My Best Friend's Dad at the Costume Party

The bass thumped through Jenna’s open-concept living room like a bad algorithm trying to match people by vibes alone. Orange string lights snaked around the exposed beams, plastic spiders dangled from the ceiling fans, and someone had spiked the punch with enough cheap vodka that the bobbing apple slices looked genuinely traumatized. Mia adjusted the foam core strapped across her chest—two oversized Excel tabs glowing soft green under battery-powered LEDs, labeled “Q3 Projections” and “Synergy Metrics”—and felt the little LED cursor taped just above the curve of her ass blink on-off-on like it was judging every decision that had led her here.

Twenty-eight years old, marketing coordinator by day, professional overthinker by night, and currently dressed as the most fuckable spreadsheet Silicon Valley never asked for. The black micro-skirt barely covered the cell-grid print on her thighs. Fishnets. Heels that clicked like an impatient status meeting. She looked ridiculous. She looked hot. She was already three cups deep and roasting the entire concept of modern romance to anyone who drifted into her orbit.

“Okay, no, listen,” she said to a guy in a half-assed vampire cape who had made the mistake of asking how the apps were treating her. “Hinge is just LinkedIn for people who want to fuck. You get a prompt like ‘We’ll get along if…’ and some dude writes ‘you bring snacks and zero emotional baggage.’ Bumble makes you move first so you can feel the unique thrill of being left on read by a man whose bio is just a guitar emoji. And Tinder—Tinder is pure chaos theory. Swipe right on a guy who says he loves hiking, show up, and he means he hikes his dick into your DMs at 2 a.m. with a blurry mirror pic.”

The vampire snorted beer out his nose. Mia grinned, warmed by the laugh and the slight buzz blooming behind her ribs. She scanned the room for Jenna—best friend, hostess, currently somewhere in a sexy witch ensemble that somehow made a pointy hat look like a power move—and instead locked onto the tall figure leaning against the kitchen island like he owned the mortgage.

Office Tyrant costume. Sharp charcoal suit that fit like it had been tailored by someone who understood the erotic potential of a good shoulder line. Red power tie loosened just enough. Fake ID badge clipped to the pocket that read “CEO of Your Nightmares.” Dark hair silvering at the temples in a way that should have been illegal. Strong jaw. The kind of mouth that looked like it delivered both performance reviews and filthy one-liners with equal precision. He was nursing a whiskey, watching the party with lazy amusement, and when his gaze slid over Mia’s glowing tabs, one eyebrow climbed in pure, unfiltered appreciation.

She felt it like a cursor selecting her entire range.

“Speaking of workplace horrors,” Mia announced, raising her voice just enough to carry as she sauntered closer, hips rolling under the blinking LED. “Check out Corporate Overlord over here. Bet his dating profile says ‘Looking for a merger with benefits’ and his deal-breakers include ‘uses Comic Sans’ and ‘doesn’t understand pivot tables.’”

A few people laughed. The Office Tyrant’s mouth curved slow and dangerous. He didn’t look away. If anything he straightened, giving her the full six-foot-something of sarcastic authority.

“Bold strategy,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges of amusement, “roasting the guy who could have you written up for inappropriate attire. Those tabs are a workplace hazard. Distracting the entire quarterly review.”

Mia’s pulse kicked. She planted herself in front of him, close enough to catch the clean scent of his cologne under the whiskey—something cedar and expensive that made her want to climb him like a promotion ladder. Up close he was unfair: laugh lines, a small scar through one eyebrow, eyes that were dark and sharp and currently cataloguing every glowing inch of her costume.

“Please. I’ve survived worse performance evaluations. Besides,” she tapped one glowing tab right over her left breast, feeling the warmth of the LED against her skin, “these metrics are up twenty percent year-over-year. Engagement is through the roof. And the cursor—” she twisted, glancing back so the blinking light over her ass did its thing, “—never misses its target.”

His gaze dropped exactly where she wanted. Heat licked up her spine. Around them the party swirled—someone shrieking over a failed apple-bob, the playlist sliding into a remix of a song that had no business being sexy—but the air between them tightened like a formula locking into place.

