It was the perfect weather for what I had planned: overcast, a soft drizzle falling like whispers. The streets were calm, hushed—an eerie contrast to the storm unfurling inside me. Each step I took sent the sharp click of black heels echoing off the wet concrete, trailing heat up my spine.

Or maybe that heat was from what I wasn’t wearing.

The trench coat clung to my body, cinched tight at the waist, guarding the secret beneath. With every movement, the soft fur lining kissed bare skin, each stroke a tease—electric and wicked. I felt exposed. But I felt alive.

The hem flirted with the tops of my knees. Each sway of my hips offered a flash of thigh, hinting at the nothingness beneath. The stockings were strategic—just polished enough to pass as modest, just sheer enough to lie.

I didn’t want everyone to see. I wanted him to see.

My husband—overworked, overstretched, buried beneath deadlines and duty. I gave what I could, and he did too, but still… sometimes want goes unanswered.

And what’s a girl to do when she’s aching for cock and tired of waiting?

Strip down. Slip into her fuck-me heels. Wrap herself in want and a trench coat. Then show up at his office like she’s the only meeting worth taking.

The glass doors parted, welcoming me with a soft breath of heat. Rain clung to my skin, cool against the building’s warmth. I brushed droplets from my face as I approached the receptionist.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” she said, all polite efficiency.

“Yes, hello…” I tried to sound casual—cool, collected—as if I weren’t dripping desire beneath my coat. “I’m looking for my—”

“Erica?”

His voice cut through the air—low, familiar. Like being wrapped in a blanket still scented with sleep and coffee.

I turned, slow and deliberate.

There he was. Michael. My husband.

Dark navy slacks. Crisp white shirt. Sleeves rolled just enough to show those forearms. The tie I’d knotted this morning still sat snug at his throat. He looked a little worn—but his eyes caught mine and lit up. Surprise. Then warmth. Then adoration.

We both stepped forward, but I paused, lifting my hands slightly. “Wait—I’m soaked,” I said, motioning to my coat… and what it barely covered.

“I don’t care.”

He pulled me into him, arms strong around my waist, his heat washing over me. Familiar. Missed. For a breath, I forgot where we were.

When he eased back, his hands stayed put—dangerously close to discovering everything.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

I smiled up at him, fingers toying with the knot at my waist. “Didn’t you check your calendar?” I asked, pouting just enough to tempt.

He pulled out his phone, thumb gliding. A chuckle escaped. “An 11:30 meeting with a ‘mysterious woman’?” His eyes flicked up, grin spreading. “You’re not mysterious. Maybe a little suspicious…”

I slipped my hand into his and tugged gently. “C’mon,” I said. “Show me your office.”

He followed close, letting my hand drift free as his touch returned to the small of my back—light, guiding. Both leading and being led.

We crossed the marble lobby, the soft echo of my heels trailing behind us. Subtle, but present. Just enough for him to notice.

As the elevator doors closed, his gaze dipped.

Black patent stilettos. Red soles. A quiet confession.

He didn’t speak—but his jaw ticked, then softened.

I met his eyes, lips curling into a knowing smile, burgundy and bold. The elevator pinged, and I stepped out. He followed, quick and close, guiding me down the hall.

“Michael—good afternoon.”

His boss. David. Mid-fifties. Impeccable suit. Movie-star charm. And eyes that missed nothing.

Michael inhaled sharply, straightening. “Afternoon, sir.”

David’s gaze slid to me. “And who is this captivating creature?”

I stepped in before Michael could answer, extending a hand with practiced grace. “Erica. His wife. We met at the holiday party.”

My smile balanced charm and restraint—warm enough to disarm, cool enough to intrigue. I felt Michael’s hand settle tighter at my waist. A silent claim.

“Right, right…” David squinted slightly, recalling. “You always dress to impress, don’t you?”

He held my hand just a second too long.

My pulse skipped. Did he know? No. Couldn’t.

“To stun,” I replied, eyes flicking down his suit, then back to meet his with a hint of heat.

Michael cleared his throat. “We were just heading to my office.”

David stepped aside with a grin. “Carry on. You can bump that noon report to two,” he added with a wink before turning to flag someone down.

Once alone, Michael gave me a sideways glance. “Maybe you are the mysterious woman…”

I didn’t answer. Just smiled and moved ahead, eyes drifting to the plaque with his name in gold. I could feel him watching—the hem of my coat swaying like punctuation to an unspoken promise.

He caught up quickly, gentlemanly as ever, opening the door for me—still unaware of the meeting he was about to attend.

His office was drenched in soft daylight. Rain streaked down the window behind his desk, droplets racing toward the sill, casting the skyline in a hushed blur. There was no privacy—just the city, blurred and watching. Papers were scattered, boxes stacked in corners. Organized chaos. His kind of order.

And mine.

The door clicked shut behind him. He moved toward a lounge chair cluttered with folders, brushing a box aside. “So,” he said, glancing back, “care to share what this meeting’s about?”

I turned the lock. A soft sound—but final. A boundary drawn between the world and us. He looked up, hands braced on the box’s edge. His forearms flexed with the motion. Then he froze. I stepped forward.

One hand reached for the knot at my waist. The belt loosened. The coat gave way. Fur teased against my skin, a whisper of heat meeting the room’s chill as the opening widened.

“Consider this a team-building exercise,” I said, tone light, playful.

Another step. My fingers curled into the coat’s seams.

“Or, if you prefer…”

I pulled it open, letting him see everything I hadn’t worn for him.

