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.
I lower my voice.
“Then come back in twenty minutes. Close the door behind you.”
She understands what a risk this is. Because of my position in the agency, inviting her to have a personal conversation behind closed doors is not exactly innocent. I hope she doesn’t ask the impossible.
The animalistic side of me, the part that is hungry for Anatolia, has already given itself up to temptation. But thankfully, the mechanical inner workings of my brain keep reminding me that I am about to enter treacherous territory with her.
A point of no return.
~
Most of the office lights are off now, with only the bathroom hallway dimly lit. I use the next few minutes to casually stroll by the conference room.
Clear.
I check the cubicles for hidden coworkers.
Clear.
The kitchen.
Clear.
HR’s floor.
Dark, empty, and thankfully, clear.
I’m reminded of the early company days with Arthur, when we would stay up late, burning the midnight oil, tossing ideas back and forth across a conference table while our coffee went cold. But mostly, we dreamed about the future. Making a big name in the world. Building something that mattered. Back then, it felt like anything was possible.
Now, I’m afraid.
I’m frightened that Anatolia is the only spark left in my life. The only person who pushes me to wake up in the morning and face the music.
And the worst part?
I’m afraid of losing her.
That’s what scares me most of all.
~
By five o’clock, I’ve checked the cubicles, boardrooms, kitchen, and random hallways for evening stragglers. There is little to no risk of us being found this late on a Friday evening.
Little to no risk, ss if that makes this less dangerous.
I return to my office and shut the door behind me. I don’t lock it. I just let the handle rest where it falls. Anatolia will understand what it means.
She can leave whenever she wants.
A few minutes later, she knocks.
“Come in.”
She lets herself in, and without turning around, presses the door closed behind her. Her hand lingers on the knob for half a second, like maybe she is still deciding if she should be here at all.
I gesture for her to take a seat in one of the two conversation chairs. Earlier, I prepared a carafe of water on the coffee table, but now it feels a bit too formal. Like I’m conducting a quarterly review instead of listening to whatever private thing brought her to my office.
Anatolia and I know each other. We’ve laughed at each other’s humor. Cracked jokes when we thought no one else was listening. Shared looks across meeting rooms when Tim said something that made absolutely no sense.
Should we be friends by this point?
More than friends?
I feel like I don’t have any moisture left in my mouth. My knee is bouncing. I can’t get a grasp on reality.
Anatolia gently takes a seat in the opposite chair, and when she crosses her legs, her sheer tights catch the light from a nearby lamp. For a moment, her warm taupe skin peeks through the skintight material, revealing more of her curvy, shapely legs than I thought possible in office lighting.
My anxious mind quiets.
She’s watching me.
I don’t turn away from her.
I take too much care running my eyes down her beautiful body. Respectfully viewing but not touching. Her full hips. Lean calves. Soft, high arches.
Anatolia responds to me.
Painstakingly slowly, she arches her foot, allowing her patent heel to fall, gently hanging from ruby-red polish. She moves her toes, pumping the heel forward and back.
My mind goes somewhere where it has no business going. I imagine taking off that heel. Making her foot bare. Pressing my mouth to the soft skin above her ankle, then higher, and higher, until she is squirming in that chair and saying my name like she already knows how it feels.
This is all too much.
I turn away, heat flushing my cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I hastily explain, running a hand through my dark brown hair. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Can we please restart? You shouldn’t be catching your boss—me—looking at you like that.”
Anatolia brings a hand to her chest and fakes a gasp, fainting a bit while using her other hand as a fan.
Catching me completely off guard, I laugh.
Then I quickly recovered, giving her a funny smile. “I’m glad we can laugh about this. But seriously, I’m sorry. I’m here to listen to you. You have my full attention.”
With that, I lean back in my chair and clasp my hands together, like what I imagine a professor looks like in a lecture hall.
Professional.
Steady.
Not at all imagining my mouth on her thigh.
She turns away from me. Hesitating.
Is she nervous? Of course she’s nervous. She approached me. She asked for privacy. She put her reputation on the line before I even knew what she wanted.
“Hey,” I say, softer this time. “It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay. This conversation stays between the two of us, I promise. Nothing will leave this room unless you want it to.”
She cracks a small smile. “Do you swear?”
“On Gilbert’s soul.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Gilbert?”
“My cat.”
“A cat?” She smiles a little wider. “I didn’t take you for a cat kind of guy. But then again, we’ve never really talked about personal matters. Not really.”
A few of her curls fall, framing her high cheekbones and heart-shaped face.
