I grin as I glance at my watch, fully aware that JD is currently engaged in a Zoom meeting. I knock gently on the door, smoothing the fabric of my skirt as anticipation bubbles within me. My smile widens uncontrollably when he finally opens the door.

“Shh, I’m in a meeting,” he whispers, a finger pressed to his lips, as he quickly unmutes the call and gestures for me to step inside his office. The room is filled with the soft hum of voices from the computer screen, and I observe him as he returns to his seat at the desk. I casually perch on the edge, crossing my legs with a playful ease, allowing my skirt to slide subtly up my thighs, revealing just a hint more skin.

I deliberately and with measured patience unfasten the top two buttons of my blouse, ensuring that his gaze meets mine before proceeding further. As the final button slips free, I allow the blouse to cascade onto his desk gracefully. With a playful smirk, I glide off the desk's edge and begin the gradual descent of my skirt's zipper, savoring the moment before it gently lands on the floor. A mischievous smile dances across my lips, undeniable, as he battles to maintain his concentration amidst the ongoing meeting.

His eyes widen, darting between my lingerie-clad body and the screen of colleagues who remain blissfully unaware. I can see the strain in his jaw as he attempts to formulate coherent responses to whatever business matter they're discussing. I trail my fingertips along the edge of his desk, circling behind his chair with deliberate slowness.

"The quarterly projections are... um, looking promising," he manages, his voice an octave higher than usual.

I lean in close, my breath warming his ear, my hands sliding down his shoulders. His body tenses beneath my touch. Someone on the call asks him a direct question, and I watch with amusement as he struggles to compose himself.

"Could you repeat that?" he asks, shooting me a look that's equal parts warning and desire.

I respond by pressing my lips to his neck, just below his earlobe. His sharp intake of breath is barely audible, but I feel his pulse quicken beneath my kiss. His hand finds my wrist, fingers wrapping around it in a gentle but firm grip—a silent plea for mercy that I have no intention of honoring.

"Yes, the Henderson account," he says into his headset, his voice strained as I nibble the sensitive spot just behind his ear. "We should definitely... definitely move forward with that strategy."

I can hear a woman's voice through his speakers asking about timeline specifics, and I seize the moment to slip around to face him, positioning myself between his knees. His eyes lock onto mine, wide with a mixture of panic and arousal as I slowly sink to my knees beside his chair.

"Timeline?" he repeats, his voice cracking slightly. "I think... I think we're looking at a six-week implementation."

My fingers find the buttons of his shirt, working them one by one with deliberate precision. Each button that comes undone seems to correspond with another crack in his professional facade. I can see his knuckles whitening as he grips the armrests of his chair.

"Actually, make that eight weeks," he corrects himself hastily, clearing his throat as my palms spread across his chest. "We want to ensure... ensure quality control."

A male voice from the meeting chuckles. "Always the perfectionist, JD. That's why we trust your judgment."

If only they knew how imperfect his judgment was right now, I think, as I trace lazy circles across his skin. His breathing becomes more labored, and I notice how he's angled his camera to show only his face and shoulders. Smart man.

"Are there any other concerns we should address?" he asks, and I can hear the desperate hope in his voice that the meeting might end soon.

"Just one more thing," a disembodied voice responds, and I notice JD's shoulders slump slightly with disappointment. "The client wants to schedule a follow-up next week."

I slide my hand lower, tracing the waistband of his pants with feather-light touches. His abdomen tenses beneath my fingertips, and he shifts in his chair, eyes pleading with me even as he nods professionally at the screen.

"That works for me," he manages, voice admirably steady. "Tuesday afternoon?"

As the meeting participants debate scheduling options, I lean in closer, my lips brushing against his ear as I whisper, "I wonder how long you can keep this up."

He mutes himself for a split second. "You're impossible," he breathes, before unmuting with practiced efficiency.

"Sorry about that, had to clear my throat," he explains to his colleagues, while giving me a look that could melt steel. I respond with an innocent smile, tracing my finger along his jawline.

"So we're agreed then," comes a brisk voice from the laptop. "Tuesday at three."

