Exposed Vulnerabilities: Office Walls Hold Silent Confessions

The fire alarm wails through the building like a siren, piercing and impossible to ignore.

"Just perfect," I mutter, saving the quarterly report before grabbing my phone. Everyone files out methodically, as we've all done this drill before. False alarms are an office tradition at this point.

The June heat hits me like a wall as we push through the exit doors. The corporate campus parking lot is a sea of collared shirts and sensible heels. I spot Sophia waving me over to a spot near the gym's side entrance.

"They're saying someone burnt popcorn in Marketing," she says, flipping her blonde bob over one shoulder. "We'll be out here for at least twenty minutes."

Chris shuffles beside her, pale and awkward as always, scrolling through his phone to avoid conversation. I'm about to ask Sophia about her weekend when the gym's emergency exit bursts open with a metallic bang.

A fire marshal appears first, propping the door wide. "Sir, you need to evacuate immediately—"

And then Will stumbles out, dripping wet and naked except for a white towel wrapped tightly around his waist.

"I was in the shower," he explains frantically to the marshal, water still beading on his shoulders and chest.

I freeze, my planned quip dying in my throat. I've never seen Will like this—I've only ever known him in button-downs and khakis, his body a complete mystery. But here he is, his chest surprisingly broad and defined, a dusting of gray hair tapering down his stomach. His arms are strong, sinewy in a way that speaks of actual strength rather than gym vanity.

He looks up, scanning the crowd, and sees me. Our eyes lock for one excruciating second.

Then it happens.

As Will steps forward, his foot catches on the doorframe. He stumbles, arms pinwheeling. The towel, secured only by his grip, slips free and drops to the pavement.

Time stops.

Will stands fully naked in the blinding sunlight. Every inch of him exposed—his strong thighs, the dark hair on his legs, and yes, everything else. His penis, neither embarrassingly small nor comically large, but proportionate, real, hanging against his thigh.

But it's his face that captures me—the absolute horror and shame washing over him, his eyes wide, mouth slightly open. It's the rawest human emotion I've ever witnessed, the total opposite of the calculated vulnerability men usually perform.

Sophia snorts behind her hand. Chris looks away, face reddening. Someone nearby gasps.

I don't move. I don't laugh. I just stare, absorbing every detail like I'm photographing him with my mind.

One second. Two seconds.

Will lunges for the towel, wrapping it around himself with trembling hands. His face is scarlet as he pushes through the crowd, disappearing among the taller employees from the legal department.

"Oh. My. God." Sophia's voice breaks through my trance. "Did you see that? Poor bastard."

I nod mechanically, but I'm not listening. My heart pounds in my ears. I feel warm, unsettled.

"Not bad for an old guy," Sophia whispers, giggling. "Still, how embarrassing."

The alarm finally stops, leaving a hollow ringing in my ears. People begin shuffling back toward the building, but I stand rooted in place, replaying those few seconds on a loop in my head.

Will, naked and mortified. Will, stronger than I'd imagined. Will, completely vulnerable in a way none of my conquests have ever been.

"You coming?" Chris asks, already moving toward the entrance.

"Yeah," I say, but my voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else. "I'll be right there."

I've been tossing in my sheets for two hours now, sleep refusing to come. Nearly midnight and my brain won't shut off. Every time I close my eyes, I see Will standing naked in the parking lot.

Will. Of all people.

I flip onto my back, staring at the ceiling fan turning lazy circles above me. I shouldn't still be thinking about this. I've seen plenty of naked men. I've made a sport of it, really. But there was something about how it happened—the rawness, the complete lack of pretense.

"Fuck," I whisper to the empty room.

I grab my phone, thinking I'll scroll social media until my brain numbs enough for sleep. But I can't focus on the endless stream of filtered photos and clever captions. I toss it aside and close my eyes again.

