Dylan Garcia

The question hung in the air like a noose, tight and suffocating.

Want me to take care of that?

For a second, I forgot how to breathe. My pulse didn't just throb—it thundered in my throat, a frantic, deafening drum that drowned out the entire world outside his door: the phones ringing, the printers whirring, the relentless, impersonal hum of fluorescent light. They were all just outside that glass-paneled barrier while I sat here with my boss, my neighbor, my Dom... the man who had the power to unmake me with a single, knowing look.

“I—” My voice caught, a rough, dry sound. “C-Charles, we’re at work.”

“I know.” His tone was a lazy, delicious kind of danger. 

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, his gaze peeling back layers I thought I’d hidden. He was studying me the way a scientist studies something vibrant and volatile under glass, waiting for the perfect moment to provoke a reaction. 

“That’s what makes it so interesting.”

I gripped the edge of the chair, knuckles white, anchoring myself against the heat that threatened to liquefy my core. I forced myself not to squirm under his scrutiny. The air between us felt thick, charged. I could have sworn I could taste the risk, metallic and potent, on my tongue.

He rose, slow and deliberate, a predator deciding its pace. He moved around the mahogany desk until he stood directly behind me, the space suddenly too small, too private. The faint, clean scent of cedar and smoke clung to him; it didn’t just float, it curled around me, a sensory anchor that made the small hairs on my arms rise in sharp attention.

“You can relax,” he murmured near my ear, the warmth of his breath tracing the curve of my neck. “No one will walk in.”

That was the most exquisite lie, and we both knew it. The possibility of exposure, the split second of a hand on the knob, the sight of a confused coworker, that was the fuel. The risk was the essential core of the game: his test, my near-undoing.

When his fingers finally brushed my shoulder, it was an infinitesimal contact, barely there, yet my breath hitched violently. A ghost of a touch, not enough to be inappropriate if someone happened to glance through the glass, but more than enough to send a blinding bolt of lightning down my spine and into my abdomen.

“You’re trembling, pet,” he whispered, a note of satisfaction beneath the softness.

“I-I’m fine,” I lied, my voice a shaky thread.

“Are you?” His voice softened, losing its sharp edge, which was somehow more destabilizing. “Last night, you said you wanted more control. Tell me, Dylan—does this feel like control to you right now?”

My reply dissolved in my throat. Because it didn’t. Because I was shaking from a desire that felt like a physical need, because every cell in my body wanted to pivot into his space, even as the sensible, terrified part of my brain screamed, Don’t move. Don’t yield.

He moved back, leaning against the front of the desk, arms loosely folded. To anyone watching, the posture was casual, the picture of a thoughtful executive. But his eyes told a starkly different story. They were dark, intense, and they pinned me in place like a beautiful, fragile specimen.

“You came in late,” he said finally, his voice a low vibration. “Distracted. Unfocused. You’re still thinking about me.”

I couldn't meet the sheer weight of his gaze, focusing instead on the knot of his silk tie. “That’s not work-related,” I managed.

He smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. “Everything about you becomes work-related when you belong to me, Dylan.”

My breath stuttered to a complete halt. For a blinding second, I hated how effortlessly he could unbalance me, reducing my composure to ash with words alone.

A loud, jarring laugh echoed from the hallway; the sound jolted me like a sudden splash of cold water, shattering the intimate bubble we’d built. I stood abruptly, my chair scraping harshly against the polished floor. “I should…get back to my desk.”

He didn’t move to stop me. He simply watched, his expression unreadable, a silent dare. Then he said quietly, dangerously, “You don’t need to hide from what you want, Dylan. But you do need to think about what comes next.”

I froze halfway to the door, my pulse still erratic and confused. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Charles said, returning to his chair and taking his seat as if the last five minutes hadn’t happened, “that you decide how much of yourself you’re willing to give. I won’t take more than you offer.”

For once, his tone wasn’t commanding; it was steady, almost achingly gentle. And that unexpected kindness threw me off balance more thoroughly than any order ever could. It was an offering of power, a responsibility I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

I opened my mouth, but no words came. Instead, I gave him a single, ragged nod and left his office before I could fully unravel.

Outside, the noise of keyboards and conversation rushed over me like static, a cold, unwelcome reality. My coworkers looked exactly the same, busy, distracted, blissfully unaware, but everything in me felt scorched. The walls of the office were closing in, or maybe it was just the crushing, intoxicating weight of everything left unsaid between us.

That night, when I got home, I stood by the window staring out at the muted, distant light across the street, the window that belonged to Charles. His blinds were drawn, a perfect, neutral block. For the first time, I didn’t know whether that meant a promise of safety or a burning, unbearable temptation.

Either way, something fundamental had cracked, shifted, and settled differently between us.

And whatever came next, it wouldn’t be simple. It would be an unavoidable crash.