"Perfect," JD replies, his voice impressively controlled despite my hand now resting on his thigh, inching higher with each passing second. "I'll send the calendar invites right after this call."

I can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the slight sheen of perspiration forming at his temples. His self-control is admirable, but I'm determined to test its limits. I lean forward, letting my hair cascade over his lap as I press my lips to his knee, then begin a slow, deliberate trail of kisses up his thigh.

"Before we wrap up," another voice chimes in, and JD's leg muscles tense beneath my touch, "can you walk us through the specifics of the Henderson deliverables one more time?"

JD's fingers find my hair, tangling gently yet urgently, a silent communication I choose to misinterpret deliberately. Instead of pulling away, I continue my upward journey, my lips leaving a trail of heat through the fabric of his pants.

"The deliverables," he repeats, voice thick. "Right. We're looking at a comprehensive package including market analysis, competitive positioning, and—" He pauses abruptly as my fingers find his belt buckle. "And strategic recommendations," he finishes in a rush.

I work the leather free with practiced ease, the soft clink of metal barely audible. His hand tightens in my hair, a warning I acknowledge with nothing more than a mischievous glance upward. His eyes are dark now, pupils dilated, a muscle working in his jaw.

"That sounds thorough," remarks someone from the call. "Will you be handling the presentation yourself?"

I slide the zipper down with excruciating slowness, each tooth releasing with a faint sound that seems thunderous in my ears, though surely inaudible to anyone on the call.

"Yes," JD confirms, his voice impressively steady despite the slight tremor I can feel beneath my fingertips. "I always present the final recommendations personally."

His free hand moves from my hair to my shoulder, applying gentle pressure—another silent plea I choose to ignore. Instead, I hook my fingers into the waistband of his boxers, my touch deliberate and teasing.

"That's what we appreciate about you, JD," says a female voice. "Your personal touch."

I have to bite my lip to suppress a laugh at the irony. JD's eyes narrow at me, recognizing my amusement, but his expression quickly shifts back to professional composure as someone else begins speaking.

"One last question about the budget allocation," the voice continues, and I watch JD's face fall slightly at the prospect of an extended discussion.

I take advantage of his momentary distraction, my fingers sliding beneath the cotton fabric. His breath catches audibly, and he quickly covers it with a cough.

"Excuse me," he says into his headset. "Allergies."

"Oh, I hate that," sympathizes one of his colleagues. "The pollen count has been terrible this week."

If only they knew what was really affecting his breathing. I can feel his pulse racing as I explore with gentle, teasing touches. His grip on my shoulder tightens, knuckles white with restraint.

"About that budget," he prompts, clearly desperate to keep the conversation moving forward and away from his current predicament.

"Right," the voice continues. "We're looking at a fifteen percent increase from last quarter. Is that feasible within our current constraints?"

JD's breathing has become shallow, his abdomen tensing as I continue my intimate exploration. I wrap my fingers around him with deliberate slowness, reveling in his barely contained reaction.

"Absolutely," he manages, the word slightly strained. "The—the increase is justified by the expanded scope. We can easily accommodate it within the existing framework."

I establish a rhythm now, gentle but insistent. His free hand moves to the desk, gripping the edge so tightly his knuckles blanch. A bead of sweat traces a path down his temple.

"Excellent," says another voice. "I think that covers everything for today unless anyone has anything else?"

The silence that follows is filled with possibility. JD's eyes close briefly in what I can only assume is in silent prayer. My movements become more deliberate, and I feel him responding despite his valiant efforts at control.

"Actually," comes a voice that makes JD's eyes snap open in horror, "I do have one more item."

The groan that escapes him is barely audible, but I catch it. His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining in what could be interpreted as affection but feels more like desperation.

"Of course, Margaret," he says, his voice remarkably composed given my current ministrations. "What can I help clarify?"

I pause my movements just long enough to see relief flicker across his features, then resume with renewed purpose. His jaw clenches, and I watch him struggle to maintain his professional demeanor.

"It's about the client retention metrics," Margaret continues, oblivious to the torture she's inflicting. "I'm seeing some inconsistencies in the quarterly reports that need addressing."