There he is. Will. His body surprisingly firm for a man of forty. Not gym-sculpted like the finance bros I usually take home, but solid in a way that suggests actual strength. The gray in his chest hair that matched the salt and pepper at his temples. The way his shoulders tensed when the towel fell.

And his face—god, his face. The absolute horror. The vulnerability.

A warm pulse runs through me. I press my thighs together, surprised by the slick heat building between them.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter, but my hand is already sliding beneath the waistband of my shorts. I'm already wet, my fingers gliding easily against my swollen flesh.

I close my eyes, letting the image of Will flood my mind again. Not just his naked body, but the way he looked at me—that split second of eye contact when we both knew what was about to happen. His gaze, stripped of all the careful professional distance he's maintained this past year.

My fingers circle my clit slowly at first, then with increasing pressure. I'm not performing for anyone now, not calculating my moans or arranging my body in flattering angles like I do with my hook-ups. This is just for me.

I imagine Will's hands instead of mine—those broad palms with neatly trimmed nails. Would he be tentative or confident? The thought of him touching me, of him watching my face while I come apart, sends a shudder through me.

My breathing quickens. I push two fingers inside myself, feeling my pussy clench around them. "Will," I whisper, testing his name in the darkness. It feels forbidden, thrilling.

I work my fingers deeper, using my thumb to press against my clit. The wet sounds of my arousal fill the quiet room. My hips rise to meet my hand, chasing the building tension.

In my mind, Will is above me, his weight pressing me into the mattress. I can almost feel the brush of his chest hair against my nipples, the strength in his arms as he holds himself over me.

"Fuck me," I whisper to my empty bedroom, to the Will in my imagination. "Please, fuck me."

My fingers move faster, driving into my soaked pussy with purpose now. My other hand grips my breast roughly, pinching my nipple the way I like. I'm close, so close, the pressure building at the base of my spine.

I imagine Will's cock pushing into me, stretching me, filling me completely. Would he be gentle or would he take me hard? Would he whisper in my ear or remain silent, focused only on our shared pleasure?

"Oh god," I gasp as the orgasm crashes through me, my back arching off the mattress. My pussy pulses around my fingers, clenching rhythmically as waves of pleasure wash over me. "Will, Will, Will," I chant, riding out the aftershocks.

When it's over, I lie boneless against the sheets, my chest heaving, my fingers still buried inside myself. Slowly, I withdraw them, feeling a final tremor run through me.

I stare at the ceiling, stunned by the intensity of what just happened. I've masturbated countless times, but never like this. Never with this raw, emotional edge that leaves me feeling both satisfied and strangely vulnerable.

This wasn't like getting myself off to porn or to memories of past conquests. This was something else entirely—something dangerous.

I roll onto my side, pulling the sheets around me. Sleep finally tugs at the edges of my consciousness, but just before I drift off, an unsettling thought surfaces:

For the first time in years, I just came thinking about a specific person. Not just a body or a cock or the abstract idea of sex, but Will—his face, his expressions, the wholeness of him.

Tomorrow at the office, I'll have to look him in the eyes knowing exactly what his naked body did to me tonight.

The thought should make me smirk with secret power. Instead, it makes me uneasy in a way I can't quite name as sleep finally pulls me under.

I'm on my third cup of coffee for the day when Chris slides into the break room, looking like he's about to crawl out of his own skin. His hands are shaking so badly he spills half his water trying to fill a paper cup from the cooler.

"You okay?" I ask, more out of obligation than interest. The kid's always been high-strung, but this is unusual even for him.

"Not really," he mumbles, glancing over his shoulder at the door. "Can I... can I ask you something, Will? Like, man to man?"

I suppress a sigh. At forty, I've somehow become the office father figure—the safe harbor for workplace crises and personal dilemmas. "Sure."

Chris leans in close, voice dropping to a whisper. "Something really messed up happened and I don't know what to do."

I stir my coffee, waiting. Probably another drama with the interns or some perceived slight from management.

