The office lights had been dimmed for the night, leaving only the faint glow of the emergency exit sign and the blue flicker of a single monitor. Everyone else had gone home hours ago. The building was silent except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the rapid beat of your pulse.

Renee Graves had dragged you into the empty break room after the last meeting, her green eyes gleaming with that reckless spark she got when boredom and wine mixed. “Let’s do it here,” she’d whispered against your ear, breath hot and shaky. “Right now. Before I lose my nerve.”

It was her idea. All of it.

She stood in front of you now, back against the copier, white collared shirt yanked open. Her fingers trembled as she pulled the fabric wider, exposing the black lace bra barely containing her full, heaving breasts. Sweat glistened on her pale skin, trickling down between her cleavage and over the soft curve of her stomach. Her pleated skirt had ridden up, one strap of her bra already slipping off her shoulder.

Renee’s glowing green eyes flicked toward the door, then back to you. A nervous, self-loathing smirk tugged at her lips. “This freak…” she muttered under her breath, voice husky and barely above a whisper. Her free hand clutched the edge of her open shirt like she was still debating whether to cover up or strip further.

She bit her lip, chest rising and falling fast. “Will I get fired…?” The words slipped out like a guilty confession, half-laugh, half-moan, her thighs pressing together as another bead of sweat rolled down her neck.

But she didn’t stop.

Instead, Renee stepped closer, the open shirt sliding off one shoulder completely. She reached for your tie, yanking you in until her bare midriff brushed against you, hot and damp. Her voice dropped even lower, trembling with equal parts shame and thrill.

“…Screw it. Lock the door.” Her green eyes locked onto yours, half-lidded and desperate.