Chapter 7 Orla
ORLA
I've never been this mortified. Or this satisfied. The two sensations war inside me while I'm pressed against Thraka's chest, trying to regulate my breathing, trying to pretend my legs aren't still trembling.
"Hello?" The janitor jiggles the handle again. "Maintenance needs to access the supply closet."
Thraka's hand moves to my mouth, covering it gently. Not silencing me exactly. More like reminding me that breathing too loud right now would be catastrophic.
My professional reputation flashes before my eyes. Orla Peace, Senior Project Manager, found disheveled in a supply closet with the new Conflict Resolution hire. The HR paperwork alone would be nightmarish.
"Must be stuck," the janitor mutters. I hear the jangle of keys, the scrape of metal.
Thraka's other hand tightens on my hip, steadying me. His expression is calm. Completely unbothered by the possibility of discovery. Of course he is. He probably considers getting caught mid-conquest some kind of badge of honor.
The key scrapes into the lock mechanism with a metallic grinding sound that makes every muscle in my body lock up in pure, crystallized panic.
My heart doesn't just beat—it detonates against my ribs with such violence I'm absolutely certain the janitor can hear it through the thin wooden door.
Each thunderous pulse feels loud enough to echo down the entire hallway, a biological drumbeat announcing my presence, my complete and utter unprofessionalism, my catastrophic lapse in judgment.
I stop breathing entirely. My fingers dig into Thraka's shoulders hard enough that my manicured nails probably leave crescent-shaped indents in the fabric of his ill-fitting jacket.
This is it. This is how my career ends—not with a failed project or a miscalculated budget, but caught in flagrante delicto in a supply closet like some reckless intern without a shred of impulse control.
The lock mechanism clicks. Starts to turn with agonizing slowness.
Then a voice from the hallway. "Hey, Rodriguez! We got a spill in the break room. Someone knocked over the entire coffee station."
"Are you serious right now?" The janitor's voice carries clear irritation through the door, and mercifully, the metallic jangling of his keys stops mid-turn. "That's the third damn time this week someone's knocked over that entire station."
"I know, I know. It's a complete disaster in there, coffee's dripping off the counters, pooling on the floor. You're gonna need the industrial mop and probably that absorbent powder stuff too."
Footsteps retreat. Both sets. Fading down the corridor until there's nothing but blessed silence and the hum of the ventilation system.
I sag against Thraka, relief flooding through me so intensely my knees actually buckle.
He catches me easily, tucking me against his chest. "Close."
"Close?" I hiss, finding my voice. "That was a complete disaster narrowly avoided."
"You say disaster. I say excitement." He grins down at me, completely unrepentant. "Your heart is still racing."
"Because I was approximately thirty seconds away from career-ending humiliation and termination," I snap, turning away from the dispenser to glare at him.
"Because you enjoyed it," he counters, stepping closer with that infuriating confidence. "Every second. Every risk. You enjoyed not knowing if we'd be caught. Enjoyed the danger of it."
I hate that he's right. I hate the flush creeping back up my neck, the way my body is already responding to his proximity again despite the close call.
I shove at his chest. Solid as a wall. "Let me down."
He complies, setting me on my feet with surprising gentleness. I immediately feel the loss of his warmth, his support. My legs are still unsteady.
My skirt is wrinkled. My blouse is half-unbuttoned. My carefully styled hair has come loose from its clips.
"I look like I was physically assaulted by a wild animal," I mutter, dabbing ineffectually at the reddened skin.
"Technically speaking," Thraka says, and his grin widens into something absolutely feral, "you were. Just not the way HR would define it."
I grab a paper towel from the shelf, dampening it at the small utility sink in the corner. My reflection in the polished metal paper towel dispenser is appalling. Smudged eyeliner. Kiss-swollen lips. A visible mark on my neck that will definitely show above my collar.
"This is a nightmare."
"This is the most relaxed I've seen you." He buttons his suit jacket, somehow managing to look only slightly rumpled despite what we just did. Unfair. "You should thank me."
"Thank you?" I spin to face him, wielding the damp paper towel like a weapon. "You just compromised my entire professional reputation."
