The next meeting was supposed to be routine.
Quarterly review. Numbers. Projections. The kind of dry corporate foreplay that usually put half the room to sleep.
Not today.
Mia walked in at 9:58 sharp, fresh deck loaded, chin high, determined to pretend yesterday's elevator promise and Noah's filthy chuckle hadn't kept her up half the night touching herself to the memory of his voice saying *I like watching you sell desire you don't even believe in.*
She failed spectacularly the second she saw him.
Noah was already seated same chair, same sprawl, same rolled sleeves showing just enough ink to make her throat dry. He didn't look up immediately. He was scrolling through something on his tablet, casual as fuck, like he hadn't spent the last twenty-four hours living rent-free in her head.
Then he did look up.
And the slow, deliberate drag of his eyes over her body felt like fingers instead of sight.
She'd dressed for war today: charcoal blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers that hugged her ass and thighs like they were custom-made to torment him, blazer slung over one arm, hair down in loose waves because she'd told herself *fuck it, let him see what he can't have.*
Big mistake.
His gaze caught on the open top two buttons of her blouse enough cleavage to be professional, enough skin to be dangerous then slid lower, tracing the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the way the fabric pulled tight across her thighs when she moved.
Mia felt it like a physical stroke.
Her nipples pebbled instantly, hard and aching against the thin lace bra she'd chosen (black, sheer, stupid). She cursed inwardly, crossed her arms over her chest as she took her seat across from him, but the motion only pushed her breasts higher.
Noah's mouth curved just that one wicked corner.
Bastard knew exactly what he was doing.
Victoria kicked things off with her usual clipped efficiency. "Mia, you're up first. Walk us through the revised creative direction."
Mia stood, remote in hand, back straight, projecting every ounce of control she didn't feel.
She launched into the deck.
"Last quarter's metrics show we're losing ground in the 25–34 demo. They want raw, unfiltered want not polished perfection. So we pivot hard: bolder visuals, edgier copy, campaigns that feel like foreplay instead of advertising."
She clicked to the mood board: tangled sheets, sweat-slick skin, a woman's hand fisted in a man's hair, lips a breath from his throat.
The room murmured approval.
Noah didn't murmur.
He just watched.
Arms still crossed. Legs spread just wide enough to draw her eye to the bulge already straining against his trousers.
Mia's mouth went dry mid-sentence.
She powered through, voice steady even as heat pooled low in her belly.
"We double down on scarcity messaging. Limited drops. Tease campaigns. Make them feel like they're stealing something forbidden."
Another slide: close-up of red lips wrapped around a finger, eyes locked on camera, caption **Take what's yours.**
Noah shifted in his seat.
Just a small adjustment enough to make the fabric pull tighter across his lap.
Mia's clit throbbed in response.
She hated him.
She hated this.
She hated how her body was screaming *yes* while her brain screamed *no*.
She advanced the slide too aggressively; the click echoed.
"And the hero spot," she said, forcing her voice lower, huskier than intended, "ends with the payoff: surrender. Total, filthy surrender."
The final frame filled the screen: two bodies slammed together against glass, her legs wrapped around his waist, his hand gripping her throat, both of them wrecked and desperate.
Silence.
Then Noah spoke.
"Bold," he drawled, voice rough like gravel dragged over silk. "But it's missing something."
Mia's eyes snapped to his.
He leaned forward slowly, elbows on the table, fingers steepled.
"Desire without risk is just porn," he said. "You need stakes. You need *consequence*. Otherwise it's just pretty pictures."
He paused, eyes locked on hers.
"Like hating someone so much you can't breathe… but you still want their mouth on you more than you want air."
The room went deathly quiet.
Chloe's eyes widened to saucers. Ethan coughed into his fist. Sophia's pen froze mid-twirl.
Victoria's eyebrow arched, but she said nothing.
Mia's heart slammed against her ribs so hard she was sure everyone could hear it.
She forced a smile—sharp, lethal.
"Then add your consequence, Reed," she said, voice dangerously soft. "Since you're suddenly the expert on filthy surrender."
Noah's gaze dropped to her mouth.
Then lower—to where her nipples were now visibly straining against her blouse, twin peaks begging for attention.
He smiled slow, dark, victorious.
"I'd be happy to," he murmured. "Privately."
A beat.
Victoria cleared her throat.
"Excellent input. Let's table the creative for now and move to budget."
Mia sat.
Her thighs pressed together so tightly she could feel her own slickness soaking through her panties.
She stared at the table, refusing to look at him.
But she felt it anyway.
His stare.
Heavy.
Hungry.
Promising.
And she knew bone-deep, clit-throbbing knew that the war had just escalated.
And the next battlefield was going to be a lot less clothed.
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