Whispers in the Workday

**Whispers in the Workday** The office air conditioning at *Nexus Consultoria* hummed like a swarm of lazy bees, pumping out artificial cold that barely masked the muggy heat of São Paulo outside. The glass walls reflected the constant motion of the 12th floor: phones ringing, keyboards clattering, muffled laughter in the hallways. It was one of those days when routine felt like a rehearsed choreography, everyone knowing their steps by heart—except for him. Lucas Almeida entered the open space as if he already owned the place. He wore a light blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms marked by subtle veins and sun-kissed skin that betrayed weekends at the beach. The fabric clung to his broad shoulders, and the first undone button revealed a patch of skin that, for some reason, made Clara hold her breath. He carried a leather portfolio under his arm and an easy smile on his lips—one of those smiles that disarmed everyone. Except her. Clara Vasconcelos sat at her desk, her fingers flying over the keyboard, typing a report with the precision of someone afraid of making mistakes. Her thin-framed glasses kept slipping down her straight nose, and she pushed them back with an automatic gesture, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her chestnut hair, tied in a low bun, seemed to contain all the tension in her body—every strand in place, nothing out of order. She wore a gray blazer over a cream silk blouse, and even seated, she gave the impression of being about to stand up, as if the chair were made of needles. She saw him before he saw her. A glimpse from the corner of her eye: the way he greeted the receptionist with a casual wave, as if he knew the whole world and the whole world knew him back. Camila, the intern, laughed louder than necessary, and Clara pressed her lips together. It wasn’t jealousy—it would never be jealousy. It was just... attention. An unwanted attention that made her look away whenever he passed by, as if mere eye contact could reveal something she preferred to keep hidden. — *Clara, this is Lucas, our new graphic designer,* — announced Ricardo, the manager, stopping beside her desk with that tone he reserved for good news. — *He’s taking Marcos’s place.* She lifted her eyes slowly, as if the movement hurt. Lucas was already watching her, his light green eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her feel exposed, as if he could see beyond the professional facade. A slow smile spread across his face, and Clara had the impression he knew exactly the effect he had. — *Nice to meet you,* — he said, extending his hand. Hers hesitated for a second before responding. Lucas’s palm was warm, his long fingers wrapping around hers with a firmness that wasn’t aggressive but wasn’t shy either. A calculated touch. The kind of handshake that said *I know what I’m doing.* — *Clara Vasconcelos,* — she replied, pulling her hand back a little quicker than she intended. — *Clara,* — he repeated, as if tasting the name on his tongue. — *It suits you.* She didn’t know how to respond. Something in the way he said it—not like a compliment, but like a statement—made her stomach clench. Ricardo was already walking away, calling Lucas to introduce him to the rest of the team, but he was still looking at her, as if waiting for something. — *I hope we get along well,* — he said at last. — *I...* — Clara cleared her throat. — *I don’t usually have problems with colleagues.* Lucas chuckled softly, a sound that vibrated in the air between them. — *That’s not what I asked.* Before she could respond, he turned and followed Ricardo, leaving behind only the scent of a woody cologne mixed with something fresher, like lemon and sea. Clara exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and turned her eyes back to the computer screen. The words in the report danced before her, meaningless. On the other side of the office, Lucas settled into his new desk, tossing the portfolio onto the glass surface. He watched Clara for a few seconds, long enough to notice how she adjusted her glasses, how she bit her lower lip when she thought no one was looking. A smile played on his lips. — *She’s interesting,* — Ricardo commented, following Lucas’s gaze. — *Very,* — he agreed, not taking his eyes off her. Clara felt the weight of that gaze like an unwanted caress. She gripped the mouse, forcing herself to concentrate. But for the first time in years, the spreadsheet in front of her seemed less important than the man watching her from across the room. And that, more than anything, scared her. The meeting room smelled of reheated coffee and Ana’s citrus perfume, the project manager who insisted on spraying her *Dior J’adore* as if the room were a runway. Clara adjusted her glasses, her fingers brushing the cold frame as she tried to focus on the dragging PowerPoint presentation. Sales charts, quarterly projections, unattainable goals—all of it passed before her like a blur of colors and numbers, less important than Lucas’s presence three chairs away. He was leaning forward, elbows on the glass table, his long fingers drumming absently on the surface. The fluorescent light reflected off his wristwatch, a silver *Seiko* that gleamed every time he moved his arm. Clara knew this because, without meaning to, she counted the seconds between each movement, as if the rhythm of that beat could reveal something about him. About *them.