Forbidden Desires

The Walk-In

He knew he was in trouble the first time he saw her.

She was the new intern. Twenty-three. Fresh out of Oxford. All sharp edges and sharper intellect. The first day she walked into his office, she'd argued with him about the quarterly strategy — *to his face* — and he'd been hard for her ever since.

He told himself it was just appreciation. That she was brilliant. That she had a future at the firm. That he was just *mentoring* her.

But he was lying.

Because every time she bent over his desk to point at a spreadsheet, every time her skirt rode up just an inch too far, every time she bit that full lower lip while she was thinking, he wanted to bend her over that same desk and *f**k her senseless.*

And she knew it.

---

The tension between them had been building for weeks.

Stolen glances in the elevator. Accidental touches in the break room. The way she'd "forget" her cardigan in his office, forcing her to come back for it after hours. The way he'd "need" her to stay late to help with a presentation, his hand brushing her thigh when he passed her a file.

It was a game. A dangerous, intoxicating game. And they were both playing to lose.

"You're staring, Mr. Blackwood," she said one evening, not looking up from her laptop. They were the only ones left in the office. The cleaning crew had already come and gone. The city lights glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"I'm thinking," he lied.

"About what?"

"About how beautiful you look in that dress."

She finally met his eyes. Smirked. "That's not very professional, sir."

"Neither is the way you're sitting in my office at nine o'clock at night with your legs crossed like that." His gaze dropped to her thighs, the way the fabric of her dress strained against them. "Like you're daring me to look."

"Maybe I am."

His c**k twitched. "Lena—"

"Maybe I want you to."

The air between them crackled. The game was over. And they both knew who had won.

---

He should have stopped her.

Should have remembered his marriage. His reputation. His *f*****g* company.

But he didn't.

Because she stood up. Walked around the desk. Stopped in front of him, so close he could feel the heat of her, could smell the faint scent of her perfume — something floral, something *expensive.* Something that didn't belong in an intern's budget.

"You've been wanting this," she said, her voice a purr. "Since the day I walked in here."

"I have," he admitted, his voice rough.

"Then take it."

And God help him, he did.

---

His mouth crashed onto hers.

Not gentle. Not slow. *Hungry.* His hands went to her waist, pulling her onto his lap, her thighs straddling his, her dress riding up. She gasped into his mouth, her hands fisting in his hair, her body arching into his.

He could feel her — the heat of her, the *wetness* of her, through the thin fabric of her panties. And he *groaned*, his hips thrusting up against her, his c**k straining against his trousers.

"f**k, Lena," he growled against her mouth. "You're soaking."

"Because of you," she whispered. "Because I've been thinking about this. About *you.* About your hands on me. Your mouth. Your *cock.*"

He stood, lifting her with him, her legs wrapping around his waist. He carried her to the desk, the same desk they'd spent hours at, the same desk where she'd bent over to show him spreadsheets, to argue with him, to *tempt* him. And he laid her down on it, the cold wood shocking against her back.

"Last chance," he said, his voice a low rumble, his eyes burning into hers. "Tell me to stop."

She reached for his belt. Undid it. Pulled his trousers open. His c**k sprang free — thick, hard, *desperate.*

"I don't want you to stop," she said, her voice a whisper. "I want you to *f**k* me."

And then she was pulling him down on top of her, her legs wrapping around his waist, her body arching up to meet his.

---

He didn't go slow.

He *couldn't.* Not after weeks of wanting her. Not after weeks of *needing* her. He pushed into her in one deep, relentless thrust, filling her, *stretching* her, the way her body yielded around him almost more than he could bear.

"*f**k!*" she cried, her nails digging into his shoulders, her back arching off the desk.

"You like that?" he growled, his hips snapping forward, his c**k driving into her again and again. "You like my c**k, Lena?"

"Yes — *yes* —" she gasped, her body moving with his, her hips rising to meet each thrust. "Harder. *f**k me harder.*"

He obeyed.

He f****d her like he was punishing her. Like she was his. Like he'd *die* if he didn't. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her onto his c**k, again and again, the sound of their bodies slapping together filling the office. The desk creaked beneath them, papers scattering to the floor, a pen rolling off the edge and clattering to the carpet.

"You're mine," he growled, his mouth at her ear, his teeth grazing her lobe. "Say it."

"Yours," she gasped. "*Yours.*"

"Again."

