Chapter 13: The Wife on the Line

Tuesday afternoon dragged like syrup, the open-plan floor buzzing with keyboards and half-mumbled conference calls. I sat at my desk in the same navy pencil skirt I’d worn since morning, sheer black thigh-highs hugging my legs, no panties beneath. The fabric still carried the faint ghost of the cabin weekend—pine air and his skin—but I kept my face neutral while typing notes no one would read. My phone stayed face-down. Until it wasn’t.

Rob: My office. Now. Door will be locked.

My pulse spiked. Two weeks since the cabin, since his voice note and the ovulation window that had come and gone without consequence. Relief had lasted exactly one day. Then the craving returned sharper, darker. I excused myself for the “bathroom,” legs unsteady, the familiar slick already gathering between my thighs.

His door clicked shut behind me with that decisive metallic sound. Blinds cracked two inches—enough to see hallway shadows, enough for them to glimpse movement if they cared to look. Rob sat in his leather chair, tie loose, sleeves rolled, eyes locked on mine. The conference call light glowed green on his desk phone—muted, camera off—but the screen showed Linda’s name already queued for an incoming call.

He didn’t speak. Just crooked a finger. I crossed the room, heart hammering against my ribs. His hands caught my hips, spun me, and pulled me down onto his lap facing away—reverse, skirt shoved to my waist in one motion. The chair creaked once, softly. I sank onto him bare, slow enough to feel every thick inch stretch me open, the leather warm and sticky against the backs of my thighs. His cock filled me completely, deep and claiming, the head pressing right against that spot that made my breath hitch.