* — *Clara, could you pass the reports from last quarter?* — Ana’s voice cut through the silence, sharp as a blade. She blinked, snapping out of her trance. The folder with the documents was in the center of the table, next to Lucas’s water glass. He also reached out, his fingers almost touching hers as they both leaned in to grab it. A second. A single second of hesitation, skin against skin, nails lightly brushing the knuckle of his middle finger. It was as if an electric current had run up her arm, down her spine. Clara pulled her hand back abruptly, as if burned, and the movement made the folder slip from Lucas’s fingers. Papers scattered across the floor, white sheets with blue and red charts spreading like confetti. — *Shit,* — he muttered, more to himself than to her, as he bent down to pick them up. Clara did the same, her knees knocking against his under the table. This time, the contact was longer, more deliberate—thigh against thigh, the fabric of his pants brushing against her thin stockings. She felt the heat of his skin even through the layers of clothing, and a shiver ran up her neck, making the hairs on her arms stand on end. — *Sorry,* — she whispered, but the word came out more like a breath, almost inaudible. Lucas looked up, meeting her eyes for a fraction of a second before both hurried to look away. He had absurdly long lashes, she noticed, dark as ink, contrasting with the light green of his irises. And in that moment, while holding one of the papers between his fingers, he smiled—not a mocking or sarcastic smile, but something softer, almost complicit. — *It was nothing,* — he said, his voice low and rough. — *My fault.* Ana cleared her throat impatiently, and Clara hurried to gather the last papers, avoiding touching him again. But the damage was already done. The heat of his thigh still burned against hers, the memory of their fingers brushing still tingled on her skin. The meeting continued, but Clara heard nothing more. Every time Lucas crossed his legs, the sound of the fabric rubbing against itself was like a whisper in her ear. Every time he brought the pen to his mouth to chew on the cap, she imagined what it would be like to feel those teeth elsewhere. And when, by accident, their eyes met over the table, it was as if the air between them became denser, charged with something neither dared to name. At the end, as everyone began to stand, Lucas approached her under the pretense of taking the folder back. — *Are you okay?* — he asked, his voice so low only she could hear. Clara nodded, but the words died in her throat when he brushed the back of his hand against hers, a gesture almost imperceptible but deliberate. A reminder. — *Me too,* — he murmured before stepping away. She stood still, watching him leave the room, the scent of his cologne—woody with a hint of lemon—still lingering in the air. And when she finally managed to move, it was with the feeling that something had changed. Something small, almost insignificant, but now haunting her like a shadow. In the bathroom later, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her lips parted, as if she were about to say something. Or to be kissed. And for the first time in a long time, Clara didn’t recognize herself. Clara ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the desk, as if she could erase the invisible marks the day had left there. The office was almost empty now, the lights on the upper floors blinking lazily, like stars too distant to truly illuminate. She liked these moments—the thick silence, the feeling that the world outside had paused to breathe. It was when she could think without the constant noise of voices, phones, high heels clicking on the marble floor. That was when she saw it. A piece of paper folded in half, precariously balanced on the keyboard. It wasn’t a common sticky note, those yellow squares the marketing team loved to scatter like confetti. This was different: maybe letter paper, or a clipping from something older, the edges slightly worn, as if it had been handled many times before reaching her. Clara frowned. There was no one nearby—not even the shadow of a colleague hurrying toward the elevators. With a slow, almost ritualistic movement, she unfolded the paper. *"Your neck is the kind of curve that makes a man forget his own name."