“Dating apps, huh?” he said, swirling the whiskey. “Let me guess. You open with a joke about spreadsheets and half the guys think you’re offering to do their taxes naked.”

“Worse. One guy sent me a dick pic with the caption ‘Here’s my hard data.’ Another unmatched me mid-conversation because I admitted I still use the default Excel font. The bar is subterranean. I once matched with a man whose entire personality was ‘I have a boat,’ and when I asked what kind he sent a photo of a pool float.”

The Office Tyrant laughed—genuine, head tipping back, throat working—and something low in Mia’s belly fluttered hard. She liked making him laugh. Liked the way his free hand flexed on the counter like he was resisting the urge to reach out and test whether those tabs were as soft as they looked.

“Brutal,” he said. “I deleted the apps six months ago. Got tired of women assuming ‘single dad’ meant ‘looking for a new mom who also does laundry.’ Now I just show up to my daughter’s parties dressed like the boss no one wants and hope someone interesting roasts me.”

Daughter. The word snagged. Mia’s brain did a quick, tipsy inventory: Jenna’s dad was supposed to be… somewhere. Jenna had mentioned he might swing by after a late meeting, that he was “embarrassingly hot for forty-two” and “please do not hit on him even though he will absolutely flirt back because he has no chill.” Mia had laughed it off. She had not expected the man currently eye-fucking her spreadsheet to be—

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh yes.

She felt the realization land like a perfectly timed formula error—sudden red, impossible to ignore. The silver at his temples. The way he stood like the house belonged to him because it kind of did. Jenna’s easy “Dad’s cool, he won’t hover” floating back through the alcohol haze. This was Derek. Jenna’s dad. The single, sarcastic, unfairly built Derek she had only ever seen in the background of holiday photos looking like a walking midlife crisis fantasy.

And he had been flirting the entire time.

Fully aware.

Mia’s mouth went dry. Her nipples tightened under the foam and LEDs; she hoped the glow hid it. She should back off. She should make a joke about needing to refresh her pivot tables and flee to the bathroom. Instead she stepped half an inch closer, close enough that the heat of him bled through the ridiculous costume, and let her voice drop into something silkier.

“So you’ve been standing here letting me clown the entire concept of adult courtship while knowing exactly who I am,” she said. “That’s either impressively patient or impressively filthy.”

Derek’s smile turned wicked. He set the whiskey down, freeing both hands, and leaned in just enough that his next words brushed warm against her ear over the music.

“Mia. Marketing. The one who once helped Jenna turn a group project into a brand campaign and still sends her unhinged voice notes about client calls. I’ve heard the stories. Seen the photos. Watched you walk in here looking like every forbidden office fantasy I didn’t know I had and decided roasting you back was the least unprofessional thing I could do with my mouth.”

Her breath caught. The cursor on her ass blinked accusingly. Around them laughter erupted at someone else’s costume fail, but it felt distant, muffled by the sudden thick awareness coiling between them. His eyes flicked to her mouth, then lower, lingering on the way the tabs rose and fell with each too-fast breath.

“Jenna would murder us,” Mia murmured, but there was no real protest in it. Only heat and the giddy, stupid thrill of the worst good idea she had ever considered.

“Jenna is currently in the backyard convincing three people that her cauldron punch is a legitimate potion,” Derek said. “And I’m not suggesting we give her a reason tonight. I’m just saying…” His knuckles grazed the edge of one glowing tab, feather-light, testing, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t. “Your engagement metrics are extremely persuasive. And I have been single long enough to know when someone is worth blowing up the org chart for.”

Mia’s laugh came out shaky and turned on. She could feel the party still happening—costumes, music, the distant thump of someone starting a bad dance circle—but all of it had narrowed to the space where his fingers hovered, to the whiskey-scent of his breath, to the filthy promise sparking in the air like static before a storm. She wanted to shove him into the pantry and find out what an Office Tyrant did when the spreadsheet bent over the desk. She wanted to keep roasting him until the banter snapped and became hands and mouths and the kind of bad decisions that made excellent stories later.

Instead she held his gaze, let her own fingers trail down the fake ID badge on his chest, and tipped her head toward the hallway that led deeper into the house—toward quieter rooms and unlocked doors and the kind of tension that refused to resolve cleanly.

