet. Reliable. Handsome in that boy-next-door way, with his sandy hair and easy smile. He loved me. I loved him.

But God, the sex had become so… predictable.

He looked up as I climbed into bed beside him, his eyes softening. “You look beautiful, Em.”

I smiled, leaning in to kiss him. “Thank you, baby.”

It started like it always did. Soft kisses. His hand sliding up my thigh, gentle and familiar. I kissed him back, trying to feel that spark, that heat I remembered from our early days. He pulled my nightgown over my head, murmuring appreciation as he cupped my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples until they hardened. I arched into his touch, closing my eyes, willing myself to get lost in it.

He moved over me, settling between my legs. I was wet enough—my body always responded, even when my mind wandered. He slid into me slowly, carefully, like he was afraid of hurting me. I wrapped my legs around him, rocking my hips to meet his thrusts. He groaned my name, kissing my neck, moving in that steady rhythm we’d perfected over eight years.

It felt nice. Pleasant. Safe.

But it wasn’t enough.

I faked the moans a little louder, clenched around him the way he liked, dug my nails into his back just enough to make him think I was close. When he came with a quiet grunt, collapsing onto me with a satisfied sigh, I held him close and whispered, “That was wonderful.”

He kissed my forehead, rolled off, and was asleep within minutes.

I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, my body still humming with unspent need. My clit throbbed faintly, untouched. My pussy felt… half-full. I pressed my thighs together, trying to ease the ache, but it only made it worse.

This wasn’t new. It had been building for months—no, years. I’d always had a high sex drive. In college, I’d been wild. Adventurous. I’d loved being wanted, being taken, being overwhelmed. But when I met Tom, I wanted stability. Love. The life we’d built. And for a long time, that had been enough.

Now, it wasn’t.

I slipped out of bed quietly and padded to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. The marble floor was cool under my bare feet. I leaned against the counter, looking at myself again in the mirror. My nipples were still hard. My cheeks were flushed. I looked like a woman who’d just been fucked senseless.

But I hadn’t.

I reached between my legs, fingers sliding easily through my wetness—Tom’s cum mixed with my own arousal. I circled my clit slowly at first, then faster, biting my lip to stay quiet. My mind wandered where it always did these days: to faceless, rough hands pinning me down. A thick cock stretching me open. A deep voice growling filthy things in my ear. Being used. Taken. Filled completely.

I came quickly, hips jerking, a soft whimper escaping despite my efforts. It was better than what I’d had in bed, but still not enough. Never enough.

I cleaned up, splashed water on my face, and told myself—not for the first time—that I was lucky. That most women would kill for my life. That wanting more made me ungrateful.

But the hunger didn’t go away.

The next morning, I dressed for work with more care than usual. Tailored black pencil skirt that hugged my ass perfectly. Sheer white blouse with just enough transparency to hint at the lace bra beneath. Four-inch heels that made my legs look endless. I told myself it was because I had interviews today—important ones. I was the new Director of Marketing at Apex Digital Solutions, and I needed to look the part.

But deep down, I knew I liked the way clothes made me feel powerful. Desired. In control.

The office was buzzing when I arrived. My corner office on the 18th floor had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. I loved it here—the energy, the authority, the way people straightened when I walked past. I’d earned this promotion through hard work, long hours, and being damn good at what I did.

Today, I was interviewing for a junior sales associate who would report directly to me. Someone to handle data pulls, research, support on campaigns. Entry-level, but important. I needed someone sharp, eager, reliable.

I’d already seen three candidates by lunch. All qualified. All forgettable.

Then Marcus Jackson walked in.

He knocked once, then stepped inside when I called out. The moment I looked up, something shifted in the air.

He was tall—easily 6'3"—with broad shoulders that filled out his white dress shirt perfectly. His skin was a rich, smooth deep brown, his hair close-cropped, beard neatly trimmed. His eyes were dark and intense, framed by thick lashes. He smiled politely as he approached my desk, extending a hand.

“Ms. Harper? Marcus Jackson. Thank you for seeing me.”

His voice was deep, warm, with just a hint of roughness at the edges. His hand engulfed mine—big, strong, warm. I felt a jolt straight to my core.

“Please, have a seat,” I said, gesturing to the chair across from me. My voice sounded steady. Professional.

He sat, crossing one leg over the other, and I tried not to notice how the fabric of his charcoal slacks pulled tight across his thighs. Or how the shirt stretched over his chest when he leaned forward to place his résumé on my desk.

I picked it up, scanning it again even though I’d already memorized it. Top of his class. Strong references. Relevant experience from internships. He was perfect on paper.

But it wasn’t the résumé that had my pulse racing.

It was the way he moved—confident but not arrogant. The way his eyes met mine directly, respectfully, but with a quiet intensity that made my skin prickle. And then—God help me—I noticed it.

The bulge.

