The Thursday
Ritual

He stays late every Thursday. I know this because I've been waiting. Tonight I leave the glass conference room unlocked, my skirt hiked high, bracing against the long table with the city glittering behind me. He walks in, locks the door without a word, and takes what we both want. He pushes my underwear aside and sinks into me—one smooth, desperate motion. The only sounds are the low hum of the building and our breath quickening. He fucks me slow at first, then harder, one hand flat on the small of my back. I come with my forehead pressed to the cool glass, watching our reflection watch us. He follows deep inside me a minute later, still fully dressed, still listening for footsteps in the hall. When he pulls out he straightens my skirt, leaves first. I stay, still trembling, feeling him drip down my thigh. This is our Thursday ritual—filthy, secret, and no one else will ever know.