JD's eyes roll back slightly before he catches himself, refocusing on the screen with herculean effort. I can feel the tension coiling through his entire body as I vary my pace, alternating between torturously slow and deliberately firm.

"Which... which specific metrics are you referring to?" he asks, his voice barely betraying the tremor I can feel running through him.

I lean closer, my breath hot against his skin as I work. His free hand moves to cover his mouth, ostensibly in thought, but I know it's to muffle any sounds that might escape.

"The retention rates for the premium tier clients," Margaret explains in excruciating detail. "They don't align with the projections we discussed last month."

His hips shift almost imperceptibly, and I can tell he's fighting every instinct. A flush has crept up his neck, reaching toward his jawline despite his efforts to remain composed. I can feel his pulse thundering beneath my touch as I maintain my relentless rhythm.

"The premium tier," he repeats, his voice catching slightly on the words. "Yes, I see the... the discrepancy you're referring to."

I shift my position slightly, and his breath hitches. His eyes dart to me with a mixture of warning and pleading, but I simply smile and continue my focused attention.

"Can you walk me through your methodology?" Margaret presses on, completely unaware of the exquisite torture she's prolonging.

JD's hand tightens on the desk edge, his knuckles now completely white. A muscle in his temple twitches as he struggles to formulate a coherent response while I increase the pressure of my touch.

"The methodology," he manages, voice strained. "We used a... a

"The methodology," he manages, voice strained. "We used a... a comprehensive tracking system that monitors client engagement across multiple touchpoints."

His breathing grows more labored as I increase my pace, watching his composure crack with each deliberate stroke. A slight tremor runs through his leg, and I can see him fighting to keep his voice level.

"That sounds reasonable," Margaret replies, "but I'm still not seeing how you accounted for the seasonal fluctuations."

JD's eyes flutter closed for just a moment before snapping back open. His grip on my hand tightens desperately as he struggles to focus on her question.

"Seasonal... yes," he breathes, clearing his throat roughly. "We factored in the typical Q3 decline and adjusted our baseline accordingly."

I can feel him getting closer to the edge, his body tensing beneath my relentless attention.

I notice his breathing has become increasingly ragged, and there's a desperate quality to the way his fingers grip the edge of his desk. His professional mask is slipping, small cracks appearing in his composure despite his valiant efforts.

"The baseline adjustment makes sense," Margaret continues, her voice droning on through the speakers. "But what about the impact of the new competitor that entered the market in July?"

JD's eyes widen slightly, and I can see panic flicker across his features. He's clearly struggling to process the question while managing the sensations I'm creating. His lips part slightly, and for a moment, no sound emerges.

"The... the new competitor," he finally manages, his voice rougher now. "We accounted for approximately a three percent market share impact in our calculations."

I can feel the tension building in his body, every muscle taut with restraint. His breathing has become shallow and uneven, each exhale carrying the barest hint of a groan that only I can detect. The slight tremor in his thigh betrays how close he is to losing control.

"Only three percent?" Margaret sounds skeptical. "Their aggressive pricing structure suggests a much larger potential impact."

JD's eyes lock with mine, a silent plea swimming in their depths. I slow my movements momentarily, giving him a brief respite to gather his thoughts. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he struggles to regulate his breathing.

"You make an excellent point," he manages, voice steadier than I expected. "However, our customer loyalty metrics indicate stronger brand attachment than the industry average. We're projecting minimal attrition despite the competitive pricing."

As a reward for his impressive recovery, I resume my previous rhythm, adding a twist that makes his jaw clench visibly. A bead of sweat traces a path from his temple down his chest.

"I see," Margaret replies, seemingly satisfied with his explanation. "That's reassuring. I think that covers all my concerns."

I can feel JD trembling now, his entire body rigid with the effort of maintaining control. His eyes have darkened to an impossible shade, pupils blown wide with desire and desperation.

"Great," he says, the word barely audible. "If there's nothing else..."

"I think we're good," chimes in another voice. "Thanks for your time, everyone."

"Have a good weekend," JD manages, his voice strained to breaking point.

