The rain hammered against the office windowpane, a relentless drumming that matched the frantic pulse in Manik's throat. He'd watched her from his third-floor window, a vision in a now-transparent white blouse, dashing from her car to the building's entrance. Alya. His new secretary. The interview had been a formality; he'd hired her the moment she'd crossed her legs, the whisper of nylon a siren's call he was powerless to ignore.
Now, she stood in his doorway, dripping onto the polished marble. "Mr. Malhotra? You said the report was urgent?" Water plastered her dark hair to her neck, her blouse clinging to every curve, the lace of her bra clearly visible. Her nipples were hard peaks against the soaked fabric.
"Come in, Alya. Close the door." His voice was tighter than he intended. He stood, pretending to reach for a file, his body strategically between her and his desk. In his hand was a full, scalding mug of black coffee. "It's this quarterly forecast. I need it reworked."
As she stepped closer, her scent—rain, jasmine, and warm woman—hit him. He moved as if to hand her the file, his elbow "slipping." The dark coffee arced through the air, splashing across the front of her already soaked blouse and skirt.
"Oh!" she gasped, jumping back, but her eyes… her eyes didn't widen in shock. They darkened, locking onto his with a knowing, liquid heat. She looked down at the new stain spreading over her chest, then back up at him. A slow, deliberate smile touched her lips. "That was clumsy, sir."
"My apologies," he said, not sounding sorry at all. He let his gaze travel over the ruined fabric. "You're soaked. You can't work like that. I have a private washroom. There's… something you can change into."
He led her to the small, attached lounge, pulling a silky, peach-colored bedsheet from a linen cupboard. It was comically thin, almost sheer. He handed it to her. "It's all I have."
She took it, her fingers brushing his. "Thank you, sir. I'll just be a moment." The door clicked shut.
Manik paced, his cock already a hard, insistent weight against his zipper. The muffled sounds of wet fabric being peeled away, the soft rustle of the sheet, were torture. When the door opened, his breath caught.
Alya stood there, the thin peach sheet wrapped around her torso, tucked loosely above her breasts. It did nothing. The shadow of her body was perfectly visible through the material, the dark triangles of her areolas, the dip of her navel, the faint shadow at the junction of her thighs. She held a corner of the blanket she'd taken from his couch over one shoulder, a flimsy shield.
"I… I feel a bit exposed," she said, but her voice was a throaty challenge, not a complaint.
That was all the permission he needed. In two strides, he was on her. The blanket fell away as his hands shot out, one sliding up under the loose fold of the sheet, his palm finding the hot, smooth skin of her inner thigh, the other moving up to cup her breast, his thumb and forefinger finding her nipple through the silk, twisting it hard.
She cried out, a sharp, wanton sound, her head falling back. "Sir…"
"You knew," he growled into her ear, his breath hot. "You knew what I was doing with that coffee. You wanted this." He pinched her nipple again, making her arch against him, while his other hand slid higher up her thigh, feeling the heat radiating from her core. She was already slick, her wetness coating his searching fingers. "Fuck, you're drenched."
"Yes," she hissed, her hands clawing at his shoulders. "For you. Only for you."
Control shattered. He ripped the sheet away, letting it pool at her feet. She was naked, glorious, her skin pebbled with goosebumps and desire. He devoured her with his eyes, then with his mouth. He bent, sucking one taut, brown nipple deep into his mouth, laving it with his tongue, then biting down gently before moving to the other. His hands gripped her ass, lifting her, and he carried her to the broad, polished desk, sweeping everything onto the floor with a crash.
He laid her back on the cool wood. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice ragged. "My perfect, wicked secretary." He kissed a burning trail down her sternum, over the quivering plane of her stomach, his tongue dipping into her navel. She writhed, her heels digging into the small of his back.
He hooked her legs over his shoulders, spreading her wide. Her pussy was glistening, swollen, her folds already parted for him. The scent of her arousal, musky and sweet, filled the air. He looked up, meeting her hooded gaze. "I'm going to taste every drop."
Then he buried his face between her legs.
His tongue was a flat, hot stroke from her entrance to her clit. She screamed, her back bowing off the desk. He did it again, and again, lapping at her juices, savoring her flavor—salty, tangy, addictive. He focused on her clit, circling it, then sucking it into his mouth, flicking it with the tip of his tongue.
"Manik! Oh god, right there!" she chanted, her hands fisting in his hair.
He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them, finding the rough spot deep within that made her shatter. He fucked her with his fingers while his mouth worked her clit relentlessly. Her hips bucked against his face, her orgasm crashing over her in violent, pulsing waves. He drank her down, licking her through it, until she was a trembling, sobbing mess.
He rose, unbuckling his belt, freeing his aching cock. He was thick, veined, leaking. He rubbed the head through her soaked folds, coating himself in her essence. "How does it feel?" he demanded, positioning himself at her entrance. "Knowing your boss is about to fuck you on his desk? Knowing you're wetter for me than you've ever been for anyone?"
"It feels… right," she moaned, lifting her hips in invitation.
He drove into her in one brutal, deep thrust, sheathing himself to the hilt in her tight, clutching heat. They both cried out. He didn't wait, didn't gentle. He set a punishing rhythm, each snap of his hips slamming her into the hard desk. The sound of skin on skin, of their ragged moans, of the rain against the window, filled the room. He leaned over her, sucking a bruise into her neck, whispering filthy things in her ear about how she belonged to him, how he'd take her anytime he wanted.
His release built, a coil tightening at the base of his spine. He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit again, rubbing hard, fast circles. She came a second time, her inner muscles milking him, and with a guttural roar, he followed, pumping his hot cum deep inside her, his body shuddering with the force of it.
They collapsed together on the desk, a tangled, sweating, spent heap. After a moment, he lifted his head, looking at the mess of her, the mess of them. He traced a finger through the mingled fluids on her stomach.
"The night's not over," he said, his voice raw. He pulled her up, leading her stumbling towards the private washroom. "We're getting in the shower. I'm not done with you."