Chapter 14 Temptation
~Hermes ~
The door opens, and I lose every coherent thought in my head.
What the fuck is she wearing?
It sticks to her like it was sewn on. The neckline's loose, draped low — too low — and the straps are so thin they look like they’d snap if someone breathed on her too hard. The hem barely makes it to mid-thigh. I can see the outline of her legs, her hips, the soft pull of fabric over her waist.
I stare, and I can’t stop.
Because it's that exact dress.
I didn’t really see it that night — not properly. I was only interested in getting her legs apart.
But now? Now I see every inch of it.
She’s not wearing her jacket. Not holding anything. Just that dress, like she stepped out of someone else’s night and into my office.
And the smell, not her usual scent. It's tequila, lime, and club air. I hate it.
Not because it’s strong — because it means she was somewhere, with someone, with this same dress, doing God knows what.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
This was a mistake. Calling her was a fucking mistake.
"I’m sorry, sir. I was at the club when you called and I thought it was urgent so I didn’t have time to change, and I left my leather jacket in the cab that brought me here in a rush. I’m so sorry."
I hear her talking, but I don't absorb a fucking word.
I don’t want to.
Because I’m busy practicing self-restraint.
Real restraint — the one that keeps me from lifting her onto her desk and recreating that night until we both forget our own names, because this time we both know our names.
She points at the door nervously, "I can go back, if you—"
"You don’t need to apologize."
I cut her off, without looking at her.
That’s step one: Don’t look at the temptation.
I stride toward the stack of files.
Step two: Occupy yourself, and focus on the actual reason you called her.
But the thoughts won’t die down. And my fucking cock won’t stop twitching.
"I called you when you were out having fun. That’s on me. Not you."
I say it, and I mean it.
This is my fault, and now I have to survive for it.
But why the fuck did she come in that dress?
That exact pink clingy dress?
Was— was she trying to test me?
Unlock the memory of that night? See if I react?
That has to be it. A trap. Well, fine, I’ve walked through worse fires. I’ll pass this one, too.
"Alright." It slips out loud.
Fuck.
She must think I’m talking to myself.
I need to say something.
"These files — this is why I called you. I need help sorting them out." I say it flatly, expecting a response. A complaint or something.
But she says nothing.
I glance up. Her arms are wrapped around herself, eyes on the floor.
What’s she thinking?
"You’re cold," I mutter — because my eyes can’t seem to stop tracing her.
And there it is: goosebumps on her arms.
She is cold.
Serves her right for showing up like that without a jacket.
She glances up, and I drop my gaze instantly.
She can’t catch me staring. That would be game over.
Then I remember — my coat. My final move, and last defense.
If I cover the temptation, maybe I won’t fucking lose my mind.
"Go to the cabinet over there," I say, nodding behind my desk. "I think I left my coat in it. Wear it. Then come sort these files."
"Thank you, sir." I hear her soft voice, but I don’t respond.
Instead, I dig into the files like they’re life support.
If she’s covered… Maybe... Just maybe I’ll be less insane.
After two full minutes of telling my cock to calm the fuck down, I finally turn to look at her.
And immediately, I sniff a laugh.
The coat’s practically wearing her, not the other way around. She looks so small and cu—
Fuck. I hope I’m not smiling.
I need to wipe that off fast. Be serious. Be the mean boss.
"Roll up the sleeves. You’ll need your hands to sort these files," I say, sharp.
No answer.
She’s just… staring at the marble floor.
"You should roll up the sleeves."
Still nothing.
Now she’s looking at me like I just asked her to strip.
What the hell? Does she not understand?
"Roll up the sleeves. You’ll need your hands," I repeat, firmer this time, and impatient.
She still doesn’t move.
Fuck it.
I walk over. I don’t look at her. I don’t speak. I just reach out and start rolling them up myself.
And for a second, my cock listens. For a second, everything behaves.
But then — Her body sways, then her weight leans into me, and her head lands on my chest.
Fuck.
Is she that drunk? Or is she doing this on purpose?
I'm tempted to ask that, but I am a reasonable boss and so I ask this instead,
"Are you okay?"
The way she lifts her head from my chest, like some ghost awakening mid-dream, makes me flinch.
What the hell—
"I’m so sorry, I drank a few shots of tequila—" she says quickly, and then her hand moves to my chest, like she’s trying to wipe off the invisible mark she left.
I step back before she can touch me again.
"Are you sure you can sort these files?" I ask, voice low. "You seem a little bit tipsy."
Of course she is. She reeked faintly of tequila the moment she walked in.
"No," she says — to herself, I think.
Then louder:
"No, sir. I’m not drunk. Look."
She flaps her hands and — God help me — starts to jump.
I have to cover my mouth to suppress the laughter.
What the actual fuck. This girl will be the death of me.
"Sir, how do you want me to sort them? By date? Color? Uhm…"
She’s trying to act composed, dragging her hair into a makeshift ponytail — exposing that stupidly sexy neck — and I feel two things at once:
Amused. And aroused.
Although I do have to take care of the second feeling.
"Alright. Sort them by date. It’s at the edge of each document," I instruct, turning toward the bathroom. I need to fix my shit.
“Listen to me, you dumbass,” I hiss under my breath, glaring at my slacks. "She's all covered now. She looks like a damn burrito in my coat. We’ve got more important things to do, so relax, and maybe I won’t throw myself off this building tonight."
It takes a minute — but he listens.
Thank fuck.
I splash water on my face, take a deep breath, fix my expression.
I’m calm. I’m okay. We’re back to normal.
I step out, calm — or so I think — and spot her at my desk, flipping through a file with all the focus in the world.
She doesn’t even notice I’m out of the bathroom. That’s how deep she is in it.
Curious, I walk quietly up behind her.
"What are you read—"
– Slam.
She steps backward. Her body hits mine, direct hit. Ass to groin.
And as if the universe wants me punished—
Blackout. The lights go out.
Fuck!