It’s not that I haven’t wanted to talk to her about personal things. I just never came around to doing it. I hope that doesn’t make me a coward. I’m just shy, I guess. More introverted than people expect. I never know when it’s a good time to share parts of my life.
“His name is Gilbert,” I say. “He loves those crunchy soft treats. The popular ones with the funny cat pictures on the box.”
“Tell me more about him,” Anatolia says.
“Well, for starters, he’s treat-motivated to a criminal degree. Absolutely obsessed.” I pause, debating if I should share more, then do it anyway. “About five years ago, my ex-girlfriend had just moved out. She drove off in a gust of smoke, giving me the middle finger from the driver’s side window, and, I should have been properly sad, but instead I got this nagging feeling telling me I needed to take a walk.”
Anatolia leans in a little.
“No less than five minutes later, I heard this heartbreaking meow. He was the size of my hand and furious at the world for existing.”
Anatolia’s expression softens.
“It wasn’t right,” I say. “So, of course, I took him home. We’ve been inseparable ever since.”
“You’re a good person, Mr. Rhodes. I could tell from the minute we met.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, then looks away, drowning part of her face in shadow. “Maybe I could meet Gilbert someday? And we can get coffee together?”
She pauses too quickly.
“Not like a date.”
“Sure.”
Anatolia blinks.
“But on one condition.”
Her fingers still.
“You have to call me Cassian. Not Mr. Rhodes. It makes me feel stuffy.”
She uncrosses her legs and nervously threads her fingers together. “I’ve made a mess of things already. This isn’t how I planned for this to go.”
Her fingers stop moving. She looks up at me.
Then, in a hushed whisper, she says, “Cassian?”
I swallow.
“Yes?”
“I’d like you to be my date to my ex’s funeral next Sunday.”
The room goes still.
“But I have a problem,” she says. “The kind I can’t fix by myself.”
She buries her face in her hands.
“What kind of problem?” I softly probe.
She looks up, and tears are already streaming down her cheeks.
“I’m so nervous, Cassian. I feel like my heart is about to explode. I—I don’t even know how to say it.”
“Take your time.”
She tries to breathe. It catches in her throat.
“My ex and I ended years ago. The relationship, I mean. Not his life. He died last month.”
I don’t move.
“His father sits on our board of directors.”
My stomach drops.
“Which board member?” I ask, even though I already know I’m not going to like the answer.
“Richard Veyron.”
Veyron Media.
Our largest account. Our most powerful client relationship. The account Tim Abbot would crawl over broken glass to protect.
“And he thinks it’s my fault his son is dead,” she whispers.
Every responsible thought in me sharpens.
“Why would he think that?”
“Because his son called me the night he died.” Her voice breaks. “And I didn’t answer.”
The room goes quiet.
“I hadn’t spoken to him in almost two years,” she says. “I thought answering would make things worse. I thought I was doing the right thing by not opening that door again. But now his family keeps sending lawyers to my apartment. There are cars outside my building. They keep saying they only want to talk, but it doesn’t feel like talking. It feels like punishment.”
“Anatolia.”
“I need to go to the funeral because if I don’t, they’ll use that too. They’ll say I’m cruel. Guilty. Hiding. But if I go alone, they’ll corner me.”
Her bottom lip trembles.
“I need someone with me who they can’t bully. Someone they have to behave in front of.”
Me.
She means me.
A VP from the agency walking into the funeral of a Veyron board member’s son with his executive assistant on his arm.
Tim would call it reckless.
HR would call it inappropriate.
The board would call it scandalous.
And Anatolia is sitting across from me with tears on her face, asking me to stand beside her because no one else can.
“I know I shouldn’t ask,” she whispers.
Before I can think, I move.
I cross the space between us, then stop in front of her before I touch her. My hands hover uselessly at my sides because I want to hold her, but wanting is not the same as permission.
“Can I?” I ask quietly.
She looks at me through wet lashes.
Then she nods.
I take her into my arms.
At first, she freezes.
I stop breathing.
Then she folds into my chest, grabbing handfuls of my shirt as if she is scrambling for some surface, like she is drowning and running out of oxygen.
“Cassian,” she sobs. “What do I do?”
Every safe answer leaves me.
I hold her carefully, one hand between her shoulder blades, feeling her shake beneath my palm.
“You don’t go alone,” I say.
She pulls back just enough to look at me.
My career, my reputation, my clean controlled life—all of it waits on the other side of this decision.
I should say no.
Instead, I ask, “What time do you need me?”
© 2026 Ozanna Wilder. All rights reserved. Fiction intended for adults 18+.