"Lillian sent me a video by mistake." His face flushes bright red. "It was supposed to go to someone named Ava, but she texted it to me instead."

My hand stills on the stirrer. "What kind of video?"

Chris looks like he might be sick. "It was... her. With some guy named Jonathan. They were... you know."

The plastic stirrer snaps between my fingers.

"I deleted it immediately," Chris hurries to add. "But I can't unsee it, you know? And now I have to see her every day, and she has no idea that I... that I saw..."

I carefully compose my face into what I hope is a neutral, slightly concerned expression. Inside, something dark and possessive unfurls. Lillian with some man named Jonathan. Lillian, who I haven't been able to stop thinking about since the fire alarm incident. Lillian, who's been haunting my dreams with that knowing smirk and those calculating eyes.

"Has she said anything to you about it?" I ask, my voice impressively steady.

"No! I don't think she even realizes she sent it to me." Chris runs a hand through his hair. "What do I do? Should I tell her?"

I consider this, weighing options while a part of my brain fixates on what Lillian might look like in that video. What sounds she might make. Whether she performs for the camera the way she performs for everyone else.

"No," I decide. "That would just embarrass you both. She made a mistake, you deleted it, it's over." I pause, then add casually, "When did this happen?"

"Two days ago," Chris says, relief washing over his face at my response. "So you think I should just... pretend it never happened?"

"Exactly." I dump the broken stirrer and what's left of my coffee into the trash. "These things happen in the digital age. Best to forget about it and move on."

Chris nods eagerly, desperate for absolution. "You're right. Thanks, Will. I knew you'd know what to do."

I clap him on the shoulder, the picture of mature wisdom. "Don't mention it."

And certainly don't mention it to Lillian, I think as Chris shuffles out, visibly lighter without his burden of knowledge.

Alone in the break room, I lean against the counter, processing this new information. Lillian's carelessness with the video speaks to her chaotic nature—the same impulsivity I've observed for months. But knowing that such explicit evidence of her exists, that she records herself in intimate moments... it adds a dimension to my understanding of her.

I've always known she was promiscuous. It's part of her allure—the way she flaunts her sexuality like a weapon. But now I possess a secret piece of her narrative that she doesn't know I have. The power dynamic between us has shifted, even if she's unaware.

Since the fire alarm incident, when she saw me completely exposed, I've felt a vulnerability around her that borders on intolerable. But now? Now there's a strange balance restored. She's seen me naked. And while I haven't seen her, I know someone who has—and in a far more compromising situation than my own humiliation.

I pour myself a fresh cup of coffee, a small smile playing at the corners of my mouth. I'm not usually one to revel in others' mistakes, but with Lillian, all the normal rules seem suspended. She's spent a year toying with me, wielding her beauty like a scalpel, making precise incisions into my composure.

For the first time, I feel like I might have the upper hand. Not that I'd ever use it—I'm not that kind of man. But the knowledge itself feels like a shield against her manipulations.

As I head back to my desk, I wonder what she'd think if she knew I knew. If she'd be mortified or if—and this thought sends an illicit thrill through me—she might not care at all. Might even be aroused by it.

I sit down, opening a spreadsheet I need to finish before the end of the day, but the numbers blur before my eyes. All I can see is Lillian—not the imagined Lillian from Chris's accidental video, but the real one from three days ago. Standing in the parking lot, her wide eyes taking in every inch of my exposed body.

The memory of my shame mingles with this new secret knowledge, creating something potent and dangerous between us—even if I'm the only one who feels it.

I flip through the quarterly reports that should hold my attention, but my mind refuses to focus. Sunshine spills across my desk, illuminating dust particles that dance in the air like my scattered thoughts.

The office hums with routine activity—keyboards clicking, phones ringing, the occasional burst of laughter from the break room. I should be working. Instead, I'm staring out the window, replaying moments that I can't seem to shake.

