Dylan Garcia

I followed him inside, every nerve screaming. The glass walls might as well have been prison bars—everyone could see us, but no one could hear. Colleagues passed by, glancing curiously. Some even lingered, whispering about the tall man in the perfect suit, about why he wanted me.

Charles closed the door with a soft click, turned, and leaned casually against the table. He crossed his arms, looking at me like I was already on my knees.

“So,” he said lightly, almost playful, “did you think I wouldn’t notice how you look at me the moment our eyes met?”

My throat tightened. “I-I didn’t—”

“Didn’t think?” His voice sharpened, low enough to slice through the air without anyone outside hearing. “Or didn’t care?”

I bit my lip hard, trying to steady myself. This was dangerous. He could ruin me with a word, expose me without even raising his voice. And yet, a part of me is thrilled at the risk.

“I wasn’t trying to… overstep,” I whispered, hating how weak it sounded.

Charles pushed off the table, closing the distance until he loomed over me, his presence eating up the oxygen in the room. His green eyes glinted, full of the same dark amusement that made my stomach twist into knots.

“You already overstepped, Dylan,” he murmured, his voice velvet and steel. B

The memory of that night, the way I’d blurted out those words, hit me like a punch to the gut. Shame flared hot and sharp in my chest. Charles reached past me, bracing one hand on the table, caging me in. From outside, it would look like a normal conversation, a client and an analyst going over numbers. But inside the glass room, his proximity was suffocating, intoxicating.

He leaned in, his mouth close to my ear, his words a private brand of torture. “Tell me, Dylan. Do you regret asking me? Or are you still aching for me to ruin you?”

My breath came shallow, my body screaming yes, but my mind was terrified someone might walk in, see the way I was trembling under him. Through the glass, I saw my coworker glance in, raise a brow, then walk past. The illusion of normalcy held, but just barely.

“I…” My voice cracked. “…both, sir.”

A slow, wicked smile spread across his lips. “Good answer.”

He lingered for a beat, his thumb brushing against the table inches from my hand, so subtle no one outside could possibly see. My body leaned toward him instinctively, betraying me further. Then, in a seamless pivot, the mask of professionalism snapped back into place. He straightened, adjusted his cufflinks, and raised his voice just enough to carry through the glass.

“I’ll be meeting with your manager shortly. There are matters that require discussion. Until then, I’ll see you around.”

As quickly as he’d let the mask slip, it was back again, cold and precise. The warmth from that fleeting touch still burned across my skin, leaving me off-balance. I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it, or if it was his way of reminding me exactly who held the reins here.

The meeting was nothing unusual on the surface, just quarterly projections, budget forecasts, the usual buzzwords. But sitting next to Charles made everything feel like a performance only I understood.

He took the seat beside mine, close enough that our shoulders brushed when he leaned back casually. My department manager droned on about projected revenue, clicking through slides, while I tried to take notes with a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking.

Charles didn’t touch me at first. He didn’t need to. His thigh pressed against mine, just enough pressure to make my pulse stutter. To anyone else, it would look like nothing. To me, it felt like a brand. Then his hand slid under the table. He didn’t go for me right away, just rested his palm against my thigh, heavy, warm. I froze. My pen stilled mid-scribble, ink blotting the paper.

“Mr. Garcia,” my manager said from across the table, “are those notes legible?”

I swallowed hard. “Y-yes, sir.”

Charles didn’t move. His hand stayed where it was, deceptively still, until the presentation hit the halfway mark. Then his thumb began tracing lazy circles over the fabric of my slacks, inching higher.

I tried to shift, to lean forward, to escape his reach, but he followed me effortlessly, his grip tightening just above my knee.

“Focus,” he murmured under his breath, voice pitched low enough that no one else could hear. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”

My pulse roared in my ears. I bent over my notebook, scribbling nonsense, anything to hide how my body was reacting.

And then his knuckles brushed against the growing bulge in my pants. Light. Deliberate. A spark of electricity shot through me so sharp I almost gasped aloud.

I bit down on my tongue hard enough to taste blood.

“You okay, Dylan?”

My head snapped up. One of my coworkers, Julia, was watching me with a raised brow from across the table.

“I-yeah,” I croaked, my throat dry. “Just… didn’t sleep much.”

She frowned, but turned her attention back to the slides. My face burned so hot I thought the whole room could see straight through me. 

Charles, of course, didn’t so much as blink. He kept his eyes on the projection screen, posture perfect, while his hand pressed firmer against my cock through the thin fabric. Just once, a slow drag of his knuckles that nearly made my vision blur. I clutched my pen so hard it nearly snapped in half. Every muscle in my body screamed not to move, not to make a sound.

At last, mercifully, the manager closed his laptop and dismissed the meeting. Chairs scraped. Papers shuffled. My coworkers stood, stretching and chatting like nothing was wrong. Charles leaned in, lips brushing the shell of my ear. I stayed frozen. My pulse was a jackhammer in my throat, my palms slick against the conference table.

Then Charles leaned in, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear, his lips grazing the shell of my ear.

“You did well not to squirm, pet.”

The word pet cracked through me like lightning. Heat shot straight to my core, my breath catching. I clenched my thighs under the table, praying no one noticed the tremor that ran through me.

I almost whimpered. Almost. And then, with obscene ease, his mask slid back into place, smooth, professional, untouchable.

“Thank you, Mr. Reynolds. I’ll be in touch about the numbers. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Garcia.”

He shook the manager’s hand like nothing had happened, gathered his papers, and walked out with that commanding stride that left the air itself rearranged in his wake.

I sat there trembling, the ghost of his breath still burning against my skin, my body betraying me in the worst possible way. My coworkers chatted around me, oblivious, while I sat wrecked, arousal coiled so tight I thought I might shatter from it.

God help me.

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.