Chapter 15 #2
She gathers herself with visible effort, smoothing her clothes before lifting her hands to her hair, trying to tame the strands I’d pulled loose from their neat twist. Her fingers move carefully, re-securing what she can, then she swipes beneath her eyes, wiping away the faint streaks her mascara left behind.
By the time she reaches the door, her chin is lifted again, composure rebuilt piece by fragile piece.
When she leaves my office, her steps are measured, but not entirely steady. Across the room, Miles’ gaze lingers on her a moment longer than necessary before shifting back to me through the open door. How dare he look at her.
CONSTANCE
I sit at my desk like nothing happened.
That’s the first lie I tell myself.
My fingers move across the keyboard with practiced precision, answering emails, updating schedules, flagging messages that need attention later.
I breathe evenly, trying to keep my shoulders relaxed and my eyes on the screen.
Anyone walking past would see an assistant doing her job, composed and capable, exactly as expected.
Inside, everything feels too loud.
My body still hums with the aftermath, my nerves oversensitive, my skin remembering the weight of his hands, the timbre of his voice when he said things he shouldn’t have known how to say.
Every shift in my chair sends an aching awareness spiraling low in my belly. Every inhale feels too deep, too full.
I focus harder.
Emails. Calendars. Phone calls. Anything that isn’t Morgan Creed and the way he looked at me when he told me to go back to work like nothing had changed.
I almost believe it’s working until I feel it.
His attention.
And then, worse—the slow, warm trickle between my thighs.
His cum, thick and sticky, seeping from my well-fucked pussy, soaking through the ruined thong I hastily pulled back into place.
It drips steadily now, a lewd reminder of how he filled me, claiming me deep inside.
The sensation makes my clit throb anew, a fresh wave of heat flooding my core despite the ache from his rough pounding.
I force my legs together and sit up straighter, trying to look composed, but the movement only makes me more aware of the damp heat between my thighs. The wetness settles beneath me instead, soaking into the fabric at my center, a humiliating reminder of what just happened on that couch.
The scent reaches me a second later—musky, unmistakable—mingling with my own lingering arousal in the stale office air. Panic prickles along my spine. If anyone comes too close, if anyone lingers at my desk for even a second too long, they might notice.
They might know exactly what I let him do to me.
I need to clean up. The bathroom is just down the hall, a quick wipe with tissues, maybe splash water on my face to erase the flush still burning my cheeks.
But I can't. Not yet. If I stand, if I so much as twitch toward the door, he'll see it—the crack in my facade, the way my body betrays me.
He'll know I'm breaking, that his cum leaking from my cunt has me squirming like the needy whore he turned me into.
And I won't give him that satisfaction. Not while he's watching.
So I stay put, thighs pressed tight, forcing my fingers to keep typing.
I draft a response to a client query, my voice steady when I answer the next call, even as another drop escapes.
The discomfort builds, a filthy secret pooling beneath me, but I swallow it down, jaw set.
Pretend the man who just fucked me senseless isn't replaying every moan in his head, waiting for me to falter.
His attention burns hotter, a weight I feel without looking up. But I won't break. Not for him. Not today.
Half an hour later, I need distance from him, or I’m going to unravel completely. When a new hire from the mailroom calls up about a conveyor jam, I volunteer to go down and help before I can talk myself out of it.
But first, the bathroom. I slip into the empty one down the hall, locking the door with a click that echoes too loudly in my ears.
My skirt hikes up as I perch on the toilet, thighs parting with a sticky pull.
The mess he's left floods out. Wiping isn't enough; I grab handfuls of toilet paper, dabbing at my soaked folds, feeling the rough texture drag over sensitive skin still raw from his cock stretching me wide.
The thong is a lost cause, ruined and clinging damply, so I peel it off with a quiet grimace.
I grab a handful of paper towels and roll the thin scrap of fabric inside them, twisting the bundle tight before dropping it into the trash.
Only then do I rinse my hands, turning on the tap and letting the cool water run over my fingers.
I splash a little onto my inner thighs, trying to wash away the drying trails, but the scent still lingers faintly on my skin—salty, a ghost of what just happened that makes my core tighten with a hollow, lingering ache.
A quick glance in the mirror shows my cheeks still flushed, lips bitten raw, but I smooth my hair a little more and straighten my blouse.
Finally, I head to the mailroom. It smells like paper dust and warm machinery, familiar and grounding. I roll up my sleeves and get to work, showing the new guy how to reset the belt, how to clear the jam without making it worse.
“Thanks,” he says, relief clear on his face. “I thought I broke it.”
“You didn’t,” I tell him with a smile. “It happens.”
For a few minutes, I’m just Constance again. Someone who knows what she’s doing without anyone watching her too closely.
When I check the time, I realize I forgot my lunch.
The thought of sitting at my desk right now feels unbearable, so I grab my bag and step out to pick something up. There are errands to run, anyway. Morgan left a note earlier about dry cleaning and packages waiting downstairs.
I walk a few blocks to a café, order something simple, and sit alone at a small table by the window. The food tastes fine, but I barely register it. My mind keeps circling back to his words, to the way work and intimacy are starting to blur together in ways I never intended.
I tell myself I still have control, that I can draw a line if I need to.
But the truth taunts me. The line is already fading, and I don’t know if he wants there to be one at all.