* The words were handwritten in black ink, in careful, right-leaning script, as if whoever had written them was in a hurry but didn’t want to make a mistake. Clara felt the air catch in her lungs. It wasn’t just any compliment—it was intimate, almost invasive, as if whoever had written it had watched her long enough to know exactly what would make her blush. And she did blush. The heat rose from her chest, spreading across her cheeks, burning as if someone had blown embers against her skin. She looked around, suddenly aware of every sound: the hum of the air conditioning, the distant click of a mouse, the creak of a chair spinning on the floor above. No one. No curious eyes, no malicious smile. Just her, the note, and the question pounding in her mind: *who?* That was when she heard it. Footsteps. Light but deliberate, as if someone were trying not to be noticed but at the same time wanted to be. Clara didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. There was something in the rhythm of those steps—a lazy confidence, a calculated control—that could only belong to Lucas. He stopped beside her desk, so close she could feel the heat of his body radiating, even without touching. — *Found something interesting?* — His voice was low, a murmur that wrapped around the words like smoke. Clara quickly folded the note, as if she could hide the evidence of her own blush. But it was too late. His eyes had already caught the movement, the way her fingers trembled slightly as she tucked the paper into her pants pocket. — *It’s nothing,* — she said, but her voice came out thinner than she intended. Lucas tilted his head, a slow smile spreading across his lips. He didn’t sit down, didn’t get too close—just stood there, a magnetic presence, as if the mere fact of existing in the same space as her was already a provocation. — *Nothing?* — He repeated the word as if savoring it. — *Too bad. I was hoping it was something… memorable.* Clara lifted her eyes, meeting his. There was something there, a spark, a challenge. He knew. Of course he knew. And he wasn’t the least bit ashamed of it. — *Don’t you have work to do?* — She tried to sound firm, but the question came out more like a plea than a reprimand. Lucas chuckled, a low, rough sound that made the hairs on her arms stand on end. — *I do. But it seems you found a distraction first.* — He gestured vaguely toward her pocket, where the note now burned like a secret. — *I hope you liked it.* Clara felt her heart beat faster. He wasn’t denying it. He wasn’t confirming it. He was *playing* with her, like a cat with a mouse, letting her guess, letting her *want* it to be true. — *Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?* — She tried to change the subject, but the words sounded weak even to herself. — *I should.* — He took a step back but didn’t move away. Instead, he rested his hands on the back of her chair, leaning slightly forward. The movement made his scent—woody with a hint of lemon, as she had noticed before—spread through the air between them. — *But I like seeing you like this.* — *Like what?* — The question escaped before she could stop it. Lucas smiled, his dark eyes gleaming with something she couldn’t decipher. — *Flushed.* — He reached out as if to touch her face but stopped halfway, his fingers hovering in the air. — *Nervous. Like you’re about to run away.* Clara didn’t move. She couldn’t. The space between them felt charged, like the moment before a storm, when the air grows heavy and every breath is an effort. — *I don’t run,* — she lied. — *No?* — He lowered his hand but didn’t step back. — *Then prove it.* It was a challenge. An invitation. A promise. Clara felt the weight of his words between them, as if he had reached out and offered something she wasn’t sure she could refuse. For a second, she thought about responding. About saying something witty, something that would make him back off, that would restore order. But the words died in her throat when he leaned in even closer, his face so near hers she could feel the heat of his breath against her lips. — *I’m leaving now,* — he murmured. — *But this note? It won’t be the last.* And then, with a smile that was both a threat and a promise, Lucas stepped away. Clara stood there, motionless, her fingers still clutching the paper in her pocket, her whole body vibrating with the certainty that something had changed. Something she could no longer ignore. When she finally managed to move, it was to grab her bag and hurry out of the office. But even as she walked toward the elevators, even as the doors closed behind her, one question echoed in her mind, insistent, dangerous: *What would he do next?