Chapter 12 What the hell is she wearing?
~Hermes~
The door clicks open, and a “Fuck” escapes my lips.
"Fuck this," I mutter again, yanking off my tie like it offended me.
What kind of hospital defines progress as a stroke patient slightly lifting his damn hand?
For God’s sake — I dropped everything, raced down there like a fool when they called saying “he’s finally improving.”
Only to see that?
That was progress?
Progress is when he opens his fucking mouth and tells me who framed him.
Not a twitch or a fucking inch of movement can help right now.
Fuck.
Emotions — a whole fucking maelstrom of them — are swirling in my head, chewing through my brain like acid.
Shit. I can’t even untangle them without a goddamn drink.
I storm to my private bar, pour myself a full glass of vodka, and down it in one gulp. It burns, but I get no relief.
"What the fuck is wrong with me?"
Am I angry at my father’s lack of progress? Or the fact that I spent the whole day watching some employee make eyes at my secretary?
Secretary. My secretary. That sounded right, but what happened to just a body, just a release?
This obsession — it’s eating me alive. I should’ve listened to Alan. I should’ve had her transferred the second she walked into my office.
But I didn’t. And now I can’t fucking think straight unless I see her. I keep imagining her in her absence.
Maybe if I sleep with her again, it’ll stop. Maybe I’ll reset.
But I can’t. She’s my goddamn secretary. Workplace ethics forbids it and there are consequences.
But her perfume—
Fuck.
Now I sound like a pervert. Maybe that’s exactly what I am.
A fucking pervert for her, for June.
I should schedule another session but before that – I need to take care of these thoughts.
I sit back on my bar stool, jaw locked, one hand already dragging through my hair like I’m trying to shake something off.
It should be easy. I've done this a thousand times.
Focus, unzip, get it out, breathe, and stroke while thinking of her.
But when I close my eyes, it isn’t her moaning beneath me that I see.
It’s her at that damn restaurant — frozen in place, holding the menu like it’s a bomb about to detonate.
Then it’s her again, panicked and flushed outside the wrong conference room, that ridiculous blue dress bunching as she spun around in confusion.
Then it’s her smiling — actually smiling — like she knew the answer to my question, like she belonged in that boardroom.
Then back to the restaurant. The subtle smile on her lips as she chewed too slowly, too carefully, trying to mimic how I held my fork.
No breathy moans, no parted lips, and no goddamn seduction.
Just… her.
Fuck.
I slow down, my hand faltering.
That’s not supposed to be the image. That’s not how this goes.
I try again.
But this time, her face when he handed her the coffee she was meant to bring me. That one makes my jaw clench.
And then her—trying to walk beside me. Not behind as professionals do. Like we were equals, and she had the right to share my space.
I go completely still.
What the hell?
This was supposed to be about her mouth. Her thighs. Her voice when she moaned for me. Not… her grinning like an idiot in a chair too big for her.
I drag in a breath and curse under it.
It’s the dress. That blue thing she wore. Modest as hell but too soft, too clingy. I blame that.
She looked like a damn wrapped gift. All curves and innocence and oblivious trouble.
I groan and pull my hand away, already frustrated. This isn’t going to work.
I get up, walk across the room, and flick on the massive flatscreen mounted across from my bed. The sound hits fast —
"Nnh..."
schlk
"Hnnf... ah— mmm, yes, baby"
thrust schlk
Slap
"Oh yes, that's the spot."
thrust
“Haa... haa...” (heavy panting)
fast paced rhythmic thrust
staggered breathing)
increase pacing slapping of skin
“Hnnf... ah— fucking hell” (choked moan)
changing angle without removal
“Huhh... hhhah...” (gasping into panting)
All filtered through the high-end speakers like some kind of performance art. No story, or slow burn. Just sweat and camera angles, the type that promise release without connection.
I sit back down, eyes fixated. This should help.
I lean back, loosen my jaw, settle into the comfort of detachment.
And then—
Bzzzzt.
My phone lights up beside me.
I sigh, already tempted to ignore it, but one glance at the screen pulls me back to earth.
> From: Office Dispatch
Subject: DOCUMENT DELIVERY
“The sealed archive batch you requested from the legal department just arrived. Documents secured. Timestamp: 20:56.”
Shit! Of course they’d show up early. Tonight, of all nights.
I scrub a hand down my face, grab a black shirt, and stand.
At least it's something I can control.
I throw the remote aside after muting the TV, which is glowing uselessly, and get up.
If I can’t get her out of my head, I’ll drown her out with something that matters.
Work.
By the time I get to the office, it's just after 10PM. The building’s empty, dark, quiet, and good.
Or so I think.
Then I see it — the package.
A whole goddamn shipment of files dumped right in front of my office door like someone was trying to bury me alive in paperwork.
What the actual fuck?
I tear the tape open. It’s everything I requested, sure — but three times the size I expected. Classified reports, legal documents, sealed internal memos. I can’t even lift the whole stack in one go.
Fuck me.
I can’t trust anyone with this.
Not logistics, or admin. Hell not even Paul.
This isn’t just sensitive — it’s potential evidence. If I let the wrong eyes skim even one page, the entire plan could implode.
I pace, fingers twitching, brain thinking.
Jake?
No, he’s probably buried between some legs right now, won’t pick up.
Gavin? Same thing, and he drinks on Thursdays.
I run a hand down my face.
There’s only one person who’s obsessively detail-oriented, fast as hell, and actually gives a shit about impressing me right now.
God help me.
I unlock my phone. It only rings once.
"To the office. Now." I say into the receiver, then end the call before she can respond.
My finger hovers over the screen. I regret it already.
This won’t help. I won’t focus. She’s a fucking distraction — my biggest one. But she’s my only shot at getting this done before the hour’s up.
I pace. Five minutes. Ten. I think I hear the elevator. Then silence.
Then—
Click.
The door opens, and there she is.
Except—
What the fuck is she wearing?
And why the hell does it smell like tequila instead of her perfume?