They all thought they knew.

That maybe — just maybe — you were with one of them. Whispers had floated through the office, passed in hushed tones by printers and under breath over coffee: “I think she’s with Mark,” or “Did you see her leave with Thomas last week?”

They weren’t wrong. Just... not complete.

You had tasted them all — at different times, in different ways. Some were forgettable. Others had begged for a second round. But none compared to him.

The boss.

Mr. Laurent — tall, unreadable, ruthless behind closed doors. His presence quieted rooms. And his hand, right now, was resting firmly on your thigh beneath the boardroom table.

He hadn’t looked at you once.

Not when he walked in. Not when you gave your project report. Not even when you crossed your legs and the hem of your skirt slid an inch higher.

But that hand? It slid higher, too. Slowly. Possessively.

Your pulse fluttered. Not from nerves — from power. None of them knew. They had all been with you… yet not one of them realized he had you whenever he wanted.

And he was taking you now, in the only way he could with eyes around the room — by touch. By control.

You held your pen steady, pretending to jot notes, as his fingers traced patterns over your inner thigh. You felt the breath hitch in your chest, the way your body responded with a quiet ache. You said nothing. Just leaned ever so slightly into his palm.

Across the table, two of your past flings shared a glance. One was clearly wondering if the other had you now. Neither knew the truth.

And neither dared to imagine that in that very moment, their boss had already claimed what they only fantasized about.

He squeezed once — firm, final — then slowly withdrew his hand like nothing happened.

“Meeting adjourned,” he said.