“Careful, Mr. Tyrant,” she said, voice pure liquid trouble. “Keep talking like that and I might have to schedule a private performance review. Full audit. Hands-on data collection.”

Derek’s eyes went dark and hot. His hand finally settled at her waist, possessive and careful all at once, thumb stroking once over the waistband of her tiny skirt like he was already imagining peeling the whole ridiculous costume off her later.

“Lead the way, spreadsheet,” he murmured. “I’ve got all night to make sure every last cell gets the attention it deserves.”

Mia’s pulse hammered. She shot one last glance toward the backyard where Jenna’s laughter floated in, bright and oblivious, then turned under the light pressure of Derek’s hand and started walking—hips swaying so the cursor blinked like a dare—knowing exactly how much trouble she was about to invite and already wet for every second of it.

They slipped down the hallway like a pair of conspirators who’d already decided the consequences were tomorrow’s problem, the bass fading behind them into a muffled thump that matched the new rhythm kicking hard under Mia’s ribs. Derek’s hand stayed light on the small of her back, guiding without pushing, the heat of his palm branding straight through the thin fabric of her micro-skirt. The LED cursor above her ass kept blinking its smug little judgment, and she could feel his eyes on it every other step.

“You know,” he said, deadpan as a quarterly earnings call, “I’ve audited a lot of spreadsheets in my time. None of them made me want to bend them over a conference table and ruin their formatting. That costume is officially the sexiest thing I’ve ever audited.”

Mia’s laugh came out low and wicked. She glanced back over her shoulder, catching the glint in his eyes under the dim hallway light. “Careful, Tyrant. Compliments like that get you flagged for harassment in half the HR manuals. Then again, those manuals never accounted for fishnets and glowing synergy metrics.”

They passed a closed bathroom door, the faint sound of someone retching politely into a toilet, and kept moving toward the quieter end of the house. Derek’s thumb stroked once along the waistband of her skirt, a deliberate tease that sent a bright spark straight between her thighs.

“Harassment implies non-consent,” he murmured. “I’m pretty sure the way you’re walking is an engraved invitation to violate every workplace policy ever written. Speaking of which—filthy office puns. Your move. Hit me with your best pivot-table innuendo.”

Mia stopped just outside a door that looked promisingly office-like, turning to face him fully. The foam tabs on her chest brushed his suit jacket; the LEDs cast green shadows across his jaw. “Fine. Your cock is like a perfectly executed VLOOKUP—hard to find at first, but once it’s in the right cell it returns exactly what I need. Over and over.”

Derek’s answering grin was pure sin. “Christ. Okay. Counter-offer: I want to take your entire data set offline, strip every formula, and spend the next hour making you crash like a server under heavy load. Loudly.”

“Not bad.” She poked the fake CEO badge on his chest. “But I’ve heard better on Tinder, which is saying something catastrophic. One guy’s opener was ‘Want to see my hard drive?’ followed by a dick pic that looked like it had been taken in a gas station bathroom. Another listed his job as ‘Professional Spreadsheet’ and then asked if I wanted to ‘merge cells.’ The bar is so low it’s a trip hazard.”

Derek leaned a shoulder against the wall, crowding her just enough that she had to tip her chin up. Whiskey and cedar rolled off him in a warm wave. “I once matched with a woman whose entire bio was ‘Looking for a man who knows how to use Ctrl+S… on my body.’ She sent three follow-up messages about ‘saving her progress’ before I unmatched out of sheer secondhand embarrassment. And don’t get me started on the guy energy. Half the profiles read like rejected LinkedIn summaries: ‘Passionate about disruptive synergy and long walks on the beach… if the beach has good Wi-Fi.’”

Mia snorted, the sound turning into a genuine laugh that loosened something tight in her chest. “God, the bios. ‘Six-two, works out, looking for a queen to spoil’—translation: five-nine on a good day, owns one dumbbell, will ghost you the second you ask for emotional labor. Or the classic ‘I’m an open book, just flip to the dirty pages.’ Sir, your book has no plot and the binding is falling apart.”