* The clock on the meeting room wall read eight forty-seven when Clara finally closed her laptop with a sigh. The office, once a hive of voices and keyboards, was now steeped in thick silence, broken only by the distant hum of the air conditioning and the muffled sound of her own footsteps on the carpet. She rubbed her eyes, feeling the day’s light makeup already fading under her lids, and stretched her arms above her head, the muscles in her back protesting with subtle cracks. That was when she heard it. The jingle of keys, followed by the soft creak of the break room door opening. Clara didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Lucas’s presence filled the space before he even appeared, as if the air around him carried its own electricity. She held her breath as he emerged in the doorway, his broad shoulders taking up almost the entire space, his dress shirt slightly wrinkled at the cuffs, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing forearms marked by discreet veins. — *Still here?* — His voice was low, rough, as if he had spent the whole day speaking in whispers. Clara pretended to check something on her phone, but her hands trembled slightly. — *Just finishing up some adjustments.* — A lie. The report had been ready for hours. She just didn’t want to leave. Not yet. Lucas entered the room unhurriedly, closing the door behind him with a click that echoed like a period. He approached the table where she sat, his fingers sliding over the polished surface as he observed the scattered papers, the colorful sticky notes, the forgotten cup of cold coffee beside the keyboard. — *Do you always work overtime?* — he asked, stopping just a few inches from her. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough for his scent—something citrusy with a woody undertone—to envelop her like a second skin. — *Only when I’m behind.* — Another lie. Clara was never behind. He smiled, slow and knowing, as if he knew everything. — *Or when you’re avoiding something. Or someone.* She lifted her eyes, finally, and met his. Dark, intense, with a spark that made her stomach clench. For a second, neither spoke. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable; it was charged, like the calm before a storm. Clara could hear her own heartbeat, too loud, too fast. — *Do you think I’m avoiding you?* — The question came out more challenging than she intended. Lucas tilted his head, his lips curving into a half-smile. — *I don’t know. Are you?* She should have said yes. Should have made up an excuse, grabbed her bag, and left before things spiraled out of control. But the words died in her throat when he stepped closer, resting his hands on the table on either side of her, trapping her without touching. — *Because I’m not avoiding you, Clara.* — His voice was a thread of silk wrapping around her. — *Quite the opposite.* She swallowed hard. The air between them felt denser, as if oxygen had been replaced by something heavier, more intoxicating. Lucas didn’t move, but his eyes roamed her face as if memorizing it—the curve of her cheek, the contour of her lips, the way her pupils dilated when he leaned in even closer. — *What are you doing?* — The question came out in a whisper. — *Nothing you don’t want.* — He lifted a hand, hesitating, and brushed his knuckles along her jawline, tracing a slow path to her chin. — *But if you want me to stop, just say so.* Clara should have said it. Should have pulled back, pushed the chair away, put distance between them. But when his fingers slid to the nape of her neck, pulling her slightly forward, she didn’t resist. Instead, she closed her eyes and let his breath mingle with hers, hot, damp, laden with unspoken promises. — *I won’t say it,* — she murmured. That was enough. Lucas’s lips found hers in a kiss that wasn’t soft or hesitant. It was urgent, hungry, as if he had spent the whole day waiting for that moment. Clara responded in kind, her hands rising to grip his shirt, pulling him closer, feeling his body press against hers against the table. His taste was coffee and mint, mixed with something more primal, more masculine, and she moaned softly when his tongue invaded her mouth, exploring, demanding. He lifted her effortlessly, sitting her on the table, her legs parting instinctively to accommodate his body between them. Lucas’s hands slid up her thighs, squeezing lightly, while his lips trailed down her neck, leaving a path of wet kisses that made her skin burn. Clara tilted her head back, offering more access, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. — *Fuck, Clara…* — His voice was a growl against her skin. — *You have no idea what I’ve wanted to do to you since the first day.* She laughed, breathless. — *I think I have an idea.* He silenced her with another kiss, deeper, more desperate, as his hands moved up her skirt, his fingers brushing the lace of her panties. Clara arched her back, a moan escaping when he pressed his palm against her, feeling the heat through the thin fabric. — *This is madness,* — she murmured, but she didn’t push him away. — *The best kind of madness,* — he replied, nipping at her lower lip. — *And we both know you want it as much as I do.