"No one saw," he says, as if that somehow absolves us of this catastrophic lapse in judgment. As if the absence of witnesses makes it acceptable that I just let him bend me over a shelf full of office supplies.
"That's not the point," I snap, scrubbing at my neck harder than necessary, watching in the distorted reflection as the mark only seems to darken with my efforts.
"Then what is the point, Little Manager?" He steps closer, invading my space again. Always invading my space. "That you can't control this? That you wanted it as badly as I did?"
Yes. That's exactly the point. I can't control this, whatever this is. The attraction that makes my professional walls crumble the second he touches me.
I've built my entire career on control. On plans and protocols and predictable outcomes. Thraka is chaos in a poorly fitted suit, and I just let him wreck me in a supply closet.
"We can't do this again." I straighten my collar, trying to cover the mark he left. Impossible. I'll need concealer. Lots of it.
"You said that last time," he points out, his a maddening note of amusement that makes me want to either strangle him or kiss him again. Neither is appropriate right now.
"There was no last time," I insist, dabbing futilely at my neck with the damp paper towel. The mark isn't budging. Of course it isn't. Nothing about this situation is cooperating with my attempts to restore order. "This was the first time. The only time."
"The elevator," he says simply, and the words land like a grenade in my argument.
My cheeks burn. The elevator doesn't count. That was just... tension. Proximity. A momentary lapse in judgment.
This was significantly more than a lapse.
"I'm serious, Thraka. This can't happen again. We work together. There are rules about workplace relationships, fraternization policies, conflict of interest forms—"
"Forms." He says it like it's a foreign word. "You want me to fill out forms to touch you?"
"That's not... that's not how it works."
"Then explain how it works." He crosses his arms, watching me with that infuriating mix of amusement and interest. "Because from where I'm standing, what just happened worked perfectly."
I can't argue with that. My body is still humming with satisfaction, every nerve ending still singing from his touch.
But this is wrong. Reckless. Completely against every principle I've built my life around.
"Just..." I press my fingers to my temples, trying to think through the post-orgasm haze still clouding my judgment. "We need to maintain professional boundaries. Starting now."
"Professional boundaries." He tests the words, tilting his head. "Does that mean no more supply closets?"
"No more supply closets. No more elevators. No more anything that could get us fired or create an HR incident."
He considers this for a long moment, his dark eyes searching my face like he's trying to decode some complicated puzzle. I can see the wheels turning behind that intense gaze, processing my words, weighing them against whatever internal logic he operates by.
Slowly, deliberately, he nods once. "Understood."
Relief washes through me in a wave so powerful my knees almost buckle. My shoulders drop half an inch from where they've been tensed up near my ears. I exhale, long and slow.
"Good." I smooth down my blouse, trying to restore some semblance of professional composure even though we're still in a supply closet and I can still feel the phantom heat of his hands on my skin. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, Little Manager." He moves toward the door, then pauses. Looks back at me with eyes that are far too knowing. "I will respect your professional boundaries. During work hours."
He's gone before I can formulate a response, the door clicking shut behind him with quiet finality.
I stand alone in the supply closet, surrounded by printer paper and cleaning supplies and the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with my perfume, and realize I've just negotiated the worst deal of my career.
The next morning, I arrive at the office forty-five minutes early.
Full armor. Crisp black blazer, white blouse buttoned to the collar, hair scraped back into a bun so tight it gives me a slight headache.
The mark on my neck is buried under three layers of concealer and a careful application of setting powder.
Ice Queen restored.
I will not think about yesterday. I will not think about Thraka's hands or his mouth or the way he looked at me like I was something precious and breakable and his.
Professional boundaries. Starting now.
I've prepared a detailed agenda for today's budget meeting. Color-coded spreadsheets. Projected revenue streams. A comprehensive analysis of quarterly expenditures that should take at least two hours to present.
Numbers are safe. Numbers are controllable. Numbers don't make me forget my own name.
The conference room fills gradually. Janet from Accounting. Steve from Sales, who still looks vaguely traumatized and flinches whenever anyone mentions sandwiches. Chad strutting in like he owns the place, his cologne announcing his arrival thirty seconds before he does.
Then Thraka.