The moment the call ends, his hand slams down on the keyboard, disconnecting with such force I'm surprised the laptop survives. In one fluid motion, he pulls me up from my knees and onto his lap, his mouth crashing against mine with a hunger that takes my breath away.

"You," he growls against my lips, "are absolutely wicked."

His hands are everywhere at once, desperate and demanding after the exquisite torture I've inflicted. The professional restraint he maintained throughout the call has vanished completely, replaced by raw, unbridled need.

"I almost lost it when Margaret started talking about metrics," he groans, his fingers tangling in my hair as he pulls me closer. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

I laugh against his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss. "I have a pretty good idea," I murmur, shifting my hips deliberately against him. "Based on the evidence."

His grip tightens on my waist, and in one powerful movement, he stands, lifting me with him. My legs wrap instinctively around his hips as he carries me toward the wall, pinning me against it with delicious force. The cool surface against my bare back sends shivers through me as his mouth trails fire down my neck. His hands explore with urgent hunger, making up for all the restraint he was forced to show during that agonizing meeting.

"Twenty-three minutes," he breathes against my collarbone. "Twenty-three minutes of pure torture."

I arch into him, my fingers working at the remaining buttons of his shirt. "Worth the wait, though, wasn't it?"

His laugh is dark and full of promise. "We'll see about that."

His mouth finds mine again, and I can taste the desperation that built during those excruciating minutes when he couldn't touch me, couldn't react, couldn't do anything but sit there and pretend to care about quarterly projections while I drove him to the very edge of sanity.

"Next time," he murmurs against my lips, his hands sliding up my thighs, "I’m turning off my phone."

I gasp as his fingers find the edge of my lingerie, his touch electric after the prolonged anticipation. "Where's the fun in that?" I manage to whisper, my voice breathless as he traces patterns that make my thoughts scatter.

"Fun?" His eyes flash with mischief and desire. "You want to talk about fun?"

Before I can respond, he's carrying me to his desk, sweeping papers and pens to the floor with reckless abandon. The quarterly reports that seemed so important moments ago flutter uselessly to the ground as he sets me down on the smooth wooden surface.

"You made me sit through Margaret's dissertation on customer retention metrics," he says, his voice low and dangerous as he positions himself between my knees. "While you were..."

His words trail off as his hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing against the delicate lace of my bra. The delicate fabric feels impossibly thin under his touch, and I arch into him, desperate for more contact after the prolonged teasing.

"While I was what?" I challenge breathlessly, my hands fisting in his open shirt.

"Driving me absolutely mad," he finishes, his mouth finding the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. "I couldn't think straight. Margaret asked me the same question twice, and I didn't even notice."

His confession sends a thrill through me. I pull his face up to mine, studying the flush across his cheekbones, the way his chest rises and falls with barely controlled breathing.

"Good," I whisper against his lips. "That was exactly the point."

He makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl, his hands sliding around to the clasp of my bra. "My turn," he murmurs, and there's a promise in those words that makes my pulse race even faster.

The delicate lace falls away, and his eyes darken as they drink me in. His hands are reverent now, a stark contrast to the desperate urgency of moments before. He traces the curve of my waist with his fingertips, watching goosebumps rise in their wake.

"You have no idea how hard it was to concentrate," he whispers, his breath hot against my skin. "Every time you moved, every time you touched me..."

His mouth follows the path his hands blazed, and I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him close. The edge of the desk presses into my back, but I barely notice—all my attention is focused on the way he's worshipping my body with a devotion that borders on religious.

"JD," I breathe, and his name on my lips seems to undo something in him.

He captures my lips in a kiss that's both tender and consuming, his hands framing my face as if I'm something precious. The contrast between his gentle touch and the raw hunger in his eyes sends heat coursing through my veins.

"Say it again," he murmurs against my mouth, and I can feel his smile.

"JD," I whisper, deliberately drawing out each letter, and I'm rewarded with the way his breathing hitches.

His hands slide down to my hips, pulling me to the very edge of the desk until there's no space between us. The remaining barriers of fabric feel like too much, and I can tell from the way his fingers hook into the waistband of my panties that he agrees.

