Chapter 13: The Coffee Break Special

Lunchtime hit the sixth floor like clockwork, the open-plan space emptying in waves toward the cafeteria and the cluster of food trucks parked outside. I stayed at my desk, poking at the same ticket for the third time, the cursor blinking on my screen while my stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. The wrist bandage from the weekend still sat warm against my skin under the long sleeve—Sarah’s panties from Friday night, now layered with fresh lace from the supply-closet ride on Monday. Every small movement sent a faint, intimate trace of us rising up my arm, a private reminder no one else could smell.

My phone buzzed at 12:05. One line from her: Executive restroom. Single stall. Now.

I stood before the message could even settle, heart already knocking against my ribs. The hallway was busy—accountants carrying takeout bags, two guys from claims laughing about last night’s game—but no one glanced twice as I turned toward the quiet end of the floor where the private executive restroom waited. The door was unmarked, the kind reserved for senior staff and the occasional visiting client, always empty at this hour. I slipped inside and closed it behind me with a soft click.

Sarah was already there.

She leaned against the sink, one hand resting on the edge of the counter, the other holding her usual ceramic coffee cup—the dark blue one she carried everywhere, half-full of whatever she’d brewed that morning. Her charcoal pencil skirt hugged the soft curve of her hips and the thick, powerful lines of her thighs exactly the way I remembered from the weekend lock-in, but today the fabric looked tighter, like she’d chosen it on purpose. The sheer white blouse let the natural weight of her breasts shift with each breath, nipples faintly visible in the cool air. Her eyes met mine in the mirror above the sink, calm and unreadable, the same professional mask she wore when presenting to the board.

“Lock it,” she said quietly.

The deadbolt slid home with a metallic snap that felt louder than it should. The small room smelled of lemon disinfectant and the faint floral edge of her perfume, undercut by something warmer—her skin after a morning of meetings. A narrow window high on the wall let in muted daylight, but the fluorescent overhead cast sharp reflections across the white tiles and the stainless-steel fixtures. The low hum of the building’s air vent mixed with distant office noise leaking under the door: phones ringing, footsteps, someone calling out about a missing file. We weren’t invisible. We were just hidden in plain sight.