⚠️ Content Warning: Sexually Explicit
The next day, Nicole’s watch read 8:10 when she hurried toward the front entrance, coffee sloshing in her travel mug. She swiped her badge.
Red.
She frowned and swiped again.
Red.
The door stayed locked.
She tugged the handle anyway.
Nothing.
Her pulse picked up. It wasn’t like her to miss her alarm, yet this morning she’d woken slowly, body heavy, mouth parched, the air in her room thick against her lungs. Even sitting up had taken effort.
Nicole looked around. The only people outside of Quad 2 were the women who usually jogged around at this time. She thought briefly of flagging one down. She tried once more, pressing the card flatter this time.
Red.
“Come on,” she muttered. “Fuck.”
She stepped aside, pulling out her phone. Peter’s name hovered at the top of her new contacts. She sent a quick message.
Footsteps approached behind her.
“Trouble?”
She turned.
Adrian.
“It’s not scanning.”
He didn’t look surprised. He stepped forward. His badge flashed.
Green.
The door unlocked with a soft click.
“Stay with me,” he said lightly, holding it open.
She stepped inside beside him, heat rising to her face.
“They deactivate them sometimes,” he added as they walked. “Glitches. Or updates. Or whatever they call it.”
“Why wouldn’t they tell me?”
He glanced at her. “They don’t always. Most of the time, you find out like this.”
They stopped near the front desk.
“I know where you can get a temporary badge,” he said. “Security desk on the mezzanine. It helps to have a backup, just in case. Don’t wait outside.”
The way he said it — don’t wait outside — felt less like advice and more like directions.
“Thanks,” she said.
He studied her face for a second, then smiled.
“I’m grabbing coffee in a bit,” he added. “You want something?”
She should have said no. She was already behind. She still had a dashboard to learn that she barely understood.
“Yeah,” she said. “Sure.”
“Lincoln’s. What do you drink?”
She told him.
He nodded, like he was filing it away.
As he walked off, she realized something had shifted. He hadn’t teased her for being late. Hadn’t made a joke about the badge. He’d just solved it, quickly and quietly.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
She looked down.
No message from Peter.
She slid the phone back into her bag and headed toward the elevators, aware of the way warmth lingered at her side where Adrian had been.
He paid attention. He anticipated problems. He stepped in without hesitation.
She told herself that mattered.
And for the first time, she let herself think it might be easier to stop resisting him.
That afternoon stretched longer than usual.
Adrian stopped by midmorning with her coffee exactly how she’d ordered it.
Their fingers brushed when she took it.
At lunch, he waited outside for her.
They walked shoulder to shoulder, their arms grazing occasionally. Neither of them moved away.
By 5:45, the building had thinned out. The lobby lights dimmed to a low level, shifting from their daytime brightness to a muted glow.
Nicole packed up when he rounded the corner.
“You’re still here.”
She turned. “Trying to get ahead.”
He stepped closer, the sleeves of his shirt rolled just enough to reveal the strong line of his forearms.
“Or trying to catch up?” he asked lightly.
She didn’t answer.
He leaned one hand against the edge of her desk.
“Give yourself a break.”
The building felt different after five. The machinery hum was louder, the space between her desk and his office shorter.
She shut her laptop.
They walked out together.
Outside, the sky had changed to deep indigo, the kind of shade that comes just before nightfall. The lot was mostly empty now, save for their cars.
She stopped beside hers.
He stood there close enough for her to feel the warmth coming off him in the cooling air.
“You looked nervous this morning,” he said quietly.
“I was late.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
The space between them thinned on its own.
His hand came to her waist slowly, pulling her closer.
His mouth was warmer than the evening air, and it fit against hers with a rightness that made her knees feel loose. The kiss deepened by increments like a slow-turning wheel. A soft sound rose from her throat, a tiny surrendering sigh that vibrated from her throat into his.
They parted slowly. Their foreheads rested together. Nicole’s eyes remained closed. She could feel the impression of his lips on hers.
When she opened her eyes, his were so close. Deep brown. Curiosity moved low in her stomach, tired of waiting.
His thumb stroked her cheek.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
Tomorrow.
As she got into her car and drove off, her lips still tingled. She could still feel the ghost of his hands on her skin all the way home.
The next morning, the calendar notification popped up on Nicole’s screen.
The sterile block of text sent a jolt through her entire body.
Meeting: 5:45 PM. Wellness Consultation Room B7. A. Vega.
Her mouth went dry. Officially, the “wellness consultation room” was just another branded perk. A soundproof room where employees could meet with health advisors for “optimization.” Supplement stacks. Hormone panels. Brain formulas. Sleep recalibration.
But unofficially…
Adrian’s voice carried across the open office from a conference room.
It felt like a live wire against her skin.
Every time he passed her desk, she felt it before she looked up.
At 5:40, she stood outside B7. The only sound in the hall was the muffled noise of the building’s HVAC. She knocked once, softly.
“Come in.”
His voice was a low command through the door.
She stepped inside.
“Keep the lights off.”
A narrow treatment table, covered in fresh white linens, was next to two padded chairs. Bloomwell bottles, labels out, lined the shelf over it. A fake philodendron sat in the corner.
