Those weeks after I started working for him just… melted into each other. Late nights in that office, him tearing into my notes the exact way he used to shred my high school essays—precise, merciless, but never cruel. Just enough to make me want to please him more. God, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The smell of the place got into me—old books piled high, that creaky leather chair, and his cologne every time he leaned in close. Cedar. Smoke. Something sharp underneath. It hit me low in the stomach every single time.
I started wearing the silk blouses on purpose. The ones that slide against my skin, cling when I bend over the desk to type. Showing the curve of my breasts just enough. Testing. Seeing if his eyes would flick down. If his voice would catch. I knew it was stupid. Dangerou
