Chapter 11: The Near-Miss Office Party

The break room smelled like cheap chardonnay, microwave popcorn, and the faint tang of printer toner drifting in from the hallway. Fluorescent panels overhead had been switched to their softer evening setting, casting a warmer glow across the long laminate counter where paper plates sagged under trays of mini quiches and vegetable sticks. Laughter rolled in waves—sharp, genuine bursts from the claims team clustered near the coffee machine, a lower chuckle from the two guys in IT swapping stories about last week’s server outage. Plastic cups clinked. Someone had queued up a low playlist on their phone, the kind of forgettable pop that blended into the background noise like white static. It was the monthly happy hour, nothing fancy, just the usual ritual to pretend the sixth floor was one big happy family.

I leaned against the far wall with a lukewarm beer I wasn’t really drinking, the wrist bandage from this morning still snug under my sleeve. Sarah’s scent had faded to a ghost by now, but every time I flexed my fingers it whispered back—warm, intimate, a reminder of the elevator and the way she’d milked me dry while the whole building waited outside. My cock stirred at the memory, half-hard already, and I shifted my weight to hide it. Across the room Sarah moved through the crowd like she belonged to it, charcoal pencil skirt swapped for a slightly softer navy one that still clung to the generous swell of her hips and the thick, real curve of her thighs. Her blouse was cream again, but the top two buttons had come undone in the casual atmosphere, offering the faintest shadow between her heavy breasts whenever she leaned in to laugh at someone’s joke. Professional on the surface. Filthy underneath.

She caught my eye once, just long enough for the corner of her mouth to lift in that private smirk I’d come to crave. Then she turned away, chatting with the receptionist about weekend plans, as if I didn’t exist. The tension coiled low in my gut, tight and hot. I knew the game. She always made me wait.

Ten minutes later her hand brushed my elbow in passing. “Supply closet,” she murmured, voice pitched for my ears alone, smooth as the meeting-room tone she used with the CEO. “Two minutes. Don’t make me come get you.”

She disappeared down the side corridor before I could answer. My pulse kicked up. I set the beer down, nodded at the nearest cluster of coworkers like I was just stepping out for air, and followed. The hallway was quieter here, the happy-hour noise muffled to a distant hum. The supply closet door sat ajar at the end, the gap no wider than a finger. I slipped inside and pulled it almost closed behind me, leaving it cracked the way she liked—enough for the risk, not enough for easy discovery.

The space was narrow, shelves crammed floor to ceiling with reams of copy paper, boxes of toner cartridges, spare keyboard trays, and a leaning tower of empty filing boxes stacked in the corner. A single overhead bulb buzzed faintly, throwing hard shadows across the concrete floor. The air carried that dry, papery scent mixed with the faint chemical bite of new toner. Sarah waited in the back, leaning against the shelves, one heel kicked up behind her. Her skirt was already rucked higher on her thighs, the navy fabric tight across the soft give of her belly.