The sound of paper rustling filled the quiet archives, but it wasn’t the pages of a book I was hearing. My heart pounded as I peered around the corner of the towering shelves, my breath catching in my throat. Mr. Carter. My boss. The man I’d always seen as stern, composed, unshakable. But here he was, his back to me, his hand moving furiously beneath the waistband of his slacks.

I froze, my fingers clutching the edge of the shelf so tightly my knuckles turned white. My ears burned as I heard the soft, desperate sounds escaping him—groans muffled by the dusty air of the archives. I should have turned away. Walked out. Pretended I’d seen nothing. But I couldn’t move. I was rooted to the spot, my body betraying me with a strange, electric thrill that shot through me.

And then he said it. My name.

“Emma.” His voice was low, guttural, almost reverent. The sound of it sent a shiver down my spine. He was thinking about me. Fantasizing about me. Me. The shy librarian who barely spoke above a whisper, who spent her days cataloging books and avoiding eye contact.

My stomach twisted with a mix of shock and something else—something I didn’t want to acknowledge. But it was there, undeniable. Curiosity. Heat. A strange, forbidden craving that made my skin flush and my pulse race.

I stepped forward before I could stop myself, my heels clicking against the polished floor. His head snapped around, his eyes widening in horror as he saw me. He froze, his hand still tucked in his pants, his face a mask of guilt and panic.

“Emma,” he stammered, yanking his hand out and fumbling with his belt. “I—I didn’t hear you come in.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. My voice felt trapped somewhere in my throat, strangled by the intensity of the moment. My eyes dropped of their own accord, lingering for a moment on the undeniable bulge straining against his slacks before I forced myself to meet his gaze again.

“Mr. Carter,” I said softly, my voice trembling. But then something shifted inside me. A spark of boldness I didn’t know I had. I stepped closer, my arms crossed over my chest, my chin lifted. “Was that my name I heard?”

He blanched, his hands shaking as he tried—and failed—to compose himself. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I tilted my head, my lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “Don’t lie to me. I heard you. You were… thinking about me.”

His cheeks flushed crimson, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, he stared at me, his eyes dark with a mixture of shame and something else. Something that made my stomach tighten and my legs feel weak.

“Emma,” he said again, his voice rough, pleading. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Stop,” I interrupted, my voice firmer now. I took another step closer, closing the distance between us. I could smell his cologne, mingling with the musky scent hanging in the air. My heart was racing, but I refused to let my fear show. “You weren’t finished, were you?”

His breath hitched, his eyes darting between mine as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What?”

I nodded toward his pants, my gaze unflinching. “You didn’t… finish. Did you?”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Emma, this isn’t—”

“Do it,” I said, surprising even myself with the command in my voice. “Finish. For me.”

His eyes widened, and for a moment, I thought he might refuse. But then I saw it—the flicker of desire, the way his body seemed to tense, his breathing shallow. He hesitated, his hand hovering at his waistband, as if waiting for permission.

“Now,” I said, my voice sharp, demanding. “Don’t make me wait.”

His resolve broke. He fumbled with his belt, his hands trembling as he freed himself. I didn’t look away. I couldn’t. My pulse thundered in my ears as I watched him stroke himself, his gaze locked on mine, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Emma,” he groaned, his voice cracked with need. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

The words sent a jolt of warmth through me, pooling low in my belly. I felt a strange power, a heady rush of control as I watched him come undone for me. My boss. The man who had always been so distant, so untouchable. And here he was, completely at my mercy.

“Not yet,” I said, my voice low and husky. I reached for the teacup I’d been carrying, the one I’d brought with me to the archives. My daily ritual. My comfort. I held it out to him, my hand steady despite the chaos raging inside me. “In here.”

He froze, his hand stilling, his eyes wide with shock. “What?”

“You heard me,” I said, my voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. “Do it. In the tea.”

He stared at me, his chest heaving, his face a mask of disbelief. But then, slowly, he nodded, his hand moving again, faster now, more urgent. I held the cup steady, my heart pounding as I watched him edge closer, his breath hitching, his body tensing.

And then, with a low, guttural groan, he came, his release spilling into the tea, his eyes never leaving mine.

I felt a strange sense of satisfaction as I watched him slump against the shelf, spent and trembling. I brought the cup to my lips, my eyes locked on his as I took a slow, deliberate sip, the taste of him mingling with the tea in a way that made my head spin.

His eyes widened, his mouth opening as if to protest, but no words came out.

“Delicious,” I said, my voice soft but firm. “But don’t get any ideas, Mr. Carter. This is my secret ingredient now.”

He stared at me, his face a mixture of shock and something else—something that made my stomach flutter.

“Emma,” he said, his voice hoarse. “What—what are you doing?”

I smiled, a slow, knowing smile that made his breath catch. “What I should have done a long time ago.”

I turned on my heel, the teacup still in my hand, and walked out of the archives, leaving him standing there, stunned and speechless. My heart was racing, my body buzzing with a strange, electric energy. This wasn’t over. Not even close.