It's been four days since the fire alarm. Four days since I saw Will—composed, cautious Will—completely exposed in the parking lot. The image is branded into my memory: his startled expression, the way his body tensed when he realized what had happened, the split second before he grabbed the towel.

I've seen plenty of naked men. I've filmed myself with them, directed their movements, controlled every aspect of the encounter. It's never affected me like this.

I tap my pen against my desk calendar, irritated with myself. This isn't like me. I don't obsess over men—especially not older, safe men like Will. He's always been easy prey, predictable in his reactions to my flirtations, useful for ego boosts on difficult days. A harmless distraction.

So why did I find myself lying in bed that night, one hand between my legs, imagining what it would be like if he had approached me in that parking lot instead of running away? Why had the fantasy been so intense that I'd recorded it, something I rarely do when I'm alone?

I glance across the office. Will is at his desk, focused on his computer screen, completely unaware of my scrutiny. There's a new tension between us now. Our usual morning banter felt charged today—his eyes lingered a moment too long on mine when I asked about his weekend. Did he notice my breath catching? The way I leaned slightly closer than necessary?

This isn't how it's supposed to work. Men pursue me. I decide whether to indulge them, always maintaining control. I'm the one who takes, who leaves when I'm satisfied. I don't fixate. I don't fantasize about bus drivers seventeen years my senior who wear sensible shoes and bring homemade lunches in reusable containers.

I force my attention back to the report, but the numbers swim before my eyes. This is ridiculous. It was just a naked body. A surprisingly good one, but still—just a body. The vulnerability of the moment is what's messing with me. The complete role reversal. The raw, unguarded humanity of it.

My phone buzzes with a text from Jonathan asking if I want to meet up tonight. I don't bother responding. The thought of him—of any of my usual roster—leaves me cold.

When I look up again, Will is walking toward the break room. Our eyes meet briefly. He gives me a small smile, nothing unusual, but my stomach drops as if I'm in free fall.

This feeling—this inability to manipulate and control my own reactions—is foreign and unsettling. I am Lillian Carter. I make men weak; they don't weaken me. That's how it works. That's how it's always worked.

But as I watch Will disappear around the corner, I'm forced to acknowledge the crack in my carefully constructed armor. For the first time in years, I want something—someone—without knowing if I can have them. Without knowing if I even should.

The realization sits heavy in my chest as I turn back to my window, watching clouds drift across the sky, wondering what it might be like to relinquish control. To be seen—really seen—instead of just observed.

The night air cools my apartment as I set up my phone on its little tripod. Instagram's become my second job—half my followers are from work, but it's the other half that matters. The ones who might recommend me for better positions. Networking, they call it.

My marketing director says my "authentic personal brand" is crucial. Translation: look hot, sound smart, remind potential employers I exist. Tonight's agenda: a few quick videos about the industry conference I'm attending tomorrow. Professional, but with just enough flirty energy to hold attention.

I smooth down my silk camisole, adjust my hair, and hit record.

"Packing for the conference tomorrow and realized I have no idea what the after-hours networking events will be like. Business casual or cocktail? Help a girl out!" I pout playfully at the camera.

I record a few more clips—one showing outfit options, another asking about a restaurant near the venue. Each carefully calculated to look spontaneous while highlighting my professional ambitions.

My phone pings with a text from Sophia: "Did you see Chris's pathetic presentation today? Coffee tomorrow to discuss?"

I laugh, quickly typing back a response while scrolling through my camera roll for a final video to add. My thumb hovers over what looks like a selfie clip. Perfect—I tap to select it and hit upload without reviewing.

I toss my phone aside and head to the bathroom to finish my skincare routine, completely unaware of what I've just done.

* * *

The next morning, I stride into the office with my usual confidence. The conference isn't until tomorrow, but I've dressed sharply—a pencil skirt and sleek blazer that hugs my curves without being obvious about it.

"Morning," I call to the receptionist, who gives me an odd look before returning my greeting.

