Epilogue Daisy #2
Adam draws me back to him. His hands find my face, tilting it up, and then he's kissing me: slow at first, then deeper, like he's been waiting all day between quarterly projections for exactly this.
"I missed you," he murmurs against my lips.
"You saw me this morning."
"I missed you anyway."
I grab his tie, pulling him closer. "Show me."
His smile is pure trouble. "Lock check?"
"I locked it."
"Intercom?" He reaches past me without looking and yanks the receiver off the cradle so no ambitious receptionist can buzz through mid-sentence.
The dial tone protests; he drops it in a drawer.
"City lights?" He walks me backward until my hips hit the edge of his desk, the skyline glittering behind him like paid audience. "Coat?"
I let my coat fall open. Underneath I'm wearing a dress that zips from throat to thigh and very little else, a fact he discovers when his palm slides up my leg and meets bare skin instead of lace.
"Daisy." His voice drops an octave. "You came to Meridian headquarters with nothing under this dress?"
"I came to see my husband." I hop onto the desk blotter, knocking a stack of projections askew. "The chairman can reschedule his paperwork. The wife cannot reschedule being empty."
"Christ." He steps between my knees, tie still in my fist, and kisses me like the building belongs to us: which, tonight, it does. "Playful power looks devastating on you. Tell me what you want. The desk, or that window. I'm taking dictation."
"You, on the desk, filthy. Then dinner on the floor like people who remember how to be ridiculous."
"Motion passed unanimously."
He unzips the dress in one long wicked pull; it falls open like a secret.
The city lights stripe my bare breasts and belly (softer now, post-Annie, ours) and he groans like the view is a bonus dividend.
His mouth finds my nipple while his fingers find me already wet; I tip my head back and laugh at the ceiling tiles.
"Quiet or loud?" he asks against my skin.
"Loud enough for glass. Soft enough for the cleaning staff at nine."
"Precision kink. I love you."
"Less sentiment. More tongue."
He sinks to his knees on the office carpet, suit trousers and all, and hooks my knees over his shoulders.
He goes at me with the same focus he used to bring to dismantling hostile acquisitions: methodical and thorough.
The first pass of his tongue is slow and deliberate, and I make a sound that has no business in a boardroom.
"There she is," he murmurs against me, and the vibration of his voice goes straight down my spine. He settles in. Two fingers press deep and curl while his tongue works my clit in slow, patient circles, and my palms skid across the blotter for a grip that isn't coming.
"Quorum reached," he says into my cunt, unhurried, savoring every second. "Motion to come. All opposed can choke." He sucks, exactly there, and my laugh cracks into a moan on the way out.
I look down, and the sight of him undoes me: my chairman husband on his knees in a five-thousand-dollar suit, sleeves shoved up his tattooed forearms, wholly focused on the single task of wrecking me against his own desk.
Some traitor part of me shouldn't find the power reversal this hot.
I find it anyway, and my thighs start to shake around his ears.
"Adam." It comes out wrecked. He hums approval and doesn't let up, chasing me through it, fingers steady and tongue merciless, until the pressure folds in on itself and breaks.
When I come it's with my heels locked at his back and his tie wound around my fist, my other hand fisted in his hair, my forehead tipping forward as I breathe his name against his hair.
He stands, dragging his thumb across his wet lower lip, looking absurdly pleased with himself. I yank his belt open, shove trousers and briefs down, and wrap my legs around him.
"In," I order.
"Yes, Mrs. Smith." He notches against me, then pauses. "Condom. Drawer—"
"IUD remembers its job. In."
He sinks into me in one long slide that makes us both swear at the glittering windows.
The desk creaks. A pen rolls off and clicks on the floor.
He fucks me in deep, playful strokes, one hand braced beside my hip, the other yanking the intercom drawer shut again when it rattles open from the rhythm.
"Desk goddess," he pants. "On my desk. Coat open. Taking your husband's cock where he signs budget approvals. If the vice presidents knew—"
"They'd be jealous." I pull him closer by the tie. "Harder. Make the skyline jealous too."
He hardens the pace, desk edge kissing the backs of my thighs, mouth at my ear pouring playful filth: how I haunted him through every slide deck today, how he's going to come so deep I'll feel him during dinner and pretend I'm thinking about pasta.
He eases back and turns me carefully, palms guiding my hips, until I'm bent forward over the blotter with my coat still half-on and cool leather under my cheek.
He checks in twice before he re-enters from behind, then fucks me in long rolling strokes that make the intercom drawer rattle in its track.
"Too much?" he asks.
"Perfect amount of too much." I reach back and find his hand, lace our fingers on my hip. "Yank the tie. Remind me who locked the door."
He wraps the tie loosely around my wrist (not binding, just looping, a playful claim) and uses it as a soft tether while he thrusts.
The power dynamic is a joke we both enjoy: chairman and wife, desk and coat, city as witness.
When I push back onto him he swears and drops the playful act for ten raw seconds of need before catching himself and kissing my spine in apology and thanks.
"Come like you own the floor," he orders, voice ruined. "Because you do. You own me. You own this room. You get every Tuesday dinner for the rest of my life."
"Adam—"
"Right here. Come on the blotter. Ruin a spreadsheet. Be my favorite liability."
I come with a sharp cry as he folds close over me; he follows seconds later, buried deep, his cheek against mine, laughing breathlessly through the pulses like joy is a quarterly surprise.
We stay joined while the city keeps glittering, his tie a wreck, my dress a rumor, the locked door a promise kept.
"Worth locking the door," he murmurs.
"Tyrant."
He eases away and drapes my coat around me, then helps me turn to face him.
"Your tyrant." He kisses my forehead. "Lock still good?"
Now, post-desk, post-tie-loop, post-skyline, he retrieves the whiskey tumbler, takes a swallow, and kisses the burn into my mouth while we catch our breath against the cool glass.
My coat hangs open. His tie is a lost cause.
We take our time, sharing the glass and letting the room grow quiet around us.
"Again?" he offers, hopeful.
"Chair first. Then the floor." I poke his chest. "Pace yourself, chairman. We've got time before dinner."
"There's a schedule I can follow." He grins.
We do make it to the chair: his big leather one, the one that used to look like a throne and now looks like a toy when I straddle him in my open coat and take him again, slower, laughter between kisses.
He lets me set the pace. He lets me tug his ruined tie like a leash.
He lets me own the room the way I own Tuesdays and livestreams and the terms of my own contracts.
"Office hours," I announce, sinking down.
"Extended indefinitely." His hands cup my ass under the coat. "God, Daisy. A year of this and I still can't believe I get to keep you. Keep this. Keep coming back to a locked door and a wife who weaponizes outerwear."
"Believe it." I ride him until his head thumps the chair and his vocabulary dissolves into yeses. When we finish this time it's softer, almost lazy, a coda instead of a symphony, and he holds me afterward with my coat draped over both of us like a shared secret.
"Dinner's here," he murmurs when his phone buzzes. "Stay comfortable. I'll get it."
"Pervert."
"Professional pervert." He kisses my nose. "Your professional pervert. Rule one adjacent: show up with dinner and an unlocked zipper."
He gives me one last kiss, then straightens his clothes before opening the door for the tray the executive kitchen sends up on Tuesdays. I pull the coat securely around me. When he returns with the tray, he locks up again and sets it beside the desk.
"Ambitious agenda."
"I'm a chairman." His hand slides under wool, finds me soft and interested. "Also a husband who locked a door. Eat. Then sit on my lap and remind me what offices are for."
"Offices are for spreadsheets."
"Offices are for you." He lifts the cloth off the tray and steals a kiss while I inspect the plates.