Now I stood there wearing just my shirt and tie, naked from the waist down. My skin was exposed, and the air conditioner's cool air made me shiver. The office atmosphere—professional just moments ago—had turned erotic.
I still looked at the files because I had so much work today—presentations for the next meeting, budget approvals. My hands were on the reports, but my mind was distracted.
From behind, Henry pushed his member inside me. I gasped, "Oh..." Both my hands braced against the table in front of me, my eyes fixed on the files. But focusing was impossible.
Henry thrust from behind with force, his grip tight on my hips. Every thrust was deep, hard, and my body responded—warmth spreading, moans escaping.
"Oh my God, you won't believe this. At home you were calling me masi, and here you're doing this," I said breathlessly, guilt mixing with pleasure. Our relationship was now forbidden—step-siblings? But the feeling was intense, like dark romance.
"Finish quickly and get out of here," I whispered.
But he didn't stop. He increased his speed instead. My entire body shook—files on the table shifted, papers threatening to fall. I couldn't see the files properly anymore, the lines blurring before my eyes.
"Henry, you're disturbing me. Go a little easier..." I whispered, but he grunted, the smell of his sweat filling the room. The office's silence was now filled with our heavy breathing.
Suddenly, the office door opened. I froze. In one swift motion, Henry pushed me under the table. His weapon was still inside me, we were still connected. I crouched on my knees beneath the desk, hand over my mouth, looking down. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would be heard outside.
Henry looked up—it was his father, Blackwell. He panicked but quickly composed himself, placing his hands on the table and smiling casually.
"Dad? You're here?"
Blackwell spoke, his voice strict like in a business meeting. "Henry, what are you doing here? You should be with your mother. And where is Evelyn?"
He was in a suit, his hair gray but his body fit—like he spent hours at the gym.
Henry replied, "She just went to the bathroom. She's been checking files since morning."
I hid underneath, holding my breath, his member still making me feel every sensation. A mixture of guilt and excitement—would he catch us?
Blackwell said, "Move aside. I want to see what she's been doing."
Henry's breath caught. "Dad, Dad... I'm doing some important work here right now. Could you come back in a little while, please?"
His voice carried panic, but he tried to appear cool.
Blackwell raised an eyebrow but turned around. "Fine. But be quick."
He left, closing the door. Henry breathed a sigh of relief, then thrust rapidly. I whispered from below, "Henry..." But he went faster and released inside me—hot, sticky.
Then he quickly pulled up his pants, zipped up, and left.
I emerged from underneath, my legs weak. I hurriedly pulled up my pants, zipped them, and sat in the chair, pretending to work. My breath was rapid, my body still tingling. What just happened? In the office, on my first day as CEO?
A little while later, Blackwell returned. He knocked on the door and entered, that cruel smile on his face.
"Evelyn, good to see you settled. I have some important questions."
I nodded composedly, but inside I was shaking. We discussed next deals, but suspense filled my mind. What would this job bring?
Blackwell and I were discussing crucial deals. In my office at Blackwell Vineyards in Napa Valley, the evening sunlight was slowly fading. Outside, the vineyard vines were turning reddish-brown in the twilight. Sunset in California's wine country is always a spectacular show—during golden hour, the hills shimmer, and tourists flock to wine tasting rooms, cameras in hand. But here, inside my glass-walled office, the atmosphere was intensely serious.
Blackwell stood before my desk, the crisp lines of his suit matching his ruthless personality perfectly. We were discussing a major deal—a 20 million dollar contract for wine exports to European markets, something that would significantly boost Blackwell Enterprises' growth.
"Evelyn, you're the new blood here. I want you to handle the branding—make it look premium, sustainable. Europeans love that," Blackwell said, his eyes locking onto mine as if he wasn't just scanning the deal, but scanning me.
I took notes carefully. "Sir, I think we can emphasize exclusive labels with locally-inspired art designs. My art history background will definitely help."
In California's business culture, such discussions were common—fast-paced, ambitious, where young executives like me challenged the old guard with startup energy. But Blackwell's presence... he was a shark who used every word like a calculated move.
Our conversation delved into details—shipment schedules, tariffs, competition analysis. "Those Sonoma guys are trying to undercut us. We need to be relentless," Blackwell said, his smile cold as ice.
I thought to myself: Relentless? Does that just mean business warfare, or something darker?
Suddenly, his phone rang—a private line with no name displayed on the screen. Blackwell tried to ignore it, but the ringing persisted insistently.
"Excuse me," he said, picking up the call. "Yes?"
A voice came from the other end—low, controlled, but excited. "Sir, we've removed that man from the picture. Commissioner Lucas has also been handled. And we've arranged for those 50 girls as well."
Blackwell's face transformed—he smiled, that predatory smile that appears when a hunter catches his prey. "Good... excellent. Now get them ready as soon as possible. I'll be there soon."
The call ended.
Blackwell pocketed his phone and looked at me. "Business, Evelyn. Never stops." Then he walked out, his steps confident and assured.
But a storm of doubt erupted in my mind. Who was he talking about? "Removed that man from the picture"—was this a business competitor, or something far more sinister? And "50 girls"? Was this some promotional event for the wine industry, or... oh God, the rumors I'd heard—Blackwell's shadow company, contract murders, and human trafficking. In California's dark underbelly, such secrets were common—beyond Silicon Valley, where wealthy people made deals on the dark web.
Thousands of questions swirled in my mind. Did Alisha know? Did Henry know?
I closed the files, but my mind kept racing. It was past 8 PM—the office lights had dimmed, darkness spreading outside. I shut down my laptop, grabbed my bag, and started walking outside on the street.
Napa Valley's roads are peaceful in the evening—winery lights twinkle in the distance, and the air carries the sweet smell of grapes. I was about to call Henry—maybe hearing his voice would ease this suspense. "Henry, I need to talk..." But just then, I saw a bus approaching from the distance. A local transit bus that takes valley workers back to the city.
I put my phone away—walking felt relaxing, but exhaustion stopped me. The bus pulled up beside me. I climbed aboard.
The bus was a long-route one, completely packed. Even after rush hour, California's public transit remains crowded—workers, tourists, locals. I swiped my card at the ticket machine and entered. There were no seats available, so I stood in the middle of the crowd, facing forward.
The bus started moving—the rumble of the engine, soft jazz music on the radio, and passing winery lights outside the windows. The crowd was so dense that bodies were touching—a typical San Francisco commute, where people ignore personal space. My back was touching someone's chest, but I ignored it.
Then I felt someone's hand on my waist. Soft, but intentional.
I jerked the hand away and turned back—a middle-aged man, looked like a local worker in work boots and faded jeans. He gave me an apologetic smile, but his eyes avoided mine. I thought it might be an accident.
But then again, I felt someone's hand on my hip—the same person? I angrily shook the hand off again. "Excuse me," I whispered, but it drowned in the bus noise. The crowd was so thick that moving was difficult—people were scrolling on their phones, chatting, unaware.
But again, that same hand started touching my waist. Now deliberately. I was exhausted—the entire day's stress, Blackwell's call, the suspense. The bus was completely full; I couldn't even accuse anyone specifically. Several people in front were watching me—a group of tourists who seemed relaxed. I smiled at them, a fake smile, trying to act normal.
But from behind, that hand slowly slipped inside my pants. I shivered—feeling uncomfortable, but... something else? In California life, such incidents happen—on crowded BART trains, where unknown touches escalate. His fingers brushed against my skin, warm, rough. I tried to turn back, but there was no space.
That hand now slowly approached my private area. I gasped, but the sound was suppressed. My body was reacting—tingling, unwanted excitement.