* She did. God, how she wanted it. Every touch, every caress, every ragged breath was a silent confirmation. But then, in the middle of the kiss, as his fingers slid under the lace and found her most sensitive spot, a sharp sound cut through the air. The elevator. The *ping* echoed through the room like a gunshot, followed by the metallic noise of the doors opening. Lucas froze, his hand still between her legs, his eyes wide and fixed on hers. Clara pushed him back with a sharp movement, jumping off the table and adjusting her skirt with trembling hands, her heart pounding so hard she was sure whoever was outside could hear it. — *Shit,* — he whispered, running a hand through his hair, his breathing as ragged as hers. Clara didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her whole body still vibrated with his nearness, with the promise of what had almost happened. She smoothed her blouse, trying to regain some composure, as she heard footsteps approaching down the hallway. — *Clara?* — Mariana’s voice, the intern, came from outside. — *Are you still there?* Lucas retreated to the opposite wall, crossing his arms as if he had been there for hours, as if he hadn’t just had his fingers inches from making her come on the meeting table. Clara took a deep breath, trying to steady her voice before answering. — *Yes, I’m finishing up. I’m coming.* — *Oh, okay. Just wanted to let you know the security guard will be making his rounds soon.* — *Thanks.* Mariana’s footsteps faded, followed by the sound of the elevator closing again. The silence returned, but now it carried a different tension—one of something interrupted, something that needed to be finished. Lucas let out a low laugh, shaking his head. — *That was close.* Clara didn’t laugh. She looked at him, her lips still swollen from the kisses, her eyes dark with unsated desire. — *It’s not over.* He raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face. — *No?* — *No.* — She took a step forward, then another, until she was close enough to feel the heat of his body again. — *But next time, we’ll pick a place where we won’t be interrupted.* His eyes gleamed, dark and dangerous. — *And where would that be?* Clara smiled, turning toward the door. — *You’ll find out.* And with that, she left the room, leaving him there alone, with the promise of much more hanging in the air. The door to the women’s bathroom clicked shut, the sound muffled by the distant hum of the air conditioning. Clara rested her hands on the cold marble sink, leaning slightly forward, her eyes fixed on her own reflection. Her cheeks still burned, her lipstick smeared around her lips like a battle scar. She took a deep breath, trying to calm the throbbing between her legs, but the echo of the interrupted kiss in the meeting room still lingered on her skin. That was when she heard it. A nearly imperceptible creak of the door opening behind her. A second of hesitation, as if time had stopped to assess the risk. Clara didn’t turn around. She knew who it was. She felt him in the air, in the way the space between them seemed to contract, charged with electricity. — *You shouldn’t be here,* — she murmured, but there was no conviction in her voice. Just a thread of challenge, a disguised invitation. Lucas didn’t answer. The door closed with a dry click, and the lock turned, the metallic sound echoing off the white tile walls. Clara held her breath as he approached, his steps slow, deliberate. His scent—something citrusy and woody, mixed with the heat of his body—filled the space before his hands even touched her. — *I know,* — he said at last, his voice rough. — *But you shouldn’t have said what you said out there.* She smiled, still facing away from him, her fingers gripping the edge of the sink. — *And what did I say?* — *That it’s not over.* The words hung in the air, heavy with promise. Clara felt the heat of his body draw near, without yet touching her. Just enough for the fabric of her blouse to brush against her back, a minimal contact that made her shiver. — *And you think I’d let it go just like that?* — The question came out as a whisper, almost a moan, when his lips found the curve of her neck. She tilted her head to the side, exposing more of her skin, and Lucas didn’t hesitate. His teeth grazed lightly, followed by his hot tongue, tracing a wet path to her ear. Clara let out a ragged sigh, her nails digging into his shoulders. — *You’re crazy,* — she murmured, but arched her body against his, feeling the proof that he, too, had lost control. — *Crazy for you,* — he corrected, his hand sliding down her waist, pulling her firmly against his hip. — *Since the first day I saw you pretending not to notice me.* Clara laughed, a low, trembling sound. — *I wasn’t pretending.* — *Liar.* — His fingers moved upward, caressing the side of her breast over her blouse, sending shivers through her. — *You looked away every time I smiled. Like you were afraid of burning.* — *And now?* — She turned her face, her lips almost touching his. — *Still afraid?