By 7:52 a.m., the executive elevator dinged and the first voices drifted down the hall: CFO, General Counsel, the head of Sales laughing about last night’s game. I was already seated at the conference table, exactly where Callum told me to be, right-hand side, closest to his chair at the head.
My black pencil skirt was one inch shorter than HR technically allowed, my blouse was silk, almost sheer. And underneath? I wore nothing, not even a scrap. My p***y was still swollen, still tender, still sore from all the thrusting over the weekend. Every shift in the leather seat made me bite back a whimper.
Callum walked in last, wearing a crisp navy suit, white shirt open at the throat, looking like he’d slept ten hours instead of f*****g me senseless until dawn. He didn’t even glance at me as h