“…a mandatory fun event.”

His lips parted, breath catching. His eyes traced every curve, as if memorizing me cell by cell. He let out a soft chuckle, awed—but it was brief.

Hunger took over.

I let the coat fall. It pooled at my feet in a soft heap as I closed the space between us. One of the boxes slipped from his hand, bumping between us, pressing into my hips—but neither of us moved to correct it.

Then his mouth was on mine.

Starving. Claiming. Like we hadn’t touched in years, even if it had only been weeks.

In one fluid movement, he turned us, pressing me against the cold glass. The shock of it sliced through me, and I gasped, fingers fumbling at his belt—desperate, practiced, undone.

His lips trailed down to my neck, gentle at first.

Then a bite.

A sharp whimper broke from me, caught behind my teeth. Swallowed with a shiver.

“Fuck me like you own me,” I gasped.

Michael’s hand slid between my thighs. His fingers found my slick heat, gliding through folds he knew as well as his own breath. When he passed over my clit—slow, focused—I buckled, knees threatening to give.

I clawed at his zipper, frantic. But he made it impossible—his touch anchoring me in the fire he was stoking.

I needed him. Not eventually.

Now.

“You’re soaked. Were you like this the second you walked in?” His voice was low, breathless.

“The moment I walked out the door,” I murmured, laughing softly.

His hands clamped around my ass, lifting me like I weighed nothing. My legs wrapped around him on instinct, and he carried me across the office. My ass hit the desk, keys clacking nonsense beneath me as we both snickered through the rush.

I shoved the keyboard aside. Papers scattered like confetti.

He stepped back, lips wet from our kiss, eyes locked on mine as I slowly lifted my legs—spreading just enough to invite him in.

Cool fingers dipped to his zipper. He freed his cock—thick, flushed, aching. I licked my lips, torn between wanting a taste or needing to be filled.

A voice echoed faintly from the hallway. We froze—just for a second—eyes flicking toward the sound. The door was locked. Still, the thrill of it lingered.

A taste would have to wait.

We were on a deadline. And we’re very punctual people.

I reached for his tie, wrapping it around my fingers like reins. I pulled him back in. Our lips crashed again—wet, helpless, hungry.

The warm head of his cock nudged against me. Teasing. Testing.

He smiled.

That fucker was teasing me.

I wrapped my hand around him, squeezing just enough to draw a groan low into my ear. “I’m not waiting,” I whispered, legs locking around his waist as I guided him home.

My slick heat parted for him, slow and greedy, stretching to take every inch. One perfect push, and he was buried deep.

We sighed—together.

His slacks brushed my thighs, that subtle friction sparking along nerve endings already raw with want.

For a moment, we didn’t move. Just breathed.

Together again.

“God, I missed you,” I whispered.

His answer came with his hips.

He began to thrust—deep, steady, deliberate. Each one carving pleasure into my core, pulling it through me like a slow current.

I held onto his tie, a tether, and a dare. His hands gripped my thighs—anchoring, claiming.

I reached between my legs. Fingers brushed the soft strip above my clit—his favorite, always kept just the way he liked. I found the swollen bud, slick and aching, and rubbed in slow, tight circles, syncing to the rhythm of his thrusts.

Each stroke. Each touch. Tighter. Hotter.

Closer.

My legs cinched around his waist, keeping him right there—no more than I needed, no less than I could take. Each drive of his hips struck that perfect place inside me, winding my body up, tension coiling tighter with every breath.

“God, you’re made for this—made to take my cock,” he growled through gritted teeth.

My hand slipped from his tie, clamping over my mouth as I nodded—silent, desperate, fingers still working my cunt while he drove into me with relentless, perfect precision. My legs trembled. The orgasm was already building—rising like a wave I had no chance of outrunning.

Then his hand wrapped around my throat. Firm. Controlled. The pressure coaxing me closer.

A guttural groan ripped through me, muffled behind my palm, as my body began to shake.

He didn’t stop.

I pulled my hand away, braced against his chest—but his thumb replaced mine, circling my clit with maddening accuracy.

I clenched around him, greedy, aching. Every thrust tore pleasure through me like aftershocks.

He leaned in, forehead pressed to mine, his weight grounding me. I could feel every staggered breath, every strain of muscle. He was close.

So fucking close.

“My pussy’s starving for you,” I whispered, voice hoarse and cracking. “Ruin me.”

Something snapped.

His hands seized my waist, fingers digging deep as his hips pounded into me with wild, frantic hunger. He buried his face in my neck, groaning with every thrust—each one rougher, deeper, more frantic than the last.

My legs, still trembling from the quake of release, locked around him, holding him in. Keeping him.

His rhythm faltered. Stuttered. A strangled sound. A grunt.

And I felt it—his cock pulsing deep inside me, thick ropes of heat spilling into my already flooded cunt. I held him tight, clenching around him, refusing to let go.

I didn’t want him to pull out.

Not until he gave me everything.

…Silence…

Just the sound of our breathing, tangled and uneven… and the soft, indifferent hum of the office A/C.

Our lips found each other again—slower now. Tender. The kind of kiss that lingers after the storm.

When he pulled back, he didn’t go far. His hand rested lightly over my heart. He smiled. And in the quiet that followed, we both understood.

This wasn’t just sex.

This was remembering.

Time never gives us what we need.

So we take it.

“Are you free for lunch?” I asked, voice ragged but playful.

“For you?” he said, helping me down from the desk—pants undone, tie loosened, the both of us wrecked but radiant. “I’m always free.”