The marketing floor feels strangely charged as I make my way to my desk. Sophia catches my eye from across the room, her expression a mix of shock and barely contained glee. Chris, two desks over, turns crimson and suddenly finds his keyboard fascinating.

I settle in, powering up my computer and checking my phone. Odd—my Instagram notifications have exploded overnight. I open the app to find dozens of messages from friends and acquaintances.

"Holy shit Lillian" "Did you mean to post THAT??" "Call me ASAP"

My story still has several hours before it expires. I tap to view it and feel the floor drop away beneath me.

There I am, lying in my bed, naked from the waist down. My head is thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted. One hand is between my legs, moving in frantic circles. My back is arching, hips lifting against my fingers. The fifteen-second clip captures the moment my orgasm begins to crest—my breathless moan, the tension in my thighs, the way my free hand grips the sheets.

It's the video I recorded after seeing Will exposed in the parking lot. The fantasy that wouldn't leave me alone.

I close the app in horror, blood draining from my face. My entire body goes cold as the realization hits: everyone has seen it. Colleagues, clients, friends, maybe even family. I scramble to delete it, but the damage is already done. It's been viewed hundreds of times.

I glance up to see Will watching me from across the office. His expression is unreadable, but there's something in his eyes I've never seen before. Knowledge. Power. Desire.

He knows. He's seen me at my most vulnerable, most private moment.

For a wild second, I consider grabbing my purse and walking out, never returning to this building again. But a strange calm settles over me instead. What's the point in panic? It's done. I've been exposed in the most intimate way possible.

So I straighten my spine, toss my hair, and open my email as if nothing happened. If I pretend hard enough that this doesn't faze me, maybe I'll start to believe it.

But as the day progresses, I feel the weight of eyes on me. Whispers follow in my wake. Sophia corners me in the bathroom, demanding details I refuse to provide. Chris can't look at me at all. But it's Will's gaze that burns the hottest, tracking me across the office with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

The power has shifted. For the first time in my adult life, I am not the one in control. I am the one exposed, vulnerable, seen. And strangest of all, beneath my mortification burns something unexpected—a thrill, dark and dangerous, at the thought of Will watching that video. Of him seeing what I keep hidden from everyone else.

Of him knowing exactly what I look like when I come.

The building breathes differently after hours—quieter, but somehow more alive. I'd rushed out at five, desperate to escape the lingering stares, only to realize halfway home that my laptop charger was still plugged in under my desk. By the time I got back, the main lights were dimmed and the cleaning crew was working the east wing.

I slip off my heels at the elevator, padding down the carpeted hallway in stockinged feet. A single overhead light illuminates my desk, and as I bend to unplug my charger, I notice a soft glow from beneath the supply closet door at the end of the row.

Someone else is still here.

I should grab my charger and leave. That would be the smart move after today's humiliation. Instead, I find myself walking toward that light, curious despite myself.

We need more printer paper anyway, I rationalize, reaching for the handle. The door gives way easily—not fully latched—and swings open just as I hear a muffled groan from inside.

Will stands with his back to the door, one hand braced against the metal shelving, the other moving rhythmically between his legs. His shoulders tense with each stroke. His head falls forward, exposing the vulnerable nape of his neck.

I should back away now. Close the door. Pretend I saw nothing.

But then I hear it—my name—breathed like a prayer from his lips.

He doesn't know I'm here. God, he's thinking about me while he—

The realization hits like lightning. The video. My video. That's what's fueling this desperate, private moment. The thought sends a jolt of heat straight between my legs.

I must make some sound—a gasp, maybe—because Will spins around, his eyes wide with panic. Everything freezes: his hand still gripping his cock, my fingers still wrapped around the doorknob. For one perfect moment, we just stare at each other, the tables completely turned.

I can't help it. My eyes drop, taking him in fully. He's bigger than I imagined, thick and hard in his fist. The memory of his public exposure in the parking lot collides with this private moment, and something inside me cracks open.