* Lucas gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, hungry, but there was something more there—an urgency that went beyond desire. — *Now you know you’ll burn with me.* And then he kissed her. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was a possessive kiss, a kiss of accumulated hunger, his lips moving with an intensity that stole her breath. She responded with the same voracity, her hands rising to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, as if she could merge their bodies right there. Lucas pushed her against the wall, his body pressing against hers with enough force for her to feel every muscle, every inch of his arousal. Clara moaned against his mouth, the sound muffled by the kiss, but he swallowed the moan as if it were his right. — *Fuck,* — he growled, pulling back just enough to breathe. — *I’ve wanted to fuck you since the first time I saw you in that tight blouse, the buttons about to burst.* Clara laughed, but the sound turned into a gasp when he bit her lower lip, pulling it gently. — *And I wanted you to do it,* — she confessed, her voice rough. — *But not here. Not like this.* — *No?* — He slid his hand under her skirt, his fingers finding the edge of her panties. — *Then tell me to stop.* Clara said nothing. She only bit her lip when he brushed his knuckles against the damp fabric, a light touch that made her arch her back. — *Is this what you want?* — Lucas whispered, his mouth near her ear. — *For me to stop?* She shook her head, her eyes closed, her whole body trembling with anticipation. — *No.* — *Then tell me what you want.* Clara opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. There was a challenge there, a provocation, but also something deeper—a need that echoed her own. — *I want you to touch me,* — she said, her voice steady despite the tremor. — *Like there’s no tomorrow.* Lucas didn’t need any more encouragement. With a quick movement, he pulled her panties to the side, his fingers finding the wet heat between her legs. Clara let out a loud moan, stifling it against his shoulder as he began to explore her with a precision that made her tremble. — *Damn, you’re soaked,* — he murmured, his fingers sliding easily, teasing her in slow circles that left her on the edge. — *Is it because of me?* Clara didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She only clung to his shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as he took her higher and higher. — *Answer me,* — he ordered, stopping suddenly, his fingers still inside her. — *Yes,* — she gasped, her hips moving in search of more contact. — *Only because of you.* Lucas smiled, satisfied, and resumed his movements, now with more pressure, more speed. Clara bit her lip to keep from screaming, her whole body tense, about to shatter. — *Come for me,* — he whispered, his voice rough. — *I want to feel you clenching around my fingers.* And she did. The orgasm swept through her like a wave, her body shuddering against the wall, her moans muffled against his chest. Lucas didn’t stop, prolonging the pleasure until she was limp in his arms, her knees weak, her breathing ragged. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her with an intensity that made her shiver. — *That was just the beginning,* — he said, slowly withdrawing his fingers and bringing them to his lips to taste her. Clara watched, hypnotized, as he sucked his fingers, his eyes never leaving hers. — *You’re dangerous,* — she murmured, but there was no fear in her voice. Only anticipation. Lucas smiled, leaning in again, his lips brushing hers. — *And you love it.* She didn’t deny it. The bathroom door creaked suddenly, the sound of footsteps outside. Both froze, their hearts beating in unison. Someone tried to open the door, but the lock held. — *Is someone in there?* — a female voice called. Clara and Lucas exchanged a knowing smile. He stepped back slowly, adjusting her clothes with quick, precise movements, while Clara tried to catch her breath. — *Just a minute!* — she called back, her voice surprisingly steady. Lucas took a step back, his eyes still burning with desire, but now there was something more—a silent promise. — *This isn’t over,* — he murmured before slipping into one of the stalls and closing the door behind him. Clara smoothed her skirt, ran her fingers through her hair, and took a deep breath before unlocking the door. When she stepped out, she found a colleague from another department waiting, looking impatient. — *Took you long enough,* — the woman grumbled. Clara smiled, the flush still evident on her cheeks. — *Sorry. It’s been a long day.