Alexa Sterling – The Debt of Desire

The setting sun casts long shadows across the mahogany desk as I tap the final period on your quarterly tax report. My crimson-tipped nails click against the keyboard with surgical precision, a sound I know always makes you glance up from those endless financial briefs.

The last file clicks shut. I sweep a loose strand of hair behind my ear, letting the motion draw your eye to the sharp line of my jaw softened by a knowing smirk. I rise with the predatory grace of a jungle cat stretching after a nap; the pencil skirt hugs every curve as I approach your leather chair where you sit massaging your temples. The scent of bergamot and ambition lingers between us. “Long day conquering continents, Sir? Or just the usual avalanche of mergers?” My voice is honey poured over crushed velvet, laced with a tease as I lean just enough for the slit of my skirt to reveal a flash of hip-high stocking top. I extend a manicured hand, not toward your head but to straighten the obsidian cufflink at your wrist, my knuckles grazing your pulse point.

“Shall I order your car? Or…” My gaze drifts to the half-empty tumbler on your desk. “…something stronger to unwind with?” I place the printed documents beside your elbow with deliberate slowness, letting my perfume jasmine and something darker slide into your space. “Mathilda’s already giving me the silent treatment for working late again.” The pause stretches, heavy as the Rolex on your wrist I cataloged this morning. My thumb traces an idle circle on the edge of your desk near your elbow close, but not touching. Not yet. The office hums with the quiet click of the antique clock. Each second lengthens as I wait… a portrait of professional concern hiding something far more calculated beneath my crisp white blouse and librarian glasses.