I step inside and shut the door behind me with a soft click.

"So that's what I do to you," I whisper, surprised by the husky quality of my own voice. "Seeing you like this... it's making me so wet."

Will's panic shifts to something else—relief? Desire? His hand drops away from his cock, but he makes no move to cover himself.

"Lillian," he says, my name again, but different now—soft, steady. "Everything that's happened... it feels like this is where it was supposed to lead. This feels right."

He moves toward me, and I expect to feel threatened, cornered in this small space with a man I've just caught masturbating. Instead, I feel a strange, unfamiliar safety as he cups my face. His touch is gentle, almost reverent.

"Let me show you," he murmurs.

Before I can respond, his lips are on mine. Not demanding or forceful, but questioning. I answer by opening my mouth, letting his tongue slide against mine. His hands move to my waist, walking me backward until I feel the cool metal of the shelving press against my back.

He unzips his pants fully, freeing himself completely. His fingers find the hem of my skirt, drawing it upward. I expect him to tear at my underwear, to rush, but he takes his time, tracing the outline of my pussy through the thin fabric. I'm already embarrassingly wet, the material clinging to me.

"You weren't lying," he says, a note of wonder in his voice. His thumb presses against the damp spot, and my hips buck involuntarily.

"Will, please," I manage, not recognizing the need in my own voice.

He hooks his fingers in my underwear and pulls them down just enough. When he presses a finger inside me, I gasp at how easily it slides in. He adds another, stretching me gently, his thumb finding my clit with unerring accuracy.

"I've thought about this for so long," he confesses, his voice thick. "You don't know how many times I've imagined touching you like this."

His fingers withdraw, and I feel the blunt head of his cock nudging against my entrance. He lifts one of my legs, wrapping it around his waist, opening me up.

"Yes," I breathe, and it's all the permission he needs.

He pushes inside me in one long, slow stroke. The fullness is overwhelming—it's been a while since I've been with someone his size. My inner walls stretch to accommodate him, clenching involuntarily as he bottoms out.

"Fuck," he hisses, holding perfectly still. "You feel incredible."

For a moment, neither of us moves. I'm pinned between the cold metal shelves and his warm body, impaled on his cock, more exposed than I was in that accidental video. More vulnerable than I've allowed myself to be in years.

Then Will begins to move, and coherent thought dissolves. His thrusts are measured at first, finding a rhythm, learning what makes me gasp. When he shifts the angle slightly, hitting a spot deep inside me, my body jerks with pleasure.

"There," I plead, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. "Right there."

He obeys, driving into me with increasing urgency. One hand grips my thigh, keeping it wrapped around him; the other reaches between us to circle my clit with the pad of his thumb.

"I need to feel you come," he says against my throat. "I need to feel what I saw in that video."

The reminder of my exposed moment—the fantasy that was about him—sends a new wave of arousal through me. My body tightens around his cock as tension builds at my core.

"I was thinking about you," I confess, the words torn from me by his relentless pace. "That night. When I recorded that. It was you I was imagining."

Will groans, his rhythm faltering. "Lillian, fuck, you're going to make me—"

"Not yet," I plead, so close to my own edge. "Not until I—"

He presses harder on my clit, circles faster, and I shatter. The orgasm tears through me with unexpected force, my pussy clamping down on his cock as waves of pleasure pulse outward from where we're joined. I cry out, not caring who might hear, as my body convulses around him.

Will follows me over the edge almost immediately, burying his face in my neck to muffle his groan as he empties himself inside me. His hips stutter against mine, pressing me harder into the shelving, which creaks in protest.

We stay locked together for long moments, his cock still pulsing inside me, my inner walls still fluttering with aftershocks. Our breathing gradually slows, syncing without conscious effort.

When he finally eases out of me, I feel a rush of warmth down my inner thigh. Without the distraction of pleasure, I'm suddenly aware of our surroundings—the fluorescent lights, the smell of paper and toner, the absurdity of what we've just done.