* And as she walked back down the hallway toward the office, she knew Lucas was watching her from the stall, waiting for the right moment to leave. She also knew that, very soon, they would find a place where they wouldn’t be interrupted. But for now, the game continued. The morning sun streamed into the office through the half-open blinds, painting golden stripes across the metal desks and dormant keyboards. Clara arrived earlier than usual, as if her body still held the heat of Lucas’s fingers on her thighs, the weight of his lips on her neck. The coffee from the vending machine gave off a strong, almost bitter aroma, but she sipped it slowly, letting the caffeine mix with the lingering vibrations under her skin. The door opened with a soft click. Lucas entered, his jacket draped over his forearm, his white shirt slightly wrinkled at the collar—as if he had dressed in a hurry, or as if someone had pulled it urgently. His eyes found hers before he even crossed the threshold of the break room, and in that second of mutual recognition, the air between them thickened. — *Good morning,* — he said, his voice low, rough from sleep or something else. Clara smiled, her lips still sensitive from the interrupted kiss in the bathroom. — *Slept well?* Lucas approached the machine, his body turned sideways to her, as if he needed that minimal space to resist the urge to touch her right there. He pressed the button for black coffee, and the dark liquid poured into the cup with a hiss that seemed to echo the sound of his own thoughts. — *Not really,* — he admitted, finally turning to face her. — *I dreamed about you.* She raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference, but the telltale blush crept up her neck. — *Must have been quite a dream.* — *It was.* — He brought the cup to his lips, his eyes fixed on hers over the rim. — *I woke up with my hand on my cock.* Clara nearly choked on her coffee. The hot liquid burned her throat, but it was the image—Lucas lying in bed, the sheets tangled between his legs, his fingers moving with the memory of her body—that made her clench her thighs under the table. She lowered her eyes, pretending to adjust the strap of her bag, but the truth was she couldn’t look at him without seeing the reflection of what they had done the night before. — *You’re terrible,* — she murmured, but there was no reproach in her voice. — *And you love it.* She didn’t deny it. Instead, she pushed the empty cup aside and stood up, brushing past him with a deliberate sway of her hips. The thin fabric of her skirt slid against his leg, and she felt his muscle tense under the touch. — *I have a meeting in ten minutes,* — she said, stopping in the doorway. — *Don’t be late.* Lucas smiled, slow and dangerous. — *Don’t dream about me again.* — *I make no promises.* --- The office returned to its routine as if nothing had happened. Keyboards clacked, phones rang, and the smell of paper and stale coffee mixed with Clara’s discreet perfume, which now carried a hint of Lucas’s soap—something citrusy, masculine, that made her remember his skin against hers. She focused on the reports, the numbers dancing on the screen, but every time she lifted her eyes, there he was, on the other side of the room, pretending to review a layout while watching her over the top of his computer screen. It was a game. A delicious game of stolen glances, of smiles only they understood, of touches that didn’t happen but that both felt as if they were real. When lunch arrived, Clara ordered a salad and ate at her desk, her trembling fingers holding the fork while Lucas passed behind her, his hand brushing lightly against the back of her chair. — *You’re distracted,* — he commented, low enough for only her to hear. — *And you’re provoking me.* — *Maybe.* She bit her lip, resisting the urge to turn around and pull him close. Instead, she pushed her plate aside and crossed her arms on the desk, leaning back slightly. — *What do you want, Lucas?* He stepped even closer, his voice a warm whisper against her ear. — *I want to see you on all fours on my desk after everyone leaves. I want to hear you moan my name while I finger you until you come. I want to taste you on my tongue before bending you over the copier and fucking you until you can’t take it anymore.* Clara felt her entire body ignite. His words were like a physical touch, a caress between her legs, a squeeze on her nipples that hardened under her thin blouse. She swallowed hard, trying to maintain her composure, but her voice trembled when she answered: — *You don’t play fair.* — *I never said I did.* He stepped away, leaving her with her breath ragged and her body pulsing with desire. Clara looked around, but no one seemed to have noticed the exchange. Everyone was immersed in their own lives, oblivious to the fire burning between them. --- At six o’clock, the office began to empty. Hurried footsteps, goodbyes, the sound of drawers closing. Clara pretended to organize some papers, her fingers trembling as she waited. Lucas was the last to leave, but instead of heading to the elevator, he stopped beside her desk. — *Coming?* — he asked, as if they were talking about something completely innocent. She looked at him, her dark eyes gleaming with anticipation. — *I need to finish something.