"*Yours, Richard. Only yours.*"

He groaned, his rhythm faltering, his body trembling. And then he was coming, his release spilling into her in hot, thick pulses, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself inside her.

But he wasn't done.

---

He pulled out. Flipped her onto her stomach. Pushed her dress up, her panties down. And then he was behind her, his c**k pressing against her entrance, his hands gripping her hips.

"Again," he growled. "I want to see that tight little ass while I f**k you."

She moaned, her body arching, her ass pressing back against him. "Yes — *please* —"

He pushed in.

Deeper this time. Harder. The angle letting him hit that spot inside her that made her see stars. She cried out, her fingers clawing at the desk, her body shaking with the force of his thrusts.

"That's it," he groaned, his hand sliding around her waist, his fingers finding her c**t. "Take it. Take my *cock.*"

She came with a scream, her body clenching around him, her walls milking him, and he followed her over the edge with a groan, his body shuddering, his release spilling into her again.

They collapsed onto the desk, their bodies tangled, their breaths ragged.

And then —

*The door clicked.*

---

They froze.

The sound was unmistakable. The *snick* of the lock. The *creak* of the door swinging open.

Lena's eyes flew to the door, her body going rigid beneath him. Richard's head snapped up, his c**k still buried inside her, his body still trembling from his orgasm.

And there, in the doorway, stood *Victoria.*

His wife.

She was beautiful. Elegant. The perfect CEO's wife. And right now, her face was a mask of shock, of betrayal, of *rage.*

"Richard?" Her voice was ice. "What the *f**k* is going on?"

---

Time stopped.

Richard's c**k, still hard, still *inside* Lena, twitched. Lena's body, still trembling from her orgasm, clenched around him. And Victoria's eyes — cold, furious, *disgusted* — locked onto the scene before her: her husband, *f*****g* his intern on his desk.

"Victoria—" Richard started, his voice rough, his mind racing.

"Don't," she snapped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Don't *speak.*"

Lena tried to move, to pull away, but Richard's hands tightened on her hips, holding her still. Keeping her *impaired.*

"Get off her," Victoria hissed, her voice shaking with fury. "*Now.*"

Richard pulled out, slowly, his c**k glistening with their combined release. Lena gasped, her body empty, her thighs trembling. She tried to stand, to cover herself, but her dress was around her waist, her panties on the floor, and she was *exposed.*

Victoria's eyes flicked to Lena, to the way her thighs were slick with Richard's c*m, to the way her lips were swollen from his kisses. And then she looked back at Richard, her expression a mix of hurt and *hatred.*

"You *bastard," she whispered. "In my *husband's* office. On his *desk.*"

Lena finally found her voice. "Victoria, I'm so sorry—"

"*Shut up,*" Victoria snapped, her voice like a whip. "You don't get to speak. You don't get to *breathe* in my presence." She turned her fury back to Richard. "And *you.*" Her voice broke. "After everything. After *twenty years.*"

Richard opened his mouth. Closed it. What the *f**k* could he say?

Victoria's eyes dropped to his c**k, still half-hard, still *glistening.* And then she did something that shocked them both.

She *laughed.* A sharp, bitter sound.

"You couldn't even pull out," she said, her voice dripping with scorn. "You came *inside* her. In *my* office. On *my* desk." She shook her head, her expression a mix of disgust and something darker. Something *aroused.* "Pathetic."

And then she turned on her heel and walked out, the door slamming shut behind her.

---

The silence that followed was deafening.

Richard pulled out of Lena completely, his c**k softening, his body suddenly cold. He tucked himself back into his trousers, his movements sharp, jerky. Like he was trying to *outrun* what had just happened.

Lena stood on shaky legs, pulling her dress down, her hands trembling. "Oh my God," she whispered. "Oh my *God.*"

Richard didn't say anything. Just stared at the door, his chest heaving, his mind racing.

"She's going to tell everyone," Lena said, her voice breaking. "She's going to *ruin* you."

"I know," Richard said, his voice rough. "But I don't care."

She looked at him, her eyes wide, her expression horrified. "You *don't care*?"

He turned to her, his gaze burning. "I don't," he said, his voice a low growl. "Because I've wanted you since the day you walked in here. And I'm not sorry."

Lena's breath hitched. "Richard—"

"And I'm going to have you again," he said, stepping closer, his hand cupping her face. "Tonight. Tomorrow. The next day. I don't give a f**k who knows."