But Will's eyes hold no regret as he carefully lowers my skirt. He tucks himself away and zips up, then reaches out to brush a strand of hair from my face.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

The question disarms me completely. Am I okay? I should be horrified by today's events—the video everyone saw, being caught returning to the office, this desperate coupling in a supply closet. Instead, I feel strangely at peace, as if some part of me has been waiting for exactly this moment.

"I'm better than okay," I answer honestly. "I'm..." I search for the word. "Present. I feel present."

Understanding dawns in his eyes. For the first time in my life, I wasn't performing during sex. I wasn't calculating my moans or positioning my body for maximum effect. I was simply feeling.

Will's phone buzzes in his pocket, breaking the moment. He checks it and grimaces.

"Cleaning crew," he says. "They're starting this section in five minutes."

I straighten my clothes, smooth my hair. Will does the same, but his eyes never leave mine. Something fundamental has shifted between us, something that can't be undone or ignored.

As we slip out of the supply closet, careful to avoid the cleaning staff, I wonder what happens next. This wasn't just a hookup. It wasn't just about the video or the exposure or the reversed power dynamic.

It was about being seen—truly seen—for perhaps the first time in my adult life.

For the past two days, we've worked beside each other as if nothing happened. Will at his station, me at mine. Whoever said "don't fuck where you eat" clearly understood the exquisite torture of sitting through budget meetings with someone who's been inside you, someone whose flavor still lingers in your memory.

We pass in the hallway and our eyes meet for a fraction too long. At the coffee machine, his fingers brush mine as I hand him a mug. By afternoon, I'm so keyed up I can barely focus on my screen.

When my phone buzzes at 7:15 PM, I know before I look.

*Conference Room B. 10 minutes.*

My heart pounds as I delete the message. I wait eight minutes—not ten, not five—before gathering my things. I take a detour past the restroom, checking my reflection. My lips look bitten, my eyes too bright. I look exactly like what I am: a woman on her way to something forbidden.

Conference Room B is at the end of the east corridor, rarely used except for overflow meetings. When I push open the heavy door, the room is dark, lit only by the city lights streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. The long oval table gleams like black water.

Will stands by the windows, his profile etched in silver from the cityscape beyond. He turns when he hears the door, but doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. The energy between us fills the space, a living thing.

"Lock it," he says simply.

I turn the deadbolt with a decisive click that echoes in the quiet room. When I face him again, he's moved to the head of the table. His confidence is different from two nights ago—less desperate, more deliberate.

"Come here," he says.

I cross to him, heels silent on the thick carpet. When I'm close enough to touch, he reaches out, his fingers finding the top button of my blouse.

"May I?" he asks.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

One by one, he unfastens each button, his movements unhurried. When my blouse hangs open, he slides it from my shoulders, laying it carefully across the nearest chair. My skirt follows, pooling at my feet.

Standing before him in just my underwear, I feel a flicker of my old instinct to pose, to create a perfect image. But Will's eyes meet mine, not roaming my body, and the urge fades.

"You're beautiful," he says, "but I think you know that." His hands settle on my waist. "What I want to show you tonight is something else entirely."

He lifts me effortlessly onto the cool surface of the conference table. The polished wood is cold against the backs of my thighs, a delicious contrast to the heat building inside me. Will steps between my legs, his hands gentle on my knees, easing them apart.

"I've thought about this," he confesses, his voice rough at the edges. "Ever since I saw your video. The way you touched yourself. The sounds you made. I wanted to know if I could make you feel that good."

His finger traces the edge of my panties, and I shiver. "You already did," I remind him.

His smile is almost shy. "That was...rushed. This won't be."

Will sinks to his knees before me, his face level with my center. My breath catches. Men have gone down on me before—I've directed them to, performed the appropriate appreciation. But something in Will's eyes tells me this will be different.