* — *Don’t take too long.* He walked away, and Clara counted to sixty before standing up. The office was almost empty, only the hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant sound of a vacuum cleaner on the floor below. She walked to the meeting room, where Lucas waited for her, leaning against the glass table, his arms crossed over his chest. — *Finally,* — he murmured when she closed the door behind her. Clara didn’t answer. Instead, she walked toward him, her high heels echoing on the wooden floor. She stopped just inches away, close enough to feel the heat of his body, the scent of his cologne mixed with the clean sweat of a workday. — *What are you going to do to me?* — she asked, her voice low, challenging. Lucas smiled, slow and dangerous, and reached out to touch her face, his fingers sliding along her jaw before gripping her chin firmly. — *Everything you let me.* And then he kissed her. It wasn’t a soft kiss. It was urgent, hungry, as if both were remembering each other’s taste after hours of abstinence. Clara moaned against his mouth, her hands gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. Lucas lifted her effortlessly, sitting her on the table, and she parted her legs to accommodate him between them, the fabric of her skirt riding up her thighs. — *You thought about this all day?* — he asked, his lips trailing down her neck, his teeth grazing her sensitive skin. — *Yes.* — *About what, exactly?* — *About you touching me.* — She arched her back when his hand found her breast, squeezing it over her blouse. — *About you fucking me.* Lucas laughed, a low, satisfied sound, and pulled her blouse up, exposing her black lace bra. His nimble fingers undid the clasp, and her breasts spilled free, her nipples already hard, begging for attention. — *Fuck, Clara,* — he murmured before lowering his head and taking a nipple into his mouth. She moaned, her nails digging into his shoulders as he sucked, nipped, and licked. The sensation was almost unbearable, an electric current shooting straight to the center of her legs. When he switched to the other breast, his free hand slid up her thigh, lifting her skirt to her waist. — *You’re wet,* — he noted, his fingers brushing the lace of her panties. — *I know.* — *Do you want me to make you come?* — *Yes.* He didn’t need any more encouragement. With a quick movement, he pulled her panties aside and slid two fingers inside her, curling them at the perfect angle. Clara arched her back, a moan escaping her lips as he penetrated her with his fingers, the palm of his hand pressing against her clit. — *That’s it,* — she whispered, her legs trembling. — *Like that.* Lucas sped up, his fingers moving in and out of her while his mouth captured hers again, swallowing her moans. Clara felt the orgasm approaching, a hot wave starting in her belly and spreading through her entire body. When she came, it was with a muffled cry against his lips, her inner walls clenching around his fingers. He didn’t stop until she was completely limp, her arms resting on the table to keep from falling. Then, with a satisfied smile, he withdrew his fingers slowly and brought them to his lips to taste her. — *Better than in the dream,* — he murmured. Clara laughed, still breathless, and pulled him into another kiss, tasting herself on his tongue. — *It’s not over yet,* — she said when they parted. — *I know.* And then, with a quick movement, she pushed him back and knelt in front of him, her fingers already working on his belt, the buckle, the zipper. When his pants fell, his cock sprang free, hard and ready. Clara wrapped her hand around it, feeling it pulse under her touch, and then, without warning, took him into her mouth. Lucas groaned, his fingers tangling in her hair as she sucked him, slow and deep, her tongue swirling around the head before taking him in again. He was big, almost too much, but she loved the feeling of having him in her mouth, the power of making him lose control. — *Fuck, Clara,* — he grunted, his hips moving involuntarily. — *You’re going to make me come.* She pulled back just enough to answer, her voice rough with desire: — *That’s the idea.* And then she took him back into her mouth, faster now, her hands working in sync with her lips. Lucas didn’t last long. With a muffled groan, he held her head tighter and came, his hot semen filling her mouth as she swallowed every drop. When she finished, Clara stood up, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. Lucas pulled her into a kiss, tasting himself on her tongue. — *That was…* — He didn’t finish the sentence, but the smile on his face said it all. — *Just the beginning,* — she completed. He nodded, his eyes dark with promises. — *Just the beginning.* And as the office around them remained empty and silent, they knew that night wouldn’t be the last. That there would be others. That the game had barely begun.