“Exactly.” His free hand came up, fingertips tracing the edge of one glowing tab right over the swell of her breast. The LED warmth mixed with the cooler brush of his skin; her nipple tightened instantly beneath foam and whatever thin bra she’d managed to smash underneath. “You want better? Challenge accepted. Come show me a better slide deck, Mia. I keep a laptop in the home office. Let’s see if we can build a presentation that actually closes.”

The dare hung between them, ridiculous and electric. She didn’t hesitate. Mia twisted the doorknob—unlocked, thank every chaotic deity—and tugged him inside by the red power tie. The home office smelled like leather and old coffee and the faint citrus of whatever cleaner Jenna used. A wide desk dominated the space, dual monitors dark, a leather chair that looked expensive enough to bill clients for. Bookshelves lined one wall. The only light came from a desk lamp left on low and the soft green pulse of her costume reflecting off polished wood.

Derek shut the door with a quiet click. The lock turned under his fingers a second later—consent made mechanical and perfect. Then they were alone with the muffled party noise and the sudden thick silence of possibility.

“Slide deck,” Mia repeated, voice gone husky. She backed toward the desk until the edge bit the backs of her thighs. “You talked a big game out there, Office Tyrant. Time to demonstrate superior data visualization skills.”

He closed the distance in two strides, caging her with both hands on the desk on either side of her hips. His mouth hovered a breath from hers. “First slide: current market analysis. Subject is ridiculously hot marketing coordinator dressed like forbidden fruit. Analyst is forty-two, single, and has been half-hard since she walked in roasting vampires about Hinge.”

“Second slide,” she whispered back, fingers already working the knot of his tie looser, “audience engagement metrics are off the charts. Subject has wanted to climb this particular corporate ladder since she realized who owned the house. Possibly longer. Holiday photos did not do the shoulder-to-waist ratio justice.”

Derek’s laugh was rough. Then he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It was hungry and immediate, mouth opening over hers like he’d been waiting all night for permission and intended to collect with interest. Mia met him just as greedily, tongue sliding against his, tasting whiskey and the sharp edge of want. Her hands fisted in his suit jacket, yanking him closer until the foam tabs compressed between them and the LEDs cast frantic green flashes across both their faces. One of his hands left the desk to cup the back of her neck, angling her head so he could deepen the kiss until she made a small, helpless sound against his lips.

Roaming started the second they broke for air. His palm slid down her spine, over the blinking cursor, cupping one fishnet-clad ass cheek and squeezing hard enough to pull a gasp from her. She retaliated by shoving the jacket off his shoulders, letting it hit the floor, then attacking the buttons of his dress shirt with zero patience. Skin. Warm, faintly freckled skin over solid muscle that spoke of a man who still hit the gym even if he billed his hours in boardrooms. She dragged her nails lightly down his chest and felt him shudder.

“Fuck, Mia—” He mouthed along her jaw, teeth grazing, then lower, biting gently at the side of her throat while both hands shoved the micro-skirt up around her hips. Cool air hit the bare skin above her stockings; his fingers traced the lace edge of her underwear and she rolled her hips into the touch without shame. “I’ve wanted this ridiculous encounter since you opened your mouth out there. Wanted to shut you up with my tongue and then make you louder. Wanted to peel every stupid glowing inch off you and find out if you taste as sharp as you talk.”

“Same,” she managed, already breathless, fingers popping the last button and spreading his shirt open so she could press open-mouthed kisses across his collarbone. “I sat through Thanksgiving photos of you looking like a DILF fever dream and told myself it was fine, just aesthetic appreciation. Lie. Big lie. I’ve thought about your hands exactly like this—big, competent, probably great at spreadsheets and better at spreading me. Wanted the whole stupid fantasy: best friend’s dad, costume party, bad decisions that feel like the best quarterly performance of my life.”

Derek groaned low in his throat and lifted her onto the edge of the desk in one smooth motion. Monitors wobbled. A pen cup rattled. He stepped between her thighs, the hard line of his cock pressing against the damp heat of her through two layers of fabric, and rolled his hips once, deliberate and filthy. The friction punched a moan out of her that she muffled against his shoulder.

