Category: Romance | Words: 543
The mahogany desk felt warm under my fingertips, the scent of her vanilla perfume clinging to the smooth surface like a ghost. My dick throbbed, a hard, insistent knot against the front of my chinos. It was ridiculous. It was Friday night, past midnight, and I was alone in the office, replaying the day’s events like a scratched record.
The whole week, really.
Sarah had been different.
Her smile wasn't just professional anymore, the curve of her lips lingering a beat too long when our eyes met. The air crackled between us, charged with something unspoken. When she leaned across her desk, her breasts brushing against mine as she passed me a file, I could practically taste the sweetness of her perfume, feel the warmth of her skin on mine.
It was her perfume that did it. It clung to everything – the air, the paper she used, the hem of her blouse, which she’d tugged up carelessly at some point during the afternoon, revealing a sliver of smooth, pale skin above her jeans. She'd caught me staring, her smile a little sly, and that look – the flicker in her eyes, the way her lips tilted upwards just a fraction – had sent my blood pressure rocketing.
I’d come in late this evening to finish up some reports, and the silence of the empty office had been almost unbearable. The silence, the scent of her lingering perfume, the ghost of her hand on mine when we’d shaken on something stupid like a deadline.
I took a shaky breath, the sound echoing in the stillness of the office. The reports were forgotten. I was staring at her desk, picturing her there, her fingers drumming a restless tattoo against the surface.
The thought was so visceral, so close to the bone, that I had to push myself away from the desk. I walked to the window, the city lights blurring into a hazy kaleidoscope below.
My hand strayed to the fly of my pants, the fabric straining against the growing pressure inside me. I needed to get out of here, needed to escape the phantom scent of her, the phantom touch of her.
But my feet wouldn't budge.
Instead, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and scrolled through our recent messages.
Nothing overtly flirty. Just the usual work-related stuff, punctuated by a few emoji here and there. But those emojis, I realized, suddenly seemed different.
The fire emoji I’d sent about a particularly complex spreadsheet suddenly felt charged. The winky face I’d used after she told me to “sleep well” on Thursday night – that one felt downright lascivious.
And then, a message from this morning, right before I’d left for work.
“Running late, sorry! See you soon.”
And underneath, her phone had automatically added: 😉
My phone vibrated, pulling me back from my thoughts. It was a group text from the office, everyone wishing each other happy Friday night. I didn’t bother typing a response. I just stared at the screen, the image of Sarah’s smiling face burned into my mind, a knowing glint in her eyes.
And then I saw it. The single word she'd typed before adding the winking emoji.
It wasn't "see you soon".
It was "Can't wait".
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