The hum of the air conditioner was the only sound in the dimly lit office. It was far too late for anyone and too late for the most devoted employee to still be working but Emma wasn't here for overtime. Not exactly. She had her laptop open, a stack of papers neatly piled to her right, and a glass of red wine that absolutely didn't belong in the building perched beside her keyboard.
Her heels had been kicked off hours ago, and her blouse once buttoned to the collar was now gaping open at the top, just enough to hint at the lace underneath. Her skirt was hitched a few inches higher than office protocol allowed, and her legs, long and smooth, were crossed in a way that felt less professional and more like an invitation.
The screen in front of her wasn't a spreadsheet or a presentation. It was a file directory.
The Fantasy File.
Every real secretary has one or so the whispers among the assistants at Archer & Vale claimed. A private document where you wrote down every forbidden thought you'd never dare voice aloud: scenarios you wanted to play out, power games you wanted to test, people in the office you secretly imagined in ways HR would have a stroke over.
Emma's file was extensive.
It had started innocently, just a line or two typed in a password-protected document after a particularly intense meeting with Mr. Cole her impossibly sharp, and handsome CEO. She'd been taking notes for the board, but all she could think about was the way his sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing those strong forearms as he leaned over the table. One little entry had turned into two. Then three. Then twenty.
And now, she was adding a new one.
Her fingers danced over the keyboard as she typed.
Fantasy 37: He catches me staying late. The office is dark, the city lights behind him. He closes the door, locks it. He asks why I'm still here, but his tone says he already knows. I tell him the truth. That I've been writing about him. Thinking about him. He reads every word aloud, his voice low, rough with something dangerous. And then…
The click of the outer door jolted her. Her heart stuttered. No one should be here. The cleaning crew had left an hour ago.
And then she heard his voice.
"Emma?"
Her pulse leapt. She snapped her laptop halfway closed, heart pounding in her throat. "Mr. Cole" She stood too quickly, nearly toppling her wine glass.
He stepped into the doorway of her office, jacket gone, tie loosened, hair mussed like he'd been running his hands through it. There was a faint shadow along his jaw, darker than it had been this morning, and his eyes God, those eyes took her in from head to toe slowly.
"It's past midnight," he said. "Why are you still here?"
Her mouth went dry. This was exactly how 37 began.
"I… had some things to finish," she managed.
His gaze drifted to the wine glass. "With alcohol?"
Heat crept into her cheeks. "It's… after hours."
His mouth curved slightly half amusement, half something far more dangerous. He closed the door behind him with a quiet click. "Show me what's so important that you're here at this hour."
Her mind scrambled. There was no way absolutely no way she could let him see the Fantasy File. But she couldn't think of a single believable excuse either.
He stepped closer, each slow movement shrinking the space between them. "Emma," he said softly, "look at me."
She did. And the moment their eyes locked, she knew she was caught. He could read her far too easily.
"You're hiding something," he murmured.
Her pulse roared in her ears. "I..."
His gaze flicked to her laptop. "Open it."
Her breath caught. "It's… not work-related."
"Open. It."
Her fingers trembled as she lifted the lid. The document stared back at her bold, shameless, damning. She moved to close it again, but his hand came down on hers, warm, firm, stopping her.
His eyes scanned the page. She watched his expression shift from curiosity to something darker, sharper. His jaw tightened.
"You've been writing about me," he said, voice low.
Her throat constricted. "I.. It's not..."
He turned the laptop so it faced him fully, reading silently. Every line she'd written about how she imagined him every unfiltered desire was laid bare before him.
When he looked up, his eyes were molten. "Stand up."
Her knees felt weak as she obeyed.
He moved around the desk, stopping in front of her. His proximity was electric. "You fantasize about me locking the door," he said, his voice a slow, deliberate echo of her own words. "About me telling you exactly what to do. About me…" His gaze dipped to her mouth. "…making you mine."
Her breath shuddered out of her. "Yes."
His hand slid to her back, pulling her closer until her body brushed against his. "You should know something about me, Emma," he said, his mouth inches from her ear. "I don't like to leave fantasies unfinished."
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
He reached behind her and turned the lock on her office door. The click was loud in the quiet room.
"Tell me," he said, "exactly what happens next in 37."
Her voice wavered. "You… you take control."
He smiled faintly, but it wasn't sweet. It was possession, wrapped in silk. "Good girl."
His hands moved with unhurried certainty sliding up her sides, skimming her waist, lingering just enough to make her gasp. He guided her back against the desk, the edge pressing into her thighs.
"Keep your eyes on me," he murmured.
She did, and it was dizzying, the weight of his gaze, the way his pupils darkened as he read every flicker of her reaction.
One button of her blouse slipped free. Then another and another.
Her breath came faster, the anticipation winding tighter with each second.
"Just like you wrote," he said. "Every detail. Every sound you imagined."
She barely managed a nod before his mouth came in contact with hers firm, consuming, pulling her under. The kiss was everything her fantasies had promised: commanding, intoxicating, and laced with the danger of knowing they could be caught at any second.
His hands roamed with deliberate patience, touching, claiming, drawing shivers from her with maddening precision. Her fingers fisted in his shirt, holding on it as if letting go would break the spell.
The city lights spilled through the blinds, striping his face in silver and shadow as he leaned back just enough to look at her. "Still think this is just a file?"
Her answer was breathless. "No."
"Good." He swept the laptop aside, clearing space on the desk without taking his eyes off her. "Because from now on, we're writing the rest together."
And just like that, Fantasy 37 was no longer confined to words on a screen. It was real. Every touch, every command, every breathless moment unfolding exactly as she had imagined.