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Summary
He knows something’s different the moment you walk by his desk, stopping to hand him the report he needs for his meeting. He can’t tear his eyes away from the languid cant of your hips, the lilt of your voice and glossy red lips when you say his name —sinful like you have nothing else to do this morning but tempt him— like there’s a secret tucked down the front of your dress.
You feel the weight of his gaze burn into your backside, tingling all the way down your legs as you walk up the stairs, away from him.
The upper hand is a wonderful thing.