"These need to go," he says, his voice rough with want.

I lift my hips to help him, and the delicate lace joins the growing pile of discarded clothing on the floor. The cool air against my heated skin makes me shiver, but his hands are there immediately, warming every inch they touch. His shirt soon follows, revealing the planes of his chest that I'd been exploring earlier.

"That meeting," he murmurs, trailing kisses down my neck, "was the longest twenty-three minutes of my life."

"Poor baby," I tease, my fingers working at his belt again, this time with no intention of stopping. "Having to multitask like that."

He laughs against my skin, the vibration sending delicious ripples through me. "Multitask? I couldn't focus on a single word. Do you know I agreed to present the Henderson account myself? That's a four-hour drive upstate."

"Worth it," I breathe as his pants join mine on the floor. "For science."

"Science?" His eyebrow arches as his hands slide to the small of my back, drawing me impossibly closer. "Is that what we're calling this experiment?"

"Mmm," I hum against his mouth. "Testing the limits of professional composure under extreme conditions."

His laugh is low and throaty, vibrating against my skin where his lips press to my collarbone. "And what's your hypothesis, Dr. Troublemaker?"

"That even the most disciplined executive," I gasp as his teeth graze a particularly sensitive spot, "has a breaking point."

"Hypothesis confirmed," he growls, lifting me effortlessly from the desk. My legs wrap around his waist as he carries me across the room, his mouth never leaving mine. "Data collection complete."

We collide with the bookshelf, sending a framed award clattering to the carpet. Neither of us spares it a glance. His hands are everywhere, mapping territories already claimed, and I arch into his touch with a desperation that matches his own. The leather-bound volumes behind me press into my back, but I'm beyond caring about anything except the heat building between us.

"You realize," he pants against my throat, "I have another call in an hour."

"Then we better make this count," I murmur, nipping at his earlobe in a way that makes him groan.

He spins us away from the bookshelf, and suddenly I'm pressed against the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the city. The glass is cool against my flushed skin, a stark contrast to the fire of his touch. Somewhere in the rational part of my mind, I'm aware we're on the fifteenth floor, but rational thought is a luxury I can't afford right now.

"Someone could see," I whisper, though I make no move to step away.

His eyes darken at my words, a wicked smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Let them," he breathes, his hands sliding possessively over my curves. "Let them see how beautiful you are when you come undone."

The exhibitionist thrill sends a jolt of electricity through me, and I pull him closer, our bodies fitting together like pieces of a puzzle finally solved. The anticipation that's been building since I first knocked on his door reaches a fever pitch as he positions himself at my entrance.

"Please," I whisper, the word escaping before I can stop it.

He pauses, studying my face with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "Please, what?" he asks, his voice rough with restraint.

"Please don't make me wait anymore," I confess, vulnerability threading through my desire.

His expression softens for just a moment before the hunger returns, and he enters me slowly, reverently, his eyes never leaving mine. The sensation is overwhelming after all the teasing, all the waiting, and I cry out softly against his shoulder.

"God, you feel incredible," he breathes, his forehead resting against mine as he stills, letting me adjust to him.

The city sprawls below us, oblivious to our intimate moment suspended high above the chaos. His hands cradle my face as he begins to move, each thrust deliberate and deep, making up for every agonizing minute I made him suffer through that meeting.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he murmurs, his voice strained with pleasure. "To drive me so crazy I couldn't think about anything but this."

I nod, unable to form words as he finds a rhythm that makes my toes curl.

I nod, unable to form words as he finds a rhythm that makes my toes curl. Every nerve ending feels electrified, the tension that built during those torturous meeting minutes finally finding its release. My nails dig into his shoulders as he moves against me, the glass cool against my back providing a sharp contrast to the heat radiating between us.

"Answer me," he demands softly, his pace slowing to something almost unbearable.

"Yes," I gasp, arching into him. "I wanted to see you lose control."

His smile is triumphant and wicked. "Mission accomplished," he growls, his movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. "But now it's my turn to make you fall apart."