His mouth found hers again—deeper, wetter, all tongue and promise—while one hand slipped under the foam tabs to cup her breast properly. Thumb circling the tight peak, pinching just enough to make her back arch. The other hand stayed busy between her legs, stroking over soaked cotton, tracing the shape of her through the underwear until she was rocking against his fingers and the desk creaked in quiet protest.

“Tell me again,” he murmured against her lips, voice wrecked. “Tell me how much you’ve wanted this exact brand of terrible idea.”

“So fucking much.” Mia bit his lower lip, soothing it with her tongue a second later. Her hand dropped between them, palm rubbing the thick ridge behind his zipper, measuring him through the suit pants and finding zero disappointment. “Wanted you to audit every inch. Wanted the banter to snap exactly like this—office puns and Tinder horror stories turning into you fingering me on your own desk while the party goes on outside. Wanted to be the best worst decision you make all year.”

He kissed her harder for that, grinding the heel of his hand against her clit through the fabric until sparks danced behind her eyes. The LED cursor blinked mindlessly against the wood. Somewhere far away a cheer went up; neither of them cared. Derek’s fingers finally slipped under the edge of her underwear, finding her slick and ready, and he groaned like a man who’d just unlocked a protected file.

“Christ, you’re soaked. All that roasting and you were this wet the whole time?”

“For you,” she admitted, shameless, thighs tightening around his hips. “For the silver at your temples and the way you look at me like I’m both the problem and the solution. Don’t stop. Keep going. We’ve got a whole presentation left and I want every slide.”

He gave her two fingers in a slow, perfect stretch, curling them just right while his thumb kept circling, and Mia’s head fell back on a broken sound that was half laugh, half pure need. The banter wasn’t gone—it had simply migrated lower, into the filthy slide of skin and the shared knowledge that this was absurd and perfect and nowhere near finished.

Derek’s fingers curled deeper, stroking that perfect spot until Mia’s thighs trembled around his hips and a broken laugh spilled out of her. The desk lamp threw low gold across the oak surface, catching the green pulse of her half-crushed tabs every time she rocked forward. He kissed the sound off her mouth, then pulled back just enough to watch her face while he worked a third finger in, stretching her slow and filthy.

“Look at these engagement numbers,” he murmured, voice wrecked and amused. “Off the charts. Subject is dripping data all over my desktop. Recommend immediate full penetration of core systems.”

Mia shoved his wrist harder against herself, grinding. “Approve the motion. Unanimous. Now lose the pants before I file a formal complaint about incomplete deliverables.”

He laughed against her throat, withdrew his fingers, and yanked her underwear down her legs in one impatient tug. Fishnets stayed. Heels stayed. The micro-skirt was already rucked around her waist like a forgotten status update. Derek unbuckled, shoved suit pants and boxers down just far enough, and the thick length of him sprang free—flushed, heavy, the kind of cock that looked like it belonged in an executive summary titled Exceeds Expectations. Mia wrapped her hand around it, stroked once, twice, thumb smearing the bead at the tip, and watched his jaw flex.

“Fucking hell, spreadsheet,” he groaned. “That hand is a hostile takeover.”

“Then counter it.” She turned under his hands, planted her palms flat on the polished oak, and bent over the desk in one smooth arch. Foam tabs hung lopsided now, one LED flickering against the wood, the other still glowing soft green across her breast. The blinking cursor above her ass flashed like a dare. She looked back over her shoulder, hair wild, grin pure trouble. “Audit me. Deep and steady. I want performance metrics shouted like a boardroom roast.”

Derek’s hands settled on her hips, thumbs stroking the fishnet diamonds. He lined up and pushed in with one long, controlled stroke that stole her breath and replaced it with a sharp, grateful moan. Thick. Perfect stretch. He bottomed out and held there, letting her feel every inch, then started moving—deep, steady thrusts that rocked the dual monitors and made the pen cup rattle like applause.

“Q3 projections,” he gritted, palm cracking lightly across the cursor-covered cheek. The spank landed sharp and warm; she clenched around him and pushed back for more. “Engagement up two hundred percent. Look at this ass taking every metric like it was built for quarterly reviews. Tight little cells. Perfect alignment. I’m going to reformat every inch until you crash the server.”

