Last
Call

Ethan is a senior partner—fifteen years older, gray at the temples, a voice that drops the whole room to silence when he wants it to. Everyone calls him cold, focused, untouchable. But for three weeks he’s been the last one in the office with Mia, and he hasn’t touched a single report. He’s watched her stand at the window desk in those heels, watched her tuck hair behind her ear while she reads, watched the soft, open hunger in her eyes when she catches him looking. Tonight the building empties early because the cleaning crew got paid and left. She doesn’t knock on his door. She walks straight to his desk, takes the pen from his hand, unbuttons her blouse one button at a time, and guides the pen down over her sternum, between her breasts, lower until she has to lean back to guide it the rest of the way. “Ethan,” she whispers, and it’s the first time she’s said his first name. He doesn’t kiss her. He doesn’t say a word. He turns her around, bends her over the mahogany desk that cost more than her first car, and pulls her panties aside. She is so wet she aches. He enters her slowly at first, a long deliberate push that makes her gasp into the polished wood. Then he fucks her like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it—one hand flat on the small of her back holding her still, the other covering the mouthpiece of the office phone that keeps lighting up with after-hours calls. He doesn’t let her make a sound. “Don’t you dare,” he breathes into her ear. “Not one sound. You take it quiet, or I stop.” She bites her lip so hard it bleeds. She comes with her forehead pressed against a quarterly spreadsheet, a broken, silent shudder that nearly drops her knees out from under her. He follows a minute later, half-dressed, still listening for the elevator, still holding her hip hard enough to bruise. He leans down, lips at her ear. “Tomorrow night. My office. Eleven.” And then he zips his pants and walks out without another word.