Husband's Gift: Her Boss Claims Her at the Party

The hotel ballroom glittered like something bought and polished for display, crystal chandeliers throwing hard light over black ties and open backs, the air thick with perfume and the low grind of a jazz band that never quite settled. Hana stepped through the double doors on Andre’s arm, the silk of her emerald dress sliding cool against her thighs with every step. The neckline cut deep between her breasts; the skirt clung and then flared just enough to promise what it didn’t quite show. She felt eyes on her the second they cleared the threshold—colleagues, clients, the usual holiday hunger dressed up as networking—but the only gaze that mattered was the one she already knew would find her.

Hassan stood near the far bar, fifty-two and built like a man who still took what he wanted without asking twice. Silver threaded the dark hair at his temples; the charcoal suit sat on broad shoulders as if the tailor had been told to leave room for authority. He lifted his glass a fraction when he saw her. No smile. Just that long, deliberate look that had been eating her alive for months in the office—across conference tables, in the elevator when the doors closed and the air went thin, in the way he said her name when he called her into his office after hours and left the door cracked just enough for anyone to walk past.

Andre’s hand settled at the small of her back, warm, possessive, and she felt the faint tremor in his fingers. He had dressed her himself tonight, chosen the dress, the thin lace that barely covered her cunt underneath, the heels that made her ass tilt. In the car on the way over he had said almost nothing, only kept one hand high on her thigh, thumb stroking the bare skin above her stocking, and she had known what he was thinking because he had whispered it into her hair a hundred nights already: I want to watch him take you. I want to see your face when your boss splits you open.

She shouldn’t want it. Sleeping with Hassan would torch the marriage and the career in the same clean fire. Everyone in this room would know by morning if it ever got out. And still her pussy was already slick, the lace sticking to her, every step a quiet reminder.

“You look fucking edible,” Andre murmured against her ear as a waiter passed with champagne. He took two flutes, pressed one into her hand. “He’s staring. Has been since we walked in.”

Hana sipped, the cold bite doing nothing for the heat climbing her throat. “He’s my boss.”

“I know what he is.” Andre’s voice stayed low, private, the words for her alone even while the party swirled around them. “I also know you’ve been coming home wet after late meetings for three months. Don’t lie to me tonight, Hana. Not here.”

She turned her head just enough to meet his eyes. Andre was handsome in the sharp, hungry way that had first pulled her in—dark hair, that mouth that always looked like it was about to say something filthy. Right now his pupils were blown wide. He wasn’t jealous. He was hard already; she could see the line of it against his trousers when he shifted closer.

Across the room Hassan set his glass down and started walking. People parted for him without being asked. Hana’s pulse slammed against the hollow of her throat.

“Hana.” Hassan’s voice rolled over her like smoke, deep, unhurried. He didn’t look at Andre first. He looked at her mouth, then the deep V of her dress, then finally her eyes. “You clean up well. That color was a good choice.” His gaze flicked once to Andre, polite, assessing. “Andre. Good of you to join us. I hope you’re prepared to share her for a few hours. The partners keep asking for her.”

Andre’s smile was tight and bright. “She’s all yours for the evening, Hassan. Within reason.”

Something dark and pleased moved behind Hassan’s expression. He stepped in closer than office protocol ever allowed, close enough that Hana caught the cedar and skin scent of him, close enough that the back of his hand brushed the bare side of her waist as if by accident. The contact was brief. It still left a brand.

“Reason is flexible at holiday parties,” Hassan said. Then, lower, just for her: “You wore the dress I mentioned last week. The one that makes it impossible not to think about peeling it off you over my desk.”

Heat punched low in her belly. Andre heard every word; she felt him go still beside her, breathing shallow.

“Hassan—” she started, warning and want tangled together.

He only smiled, slow. “Dance with me. Your husband can hold your drink.”

Andre took the flute from her fingers without a word. His eyes said go. His cock was a rigid outline now, shameless. Hana let Hassan guide her onto the floor as the band slid into something slower, something with bass that sat in the bones.

Hassan’s hand settled at the small of her back, fingers spreading wide over silk and the bare skin above it. His other hand took hers, large, controlled. He didn’t pull her flush immediately. He waited until they were turning, until the press of bodies gave them a pocket of near-privacy, and then he brought her in so the front of his body sealed to hers. She felt him—thick, heavy, already half-hard behind the expensive wool—and her cunt clenched hard enough that she almost stumbled.

“Months,” he said against her temple, voice a scrape. “Watching you cross and uncross those legs in meetings. Watching you bite that pen. You know exactly what you’ve been doing to me.”

“I work for you.”

“You wet yourself for me.” His thigh pressed between hers as they turned, deliberate, the friction landing right against her lace-covered clit. She sucked in a breath. “Don’t insult either of us by pretending otherwise. I can smell you from here.”

She should have pulled back. Instead her fingers tightened on his shoulder and she rolled her hips once, tiny, seeking more of that pressure. Hassan’s hand slid lower, cupping the upper curve of her ass in full view of half the company if anyone bothered to look closely. Andre stood at the edge of the floor with both glasses, watching like a man memorizing a crime.