Boss's Wife Craves Forbidden Office Quickie

Jake had been grinding away at Harlan & Associates for two years, climbing the ladder with nothing but ambition and a killer work ethic. At 25, he was the youngest senior analyst, the guy everyone turned to when spreadsheets turned into nightmares. But fuck the spreadsheets—his real obsession was Elena Harlan, the boss's wife. Thirty-two, with curves that could make a priest renounce his vows, she sauntered into the office every couple of weeks like she owned the place. Which, technically, she kind of did, since Mr. Harlan's success was half-built on her sultry arm candy status at every gala and client dinner.

Elena was a vision in those tight dresses—today's number was a red sheath that hugged her full tits and flared just enough over her wide hips to tease the outline of her ass. Her dark hair cascaded in waves, lips painted crimson, eyes smoldering like she knew exactly what filthy thoughts she inspired. Jake had jerked off to the mental image of her more times than he could count, imagining peeling that dress off and bending her over his desk while stern old Mr. Harlan droned on in meetings. Harlan was pushing 50, balding, with a gut from too many expense-account steaks, oblivious to how his wife eyed the younger staff like fresh meat.

It was after hours on a Friday, the office a ghost town except for the glow from Harlan's corner office down the hall. Jake was restocking the supply closet—printer paper, toner cartridges, the mundane bullshit that kept him late—when the door creaked open. He turned, and there she was: Elena, heels clicking on the linoleum, her dress riding up just a fraction as she stepped in and pulled the door shut behind her.

"Jake," she purred, voice low and husky, like velvet dragged over gravel. "Fancy finding you here all alone."

His heart slammed into overdrive. "Mrs. Harlan—Elena. What are you doing back here? Your husband's still at his desk."

She smiled, wicked and knowing, locking the door with a soft click. The closet was cramped—shelves stacked floor-to-ceiling with office crap, barely room for two people without touching. "He's buried in reports. Won't miss me for a few minutes." She stepped closer, her perfume—something spicy and intoxicating—flooding his senses. "I've seen you watching me, Jake. Every time I visit. Those hungry eyes on my tits, my ass. Don't deny it."