It wasn’t blatant. He wasn’t adjusted or showing off. But when he shifted slightly in his chair to get comfortable, the fabric of his slacks shifted with him, and there it was: a thick, heavy outline running down his left thigh. Long. Substantial. Even soft, it looked… significant.

I felt heat flood my face—and lower. My nipples tightened against my lace bra. I crossed my legs under the desk, pressing my thighs together as a sudden throb pulsed between them.

I forced my eyes back to his face. He was answering my first question—something about his experience with market analytics—calmly, intelligently. He called me “Ms. Harper” with perfect respect. His posture was open but professional. He didn’t flirt. Didn’t linger. Didn’t give me any excuse to think he was anything but a qualified candidate.

But I couldn’t stop looking.

Every time he gestured with his hands—large, strong hands—I imagined them on my body. When he smiled at something I said, showing perfect white teeth, I imagined that mouth on my breasts. And every time he shifted again, my eyes betrayed me, flicking down for just a second before snapping back up.

I prayed he didn’t notice.

We talked for twenty minutes. He was impressive—articulate, enthusiastic, clearly capable. He asked smart questions about the role, the team, the company’s direction. He’d done his research.

By the end, I knew I was hiring him.

I told myself it was because he was the best candidate. Clearly the strongest. His skills aligned perfectly. He’d be an asset to my team.

But as I stood to shake his hand again—feeling that same electric warmth in his grip—I knew the truth, even if I wouldn’t admit it out loud.

I wanted him near me.

I wanted to see that smile every day. Hear that voice. Watch the way he moved. Feed this secret, growing hunger that had been gnawing at me for months.

I wanted to know what that bulge felt like when it wasn’t hidden behind fabric.

“Thank you, Mr. Jackson,” I said, my voice smooth and professional. “We’ll be in touch very soon.”

He smiled again, nodding. “I look forward to hearing from you, Ms. Harper.”

He left, closing the door softly behind him.

I sat back down, my heart pounding. My panties were damp. My skin felt too tight.

I opened my laptop and immediately drafted the offer letter.

Strongest candidate, I typed. Excellent fit. High potential.

I hit send before I could overthink it.

As I leaned back in my chair, staring out at the city skyline, a small, secret smile curved my lips.

Monday morning couldn’t come soon enough.

Chapter Two

I arrived at the office earlier than usual on Monday, the city still half-asleep under a gray December sky. The elevator ride to the eighteenth floor felt endless, my reflection staring back at me from the mirrored walls. I’d spent far too long choosing today’s outfit: a navy sheath dress that hugged every curve, the fabric thick enough to look professional but stretchy enough to outline my breasts and the swell of my hips. The neckline dipped just low enough to reveal the lace edge of my bra if I leaned forward. Black strappy heels added four inches to my height and made my legs look endless. My hair was down, loose waves brushing my shoulders, and I’d gone a little heavier on the makeup—smoky eyes, red lips.

I told myself it was because I wanted to start the week strong. New hire day. First impressions matter.

But the truth throbbed between my legs before I even reached my desk: I wanted Marcus to notice me.

My corner office was quiet, the lights still off. I flicked them on, set my latte down, and opened the blinds. Downtown Chicago stretched out below, all steel and glass and cold morning light. I sat in my leather chair, crossed my legs, and felt the familiar ache already building. Just thinking about seeing him again made my nipples tighten against the lace of my bra.

I opened my laptop and pretended to review emails, but my mind replayed the interview in relentless detail: the way his charcoal slacks had pulled tight when he sat, the thick ridge running down his left thigh, the way it shifted when he moved. I’d spent the entire weekend trying not to think about it. Failing. Touching myself in the shower Saturday morning while Tom was at the gym. Again Saturday night while he snored beside me. Sunday afternoon in the laundry room, bent over the dryer, fingers buried deep, imagining it was him.

I was wet already. Just from anticipation.

HR had scheduled his official onboarding for eight-thirty, but I’d arranged for him to come straight to my office at ten for team orientation. Two hours to wait. Two hours to sit here and throb.

At 9:55, I stood and checked myself in the small mirror I kept in my drawer. Lipstick perfect. Dress smooth. Cleavage just right. I took a slow breath, smoothed my hair, and sat back down.

At 10:00 sharp, there was a firm knock.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and Marcus Jackson stepped inside.

He looked even better than I remembered.

Gray slacks today, perfectly tailored, hugging powerful thighs. A light-blue dress shirt stretched across his broad chest, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms dusted with dark hair. His beard was freshly trimmed, his cologne subtle but intoxicating—something clean and masculine that made me want to lean in. He carried a leather notebook and smiled politely.

“Good morning, Ms. Harper. Thank you again for the opportunity.”

That voice. Deep, smooth, with just enough gravel to make my stomach flip.

“Good morning, Marcus. Please, have a seat.”