Mia laughed breathlessly into the wood, then moaned when the next spank landed harder, heat blooming under the blinking light. “Harder data. Don’t sandbag the numbers, Tyrant. I can take the full load.”

He gave it to her—deep strokes that dragged over every sensitive ridge, hips snapping with controlled force, free hand alternating between gripping her waist and delivering crisp, playful smacks that left her ass glowing almost as bright as the costume. Sweat slicked the small of her back. Her tits dragged across the desk with every thrust, foam tabs scraping, LEDs casting frantic green streaks. The banter never stopped; it just got filthier, punctuated by the wet slap of skin and her broken little sounds.

“Cursor’s blinking overtime,” Derek panted, thumb pressing right over the LED as he buried himself again. “Never misses its target. That’s my girl. Taking dick like a perfectly optimized formula. Tell me how the metrics feel.”

“Like I’m about to blow the fucking budget—” She shoved back harder, meeting every thrust. “Deeper. Audit the back office. God, Derek, your cock is the only spreadsheet I want open tonight.”

He pulled out suddenly, spun her, and dropped into the expensive leather swivel chair with a wicked grin, cock glistening and standing proud. “New slide. Reverse cowgirl. Ride the chairman until we synergize every core competency you’ve got.”

Mia didn’t need telling twice. She straddled him backward, heels planted on either side of the chair’s base, reached between her legs, and sank down onto him in one slow, filthy glide. The angle hit different—deeper, fuller—and she groaned loud enough that the muffled bass from the party felt like it was answering. Derek’s hands locked on her waist, guiding, as she started to grind hard, rolling her hips in tight circles that made the chair creak and his breath stutter.

“Synergizing,” she managed, laughing through the pleasure as she bounced and ground. “Feel that? Our core competencies are merging beautifully. Vertical integration at its finest. Your dick is the best strategic partnership I’ve ever sat on.”

“Christ—keep talking dirty synergy.” His palm cracked across her ass again, then rubbed the sting while she rode him harder. “Look at this reverse-cowgirl KPI. Perfect form. Maximum depth. I’m going to fill these glowing Excel tabs so full of come they’ll need a new pivot table just to process it.”

Mia leaned forward, hands on his knees, and worked herself on him like she was closing the biggest deal of her life—grinding her clit against the base of his cock on every downstroke, thighs burning, the ridiculous costume half-hanging off her in the best possible way. One tab had twisted completely free and dangled against her ribs; the other still glowed across her chest, casting green light over the dark hair on his legs every time she slammed down. The chair spun half a turn from the force; neither of them cared.

“Coming,” she gasped, voice cracking into a laugh. “Performance review complete—I’m about to exceed every projection—”

The orgasm hit hard and loud. She clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, head thrown back, a shameless cry tearing out of her that was half his name and half something about Q4 targets. Derek held her through it, thrusting up to meet the last shudders, then lifted her just enough to pull free. She dropped to her knees between his spread thighs without being asked, still laughing breathlessly, and presented the remaining glowing Excel tab across her chest like a target.

“Finish the presentation,” she ordered, eyes bright, lips swollen. “Mark these tabs. Make it rain synergy.”

He stroked himself twice—slick with her—and came with a low, wrecked groan that turned into a bark of laughter as thick ropes striped the glowing green surface, painting “Synergy Metrics” in messy white. Some caught the edge of her breast, some dripped down the foam in absurd, perfect streaks. Mia watched every pulse, grinning like she’d just won an award, then swiped a finger through it and licked it clean while he shuddered through the last aftershocks.

“Holy shit,” Derek panted, head tipping back against the chair, chest heaving under the open shirt. “Best board meeting of my life. Those tabs are officially compromised.”

Mia climbed into his lap sideways, sticky and glowing and still half-dressed in ruined fishnets and blinking LEDs, and kissed him slow and filthy while they both kept laughing—soft, incredulous, thoroughly satisfied sounds that vibrated between their mouths. His come was cooling on her costume; her thighs were trembling; the chair smelled like sex and leather and cheap party vodka that had somehow followed them in.

