He left his mark inside me, then told me what to wear tomorrow.

I’ve always kept a secret journal on my phone, locked behind three different passwords. Tonight I need to write this down before the memory fades or I convince myself it was just a dream.

My name is Elena Moreau. Thirty-one years old, senior marketing director at Pinnacle Financial. I wear tailored blazers and four-inch heels like armor. Everyone thinks I’m ice. They’re wrong. Underneath, I burn.

Last Thursday I worked until 10:47 p.m. The 47th floor was deserted except for the cleaning crew on the other wing and him—Gabriel Voss, CEO, forty-two, divorced, the kind of handsome that makes interns forget how to speak.

I knew he was still in his corner office because the light bled gold under the door. I could have left. I should have left. Instead I knocked twice, soft, almost apologetic.

“Come in.” His voice was low, tired, but curious.

I stepped inside carrying a stack of campaign mockups I didn’t need to show him. The city sparkled behind floor-to-ceiling glass—thousands of tiny lives glittering like scattered diamonds. He was at his desk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened.

“You’re still here,” he said, not a question.

“So are you.”

Silence stretched. Then he smiled, small, dangerous. “Lock the door, Elena.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. I turned the deadbolt. The click sounded obscene in the quiet.

He didn’t get up. He just pointed to the space in front of his desk. “Here.”

I walked over. Heels loud on the hardwood. When I stopped, he leaned back in the leather chair and looked at me like he was deciding which part to devour first.

“Take off the blazer.”

I did. Slowly. Buttons one at a time. The silk blouse underneath was sheer enough that my black lace bra showed through. His eyes darkened.

“Blouse.”

I unbuttoned that too, let it slide off my shoulders. Cool air kissed my skin. My nipples were already hard, traitors.

“Skirt. Panties. Leave the heels.”

I obeyed. When the skirt pooled at my feet I stepped out of it, naked except for the black stilettos and the lace thong that was already soaked.

He finally stood. Tall. Broad. He walked around the desk like a predator circling.

“Bend over the desk.”

I braced my palms on the cool glass surface. Spread my legs just enough. He stepped behind me. I heard his belt unbuckle, the zipper, then felt the blunt head of him nudge against me.

“No foreplay?” I whispered.

“You’ve been teasing me for months, Elena. You don’t get foreplay tonight.”

He pushed in one brutal thrust. I gasped, the stretch almost too much. He didn’t wait. He fucked me hard, deep, relentless. The desk creaked. Papers slid. A pen rolled off the edge and clattered somewhere far away.

Every stroke shoved the breath out of me. My breasts swung, nipples brushing the cold glass. He grabbed my hair, pulled my head back so I could see our reflection in the dark window—my mouth open, eyes glassy, his jaw clenched in control.

“Say it,” he growled.

“Fuck me harder, sir.”

He did. God, he did. His hand slid around to my clit, rough circles that made my knees buckle. I came first, violent, shuddering, biting my own arm to keep from screaming loud enough for security to hear.

He didn’t stop. He fucked me through the aftershocks until I felt him swell, then he buried himself deep and came inside me, hot pulses that seemed to last forever.

When he finally pulled out, I felt his cum slide down my thigh. He turned me around, kissed me once—slow, possessive—then handed me my blouse.

“Go home, Elena. Tomorrow wear the red set underneath the grey suit. I want to know it’s there.”

I dressed with shaking hands. Walked to the elevator with his taste in my mouth and his semen leaking into my panties.

I’m writing this in the back of an Uber now. My thighs are sticky. I’m smiling like an idiot.

I think I’m in trouble.

The good kind.