His hand slides between us, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves with practiced precision. The dual sensation makes me cry out, my head falling back against the window as waves of pleasure crash over me. The tension that had been coiling tight in my core begins to unravel, threatening to consume me entirely.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough with desire. "I want to see your face when you come."

My eyes flutter open to meet his, dark and intense, burning with the same need that's consuming me. The vulnerability of being so exposed, so completely at his mercy after orchestrating his own torment, sends another wave of heat through me.

"JD," I breathe his name like a prayer, feeling myself teetering on the precipice.

"That's it," he encourages, his movements becoming more urgent. "Let go for me."

The world narrows to just this moment, this feeling, this man who's claiming me so completely. My release builds like a crescendo, every muscle in my body tensing as I approach the edge.

"I can't—"

"Yes," I gasp, arching into him. "I wanted to see you lose control."

His smile is triumphant and wicked. "Mission accomplished," he growls, his movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. "But now it's my turn to make you fall apart."

His hand slides between us, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves with practiced precision. The dual sensation makes me cry out, my head falling back against the window as waves of pleasure crash over me.

The city below becomes a blur of lights and colors, blending together like an abstract painting as I teeter on the edge of orgasm. His name escapes my lips in a whispered litany, synonymous with pleasure and need. His fingers and hips set a relentless pace, merciless in his pursuit of my undoing.

"That's it," he encourages, watching my face intently as I climb higher. "I felt this same desperation for twenty-three minutes. Now you know how it feels."

The comparison sends a shock through me—the idea that he experienced this same exquisite torture while maintaining his professional facade. My body responds to the thought, muscles tensing as the pressure builds to an almost unbearable peak.

"Please," I whisper, the same word I forced from his lips during that endless meeting.

"Not yet," he says, slowing his movements just enough to keep me suspended on the precipice. "Tell me you're sorry for what you did to me."

Even through the haze of pleasure, I manage a breathless laugh. "Never."

His eyes flash with admiration and challenge. "Then you can wait a little longer."

The game continues, this delicious push and pull between us, until I'm trembling with need.

"Fine," I gasp, desperation winning over pride. "I'm sorry for torturing you during your meeting."

His smirk tells me he knows I don't mean it, but he accepts the surrender anyway. "Good girl," he murmurs, his movements resuming their earlier intensity.

The pressure builds again, faster this time, like a wave gathering strength before crashing to shore. His eyes never leave mine, watching every subtle change in my expression as I climb higher.

"Now," he commands, his voice rough with his own approaching climax. "Come for me now."

My body obeys as if it were made to follow his instructions. The orgasm hits with stunning force, radiating outward from my core in waves that leave me gasping his name. My vision blurs, the city lights below smearing into streaks of gold and white as pleasure overwhelms my senses.

He follows me over the edge, his release triggered by the sight of my undoing. His forehead presses against mine as he groans my name, his body shuddering against me. For several heartbeats, we remain locked together, our ragged breathing the only sound in the office.

"Christ," he finally manages, his voice hoarse. "That was..."

"Worth the wait?" I supply, a lazy smile spreading across my face.

He laughs softly, pressing a tender kiss to my temple. "Definitely. Though I'm not sure my career will survive many more meetings like that."

I trace idle patterns on his chest, feeling his heartbeat gradually slow beneath my fingertips. "Maybe next time we should try a conference call instead. No video."

"Don't even think about it," he warns, though his eyes sparkle with amusement. "I'll never be able to discuss quarterly projections with a straight face again."

I stretch languidly against him, enjoying the way his arms tighten around me protectively. "That's the point. I like seeing you flustered."

"Flustered?" He pulls back to look at me with mock indignation. "I maintained perfect composure throughout that entire call."

"Perfect composure?" I raise an eyebrow. "You agreed to drive four hours upstate for a presentation."

His expression shifts to one of genuine concern. "Shit. I did, didn't I?"

"And you told Margaret the timeline was six weeks, then changed it to eight."

"Double shit." He runs a hand through his disheveled hair. "I'll have to send some very carefully worded follow-up emails."

I can't help but laugh at his predicament. "Maybe blame it on allergies again. Very distracting, those seasonal allergens."