“We’re so fired if Jenna finds the evidence,” she murmured against his lips, nipping gently. “But God, the ROI on this bad decision…”

Derek’s hand slid up her bare back, possessive and warm, fingers tracing the clasp of what remained of her bra. Outside, the party bass thumped on, oblivious. Inside, the desk lamp flickered once like it approved. He kissed her deeper, already half-hard again against her hip, and the tension coiled right back up—new, hungrier, nowhere near done.

“Night’s young, spreadsheet,” he said, voice rough with promise. “We’ve still got the after-action report to deliver. Multiple rounds. Full documentation. And I haven’t even started on the oral presentation yet.”

Mia’s laugh was pure heat. She reached down, wrapped her fingers around him again, and squeezed. “Then open a new workbook, Tyrant. I’m ready for the next quarter.”

Derek’s cock twitched hard in her fist at the challenge, already thickening back to full under the sticky mess of her earlier ride. Mia grinned against his mouth, nipping his lower lip as she rose up on shaky thighs and sank down onto him again in one long, filthy glide. The leather chair creaked in protest. Her ruined Excel tabs flopped against her ribs, one still pulsing soft green light across the dark hair trailing down his stomach every time she bottomed out. Fishnets rasped against his open suit pants. Heels dug into the carpet for leverage. She rode him slow at first, rolling her hips so the swollen head of him dragged over that perfect spot inside her, then faster, bouncing hard enough that the dual monitors wobbled and the desk lamp threw frantic gold shadows across the walls.

“New workbook open,” she panted, laughing when his hands clamped on her waist and slammed her down. “Cell A1 is full of your dick. Formula is =SUM(harder). Look at those growth projections—vertical and aggressive.”

Derek’s answering groan cracked into a bark of laughter. He thrust up to meet her, the wet slap of skin loud in the quiet office, one palm cracking lightly across the blinking cursor still taped above her ass. Heat bloomed under the LED. She clenched around him and rode harder, tits bouncing, the foam core scraping his chest. Sweat slicked the small of her back. His mouth found the side of her throat, teeth grazing, then sucking a mark that would definitely need concealer tomorrow. Interior thought flickered hot and giddy through the pleasure: best friend’s dad, costume-party desk sex, office puns turning into this ridiculous perfect stretch. Jenna could never know. Jenna would never know. This was theirs—absurd, sticky, and already addictive.

“Q4 deliverables,” he gritted, voice wrecked as he rolled them, lifting her effortlessly and bending her over the desk again without pulling out. Monitors rattled. Pen cup tipped, scattering cheap ballpoints. He fucked her deep and steady from behind, one hand fisted in her hair, the other reaching around to rub tight circles over her clit. “Engagement metrics critical. Spreadsheet is dripping all over the executive summary. I’m filing this under outstanding performance and filing it deep.”

Mia shoved back onto every thrust, laughing breathlessly into the wood, thighs trembling. “Approve—fuck—approve the budget increase. Your cock is the only capital expenditure I want this fiscal year. Harder data, Tyrant. Make the server crash.”

He gave it to her: long, pounding strokes that made the entire desk shift an inch across the floor, free hand alternating between spanking the glowing cursor and pinching her nipple through the twisted foam. The banter stayed filthy and alive, punctuated by her broken moans and his low curses. When she came the second time it hit like a formula finally balancing—sharp, full-body pulses that clenched him so tight he cursed and followed her over, burying deep and spilling hot inside her with a groan that turned into helpless laughter against her spine. They stayed locked like that for long seconds, panting, his cock twitching through aftershocks, her LEDs still stubbornly blinking green against the oak.

Eventually he eased out. Come slicked her thighs, dripped onto the fishnets, painted the inside of her already-wrecked micro-skirt. Mia straightened on wobbly legs, turned, and collapsed sideways into his lap in the chair again, both of them half-dressed and glowing—her tabs crooked and come-streaked, his shirt hanging open, tie dangling like a white flag of surrender, pants shoved to mid-thigh. The office smelled like sex and leather and the faint leftover citrus of Jenna’s cleaner. Outside the bass still thumped, oblivious. Inside they just breathed, sticky and smiling like idiots who’d won the lottery of bad decisions.

