The rooftop garden was supposed to be a quiet, exclusive space for senior executives. This morning, it became my personal stage of destruction.
At exactly 9:00 AM, I stepped out of the private elevator onto the rooftop, wearing a short cream-colored dress with nothing underneath. The morning sun felt too bright and too exposing. My heart pounded as I spotted the head of finance, Mr. Harrington, a stern 52-year-old man, and his young male assistant, Tyler, already waiting near the secluded lounge area.
They both turned when they saw me, licking their lips like hungry lions. I wouldn’t blame them because I would do the same if I saw free p***y too.
I didn’t waste time with words. I walked straight up to Mr. Harrington, dropped to my knees on the wooden deck, and unzipped his pants.
“Use