Adrian stood by the window, the late afternoon light cutting across his silhouette in a faint glow. His sleeves sat higher than usual, his hair faintly disturbed. The light cut along his shoulders and jaw, catching in his dark eyes as he turned toward her.
Heat shot up her spine.
The scent of his cologne reached her, citrus sharpened by something metallic. The small room seemed to contract around it.
“I’m surprised you came,” he said.
“You booked it,” she replied. “I assumed it was important.”
He took a single step toward her, closing the short distance.
“It is.”
He lifted one hand, fingertips grazing the side of her throat, then sliding up to cup the back of her neck. The touch was firm enough to steady her, but light enough to remind her she could pull away if she wanted. She didn’t.
“Take off your clothes.”
The words landed matter-of-fact, like he was giving directions to the printer. The instruction settled low in her pelvis.
Nicole’s fingers, clumsy with urgency, went to the side zipper of her dress. The metallic rasp was loud in the quiet room. She pushed the straps from her shoulders, letting the plum fabric slither down her body to pool at her feet. She stood in just her ivory lace bra and matching panties, the cool air creating goosebumps on her skin. Her nipples tightened into aching points in the sheer cups.
He reached out, the pad of his thumb tracing the lace over the swell of one breast.
“All of it.”
Her fingers trembled slightly as they reached behind her back, searching for the small clasp of her bra. The room was so quiet she could hear her own breathing in it.
The delicate garment joined her dress on the floor.
He tugged her panties off himself, not waiting. The whisper of silk fell down her thighs, leaving a slow drag of wet with it.
He didn’t undress slowly. He unbuttoned his shirt in quick movements, shrugging it off to reveal a torso of all defined muscle and smooth, tawny skin. His belt buckle clinked, the sound final. He shoved his pants and briefs down just enough. His cock sprang free, thick, hard, and already glistening at the tip. The sight made something clench low in her belly.
He kissed her, slowly at first, then deeper when her lips parted. Stubble rubbed against her chin. Coffee, mint, and that faint metallic undertone lingered on his breath.
He backed her toward the treatment table. The padded edge met the backs of her thighs. He turned her with a gentle but insistent pressure on her hips.
“Bend over,” he murmured against her ear.
Her chest lowered until her breasts brushed the cool fabric. Her back arched instinctively.
The sound of a foil packet tearing open was unmistakable. He didn’t rush it. She listened to the crinkle, the faint stretch of latex, the small wet sound as he rolled it down his length. Her pulse beat hard in her throat.
One hand splayed possessively on the small of her back, holding her in place. The other she felt, not saw—a blunt, hot pressure nudging against her wet opening.
He entered her in one smooth stroke.
A choked cry tore from her lips and onto the treatment linens. He held there for a moment, both of them trembling. She felt the muscles in his thighs pressing against the backs of hers, the harsh gust of his breath against her shoulder.
“Fuck, Nicole,” he moaned, his voice strained.
Then he moved.
The table creaked softly, rocking with their motion. The air filled with the raw, wet sound, the rhythmic slap of skin on skin. His fist tightened in her hair. He tugged just enough to keep her arched, throat exposed.
Her fingers curled into the linen.
His palm smoothed over the curve of her ass once, almost gently, then lifted and came down in a single, sharp slap. She gasped, pushed back harder onto him in reflex.
Pleasure began to build low in her belly, winding tighter with every deep push. He leaned over her, his chest hot against her back, his mouth finding her neck. He didn’t kiss, he bit—a hard, claiming pressure that made her cry out again.
She could feel the focused intensity in him, the way he used her body for his own gratification, and the shocking truth was, it thrilled her. The coil snapped.
She clamped around him in frantic, fluttering pulses. A high, thin sound escaped her lips, the only noise she could manage as the world dissolved into pure, white sensation.
He groaned. His fingers dug into her hip, holding her steady as he drove into her with a final, shuddering intensity. Finishing.
His grip in her hair loosened, fingers sliding free to stroke down the back of her neck instead.
He eased out with careful slowness. The sudden emptiness made her inner muscles flutter weakly.
She felt his hands on her waist, guiding her upright.
The room tilted for a second; her legs felt far away, unreliable, as though they belonged to someone else. She leaned back on him long enough for the dizziness to pass, for the faint tremor in her legs to quiet.
She looked at the rumpled linen, the faint damp spot where her palms had pressed, where her waist had met the table.
“Clean up,” he said, nodding toward the stack of sanitizing wipes on the counter.
She stepped into her panties, then her bra, fabric rubbing against skin that felt too sensitive. Behind her, she heard the faint thud of the condom landing in the waste bin.
She reached for the stack of sanitizing wipes.
When she turned, he was already dressed, his shirt tucked neatly, and his hair smoothed back into place. Only the slight flush on his cheekbones betrayed anything at all.
He stepped close again. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, a light pass that made her lips part on instinct.
“Six tomorrow?” he asked, eyes steady on hers.
She met his gaze.
“Maybe,” she said.
He reached past her to unlock the door and held it open.
She stepped into the hallway first.
Her heels clicked softly with each step away from B7, the faint throb between her legs, and the persistent warmth on her skin following her on her long drive home.