“Mini-fridge,” Derek said after a minute, voice rough with residual laughter. He nodded toward the low cabinet under the bookshelf. “Emergency snacks for late-night budget crises. And apparently post-sex raids. Move your glowing ass, spreadsheet. I’m starving and you’re still covered in synergy.”

Mia peeled herself up, legs jelly, and wobbled over with him. The little fridge hummed open to reveal a treasure trove of party leftovers and bachelor staples: mini mozzarella sticks, a sleeve of Ritz, string cheese, half a bag of spicy chips, two fancy chocolate squares, and a cold sparkling water that looked like it had survived three fiscal quarters. They sat right there on the floor—backs against the bookshelf, costumes in glorious ruins—and dug in like they’d just closed the deal of the century. She tore open the mozzarella with her teeth, cheese stretching absurdly while the cursor on her ass blinked judgment. He cracked the water, took a long swallow, then fed her a chocolate square with fingers still smelling like her.

“Your costume is a crime against fashion and a gift to my dick,” he said around a chip, eyes dancing. “Glowing tabs covered in come. Fishnets ripped at the knee. That micro-skirt is now a biohazard. Ten out of ten, would audit again.”

Mia snorted, nearly choking on mozzarella. “Says the man whose power tie is currently a drool rag and whose CEO badge is upside down. ‘CEO of Your Nightmares’? More like CEO of Getting Railed by a Spreadsheet and Loving It. Those silver temples? Peak DILF branding. I’m filing a trademark.”

They kept roasting between bites—his suit pants still halfway down, her foam core half-dangling, both of them sticky and radiant under the desk lamp. Laughter came easy, full-bellied, the kind that shook residual pleasure through sore muscles. She wiped a smear of chocolate from the corner of his mouth with her thumb and sucked it clean; he reached over and gently peeled a crusted rope of come off her “Synergy Metrics” tab like it was the funniest thing either of them had ever seen.

“So,” Mia said eventually, popping a spicy chip and leaning her head on his shoulder. The LED warmth pressed against his bare chest. “This was objectively the most absurd night of the year. Costume party, best friend’s dad, desk sex with full boardroom commentary. And also—hands down—the best sex I’ve had in years. Possibly ever. My dating-app trauma just got therapy it didn’t know it needed.”

Derek’s arm slid around her waist, thumb stroking idle circles over bare skin above the fishnets. He kissed the top of her head, then the corner of her smiling mouth. “Agreed. Deleted every app for a reason. Turns out the algorithm I needed was a sarcastic marketing coordinator dressed like Q3 projections. Best bad decision since I stopped trying to date women who list ‘hiking’ and mean ‘hiking their expectations into the stratosphere.’”

She twisted to face him fully, still chewing, eyes bright. “No-strings proposal, then. Purely professional. Quarterly review hookups. Whenever Jenna’s out of town—conference, girls’ trip, whatever—I show up in something ridiculous, you wear the power tie, we audit the hell out of each other, then raid the fridge and roast costumes until we can walk straight again. Zero drama. Zero feelings that require spreadsheets. Just… this. Enthusiastic consent and excellent metrics.”

His grin turned slow and wicked, the same one that had started everything in the kitchen. “Quarterly reviews approved. Contingency for emergency mid-quarter check-ins if the numbers look especially strong. I’m already delighted. Absurd night, best sex in years, and a standing invitation that doesn’t require me to swipe left on another boat photo. Deal.”

They sealed it with a greasy, chocolate-and-chip kiss that tasted like victory and leftover party snacks. Outside, someone whooped over the music; inside, the mini-fridge door hung open like it approved of the whole conspiracy. Mia licked salt from her fingers, mind already spinning warm and scheming: Jenna’s next work trip was in six weeks—something about a brand summit in Chicago. Perfect window. She could show up in a sexy printer costume next time, complete with paper-jam innuendo, or maybe just a trench coat over nothing but the blinking cursor. Derek would lose his mind. She was already planning the opener, the roast, the way she’d bend over that same desk and demand a full year-end bonus.

Derek caught the faraway glint in her eyes and laughed low, pulling her closer against his sticky, half-dressed body. “You’re already plotting the next agenda item, aren’t you?”

“Obviously,” she murmured, nipping his jaw. “Synergy doesn’t sleep. And neither will we.”