Adults only. This is fictional workplace erotica intended for readers 18+. Contains sexual tension, power dynamics, and explicit themes in future installments.
Reminder! This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of my imagination or are used in a made-up way. Any likeness to real people, living or dead, or actual events is totally coincidental.
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8067 Cherry Ave. Unit B.
Anatolia’s red-bricked townhome stands before me, the metal letter B illuminated by a nearby streetlamp’s staggeringly bright light. The houses next to hers are also historic brick red, as many Boston neighborhoods often are, preserving their original designs. I wouldn’t know which house is hers if it weren’t for the metal plate beside her entryway.
But after arriving at her doorstep, I am pleasantly surprised to find she has a ceramic pot of assorted daisies. Their bright white and pink heads soften the harsh black paint coating Anatolia’s window shutters.
I readjust my grip on the bouquet, then lift a hand to knock before noticing the extraordinary woodwork on her door. I run my hand over its dark veneer surface, taking in this ancient hundred-year-old relic, its brass fittings, all fine handiwork. In my youth, I often daydreamed about being a woodcarver. At the time, not knowing the ways of the world, I thought it was an honorable career that would give me opportunities to work with my hands.
But I grew older, and my dream faded with time.
To my right, a shape moves.
From between wine-red curtains, a whiskery face pokes out. A gorgeous long-haired tuxedo cat sits on the windowsill, tilting its head ever so slightly as if evaluating my presence. Friend or foe? Who am I, a stranger and a man no less, to arrive on Miss Vale’s doorstep without prior approval from this magnificent creature, who continues to blink its bright, moony eyes at me from behind the glass?
I smile, then heave a sigh of relief.
I’m not sure what it is, but the tension in my chest melts away.
I’m glad she’s fond of cats too.
I didn’t think much on the drive here. I put the car in gear and left as soon as I received her text. But now, as I stand in front of her door, I realize the seriousness of the situation.
What if one of our coworkers lives here?
What if she has roommates?
What if this isn’t what she meant when she told me not to leave her waiting?
Before I can continue my endless spiral of what-ifs, the door swings open as if answering my questions with divine premonition. A slice of light crosses over me, momentarily blinding me. Then I’m left standing in the presence of who appears to be Anatolia.
But not the professional, minimalistic Anatolia I’m used to seeing around the office.
This is the real Anatolia. The version that I can touch. That I can hold.
She wears a red velvet slip that dips dangerously low across her bare chest, edged with delicate white lace. The fabric clings to her body in a way that makes every sensible thought in my head fade away. Her loose brunette curls fall over her collarbone, soft and tousled, as if she has spent the evening letting herself relax, shedding the office exterior, and becoming her true self.
My blood heats. Pressure gathers low in my body.
Her parted lips are inches from my own, but it’s her gaze that ruins me. That damning, sensual gaze inviting me inside. To grab her, take her into my arms. Devour her like the unleashed animal I’m slowly turning into. We’re beyond professional now.
My restraint thins by the second. Every part of me wants to press against her. To press into her. To find out if she tastes as dangerous as she looks.
I present the bouquet to her before I do something reckless.
Anatolia takes it into her arms, but her eyes never leave mine.
Two pairs of brown eyes weighing consequences.
She lowers her face to the flowers, breathing in the tulips, saffron crocus blooms, and poppies as if they had belonged to her long before I bought them. Cupping them against her chest, she gives me a second longing look.
“Cassian,” she whispers, “I don’t know how to thank you.”
She turns away and places the flowers on a nearby table.
When she returns, I don’t get a word in before she hooks a finger through my belt buckle and pulls me inside.
The door shuts behind me. My back meets the wood.
Anatolia is against me before I can breathe, her body warm through the velvet, her hands already testing the edges of my restraint.
“You’re a true gentleman, Cassian,” she says. “But you make me worry.”
Her mouth curves downward. “You don’t want me to worry, do you?”
“No,” I murmur. “I don’t want my sunrise to worry.”
Her eyes widen. Her name means sunrise. The sun rising in the East.
Slowly, I trace her jaw, taking in her beauty.
“Anatolia, darling. What is it? You can tell me anything.”
She brings her lips to my ear and whispers, “I’m worried you’ll never desire me. That you won’t see beyond our friendship.” Then her voice shifts, softening with sincere concern.
“I don’t want to ruin what we have.”
Dammit. She’s going to make me forget every careful thing I came here to say.
“I didn’t buy you flowers because I was worried about ruining our friendship,” I say. “I bought you flowers because I see you as more than my executive assistant. More than my friend. I want to see where this goes.”
Her breathing changes.
“But if you ask me to leave right now,” I continue, “I’ll go. I won’t say another word. I understand it’s late. I understand that this is…complicated.”
Anatolia narrows her eyes, studying me. Then she takes my hand.
She guides it beneath the hem of her nightgown and places it between her legs. My fingers find she’s warm. Naked. Already wet.
I stop, searching her face for signs of hesitation.
“Tell me to stop,” I whisper, “and I will.”
She holds my gaze.
“Yes,” she whispers clearly.
I slide one finger into her, and she gasps against my mouth. Her body tightens around me. She pulses her muscles, and I groan. Hungry to feel more of her, wanting to rip everything off and give it to her, right here on the hardwood.
I kiss her like I’ve been starved for months and have finally been invited to the table. She opens for me, hands moving to my belt, pulling at the buckle with impatient fingers. The leather slips free. It drops to the floor.
Her hands go to my zipper next, hurried, and the sound of it lowering is obscene in the quiet entryway.
I push a second finger inside her.
“Cassian,” she gasps.
I work my fingers slowly at first, then with more purpose, learning the rhythm of her body by the way her hips move against my hand. She lifts one leg around my waist, pulling us tighter together, and I catch her by the hip to keep her steady.
Her nails dig into my shoulder.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers.
I curl my fingers, and her head falls back. She trembles in my arms, her velvet slip riding higher, her breath breaking into smaller, needier sounds with every movement of my hand.
I want to know what she looks like when she comes apart.
I’m going to be the reason she forgets about the ugly things waiting for her next Sunday morning.
“Cassian,” she breathes again.
I lower my mouth to her throat.
“I’ve got you.”
With the hand cupping her ass, I move my fingers lower, reaching the soft spot of skin. I increase the pressure and Anatolia arches her back with pleasure.
Her body tightens around my fingers.
Once. Twice.
She shatters, gripping my shirt as she cries out against my shoulder, her hips rocking into my hand as pleasure moves through her in waves. I hold her there, steady and close, as she lets herself go.
She sags against me.
The hallway is quiet except for our breathing.
I ease my hand from beneath her nightgown and smooth the lace back into place with gentle care.
She laughs softly and bats my hand away.
“You’re putting them away already?” Her bottom lip pouts. “I still have more in me.” She looks down at my large bulge through her lashes.
“Do you?”
We share a sly, knowing smile.
Anatolia steps back, slowly unties the velvet belt around her waist, and lets it fall to the floor.
I lower myself to my knees and pull her close.
The fun’s not over yet.
The night has only just begun.