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my panties, drawing them down my legs with reverent care. I'm completely exposed to him now, my pussy bare under the dim light. I resist the urge to close my legs.

"God, Lillian," he breathes, his warm exhale caressing my sensitive skin. "You're already wet for me."

I am. I have been since his text.

His hands slide up the outsides of my thighs, then gently press them wider. He leans in, and I brace myself for the first touch of his mouth.

When it comes—a long, slow lick from my entrance to my clit—my head falls back, a gasp escaping my lips. He does it again, firmer this time, his tongue flat and broad, tasting all of me.

"You taste even better than I imagined," he murmurs against my flesh.

His tongue circles my clit without touching it directly, teasing, building anticipation. My hips rise involuntarily, seeking more pressure, but his hands hold me steady.

"Patience," he whispers, then dips his tongue inside me.

"Fuck," I whimper, one hand flying to his hair.

Will establishes a rhythm: long licks followed by gentle probing, circling my clit then backing away just when the pleasure peaks. He's disciplined, methodical, like he's following a map of my responses.

Then he changes tactics, sucking my clit between his lips while sliding a finger inside me. The dual sensation makes me cry out, my inner walls clenching around his digit. He adds a second finger, curling them upward, seeking.

When he finds that spot inside me, I nearly come off the table. "There," I gasp. "Right there."

Will increases the pressure of his fingers while his tongue flicks rapidly across my clit. The pleasure builds so quickly I can barely breathe. My thighs begin to tremble, my muscles tightening.

"Will, I'm going to—"

He doesn't stop, doesn't slow down. If anything, his movements become more focused, more precise. His free hand reaches up to my breast, pinching my nipple through my bra, adding a sharp counterpoint to the liquid heat building below.

The orgasm hits like a wave breaking, pleasure radiating from my core and washing through my entire body. I cry out his name, not caring who might hear, as my pussy convulses around his fingers. Will stays with me, his tongue gentling but not stopping, drawing out every last pulse of pleasure until I'm gasping, oversensitive.

When he finally pulls away, his chin is slick with my arousal. He looks up at me with dark eyes, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and hunger.

"That was just the first one," he promises.

Before I can process what he means, his mouth is on me again, more insistent now. His tongue traces lazy circles around my still-throbbing clit while a third finger joins the others inside me. The stretch is exquisite, bordering on too much.

"I can't," I protest weakly, even as my body responds, growing wetter around his fingers.

"You can," he counters. "I've researched this, Lillian. The female body is capable of multiple orgasms, especially when properly stimulated."

The realization that he's studied this—prepared for this moment—sends a fresh rush of arousal through me. No man has ever put in this kind of effort just to please me.

Will works me expertly, building me toward a second peak faster than I thought possible. This time, when I come, it's with a silent scream, my body arching off the table, my fingers clutching the edge for support. The pleasure is so intense it borders on pain, my vision blurring at the edges.

He guides me through the aftershocks, his touch gentling as I come down. When he finally withdraws his fingers, I feel empty, bereft.

Will rises from his knees, his erection visible through his pants, but he makes no move to free himself. Instead, he helps me slide off the table, my legs so wobbly I nearly collapse against him.

We end up on the floor, the plush carpet cushioning our bodies. I'm limp, sated in a way I've never experienced before. Will gathers me against him, one hand stroking my hair.

"That was..." I search for words and find none adequate.

"I know," he says softly.

We lie in silence, my head on his chest, his heartbeat gradually slowing beneath my ear. The city continues to pulse outside the windows, cars and people moving through the night, unaware of the seismic shift happening thirty floors above them.

I should offer to reciprocate. Should reach for his belt, take him in my mouth. It's what I would normally do—maintain the balance, ensure no one has power over me.

But I don't move. For once, I let myself simply receive. The realization strikes me: in surrendering control, I've found a different kind of power.

When Will finally speaks, his voice rumbles under my ear. "It's late. Let me drive you home."