Page 17 of Mister St. James

Office Hours

Catalina

It’s morning. Sort of. If you call the ungodly hour of 4:45 morning. I’m awake, standing in front of my full-length mirror with nothing on but my bra and underwear. My gaze bouncing between myself and the gifted Shabari manual that’s skillfully balanced on the side of my nightstand. I wrap the rope around me with the same reverence I might reserve for a rosary, only this devotion is stitched from the memory of his hands. I cinch the loop high on my thigh, double wrap, knot flat, just tight enough that every pulse of my femoral artery remembers him.

It’s not fancy and marked beginner friendly but it’s like a dirty reminder that tethers me to my secret life. Over it, I slip on a black pencil skirt, cut for plausible deniability, and a blouse the color of a white flag which on me means the opposite of surrender. For effect, I even do my hair in a disciplined bun, no mercy for stray curls. The only hint of rebellion is the lipstick, which is not red (too obvious) but a calculated dark rose that says: Yes, I am here to conquer your quarterly projections, but I might also fuck you up.

He isn’t at the office early today. Good, I have time to hype myself up. I go through my ritual and have everything ready for him as soon as he steps off the elevator. But he does not come off the elevator. Instead I get a text: Early meeting in Boardroom B4, bring coffee.

Yes, sir, I text back.

The board members cluster in the usual phalanx. Legal to my left, Sales to my right, and at the head, Aiden St. James, every inch of him calibrated to perfection. Today he wears a crisp white shirt beneath a black tailored suit. But the part that catches my eye is his tie. It’s mostly black which for him is pretty on brand, but it has thin, vivid crimson-red stripes running parallel between the black sections, adding a sharp, dramatic pop of color.

He looks like he hasn’t slept, but instead of dulling him, it’s only made him sharper. His glasses glint, reflecting the screen of the tablet in his hand. There had been a time when I looked at him wearing those glasses, and thought he might be shy. My masturbatory fantasy was all about breaking him in, but in time I found out I was wrong. So very wrong.

He doesn’t look up when I enter, but he doesn’t have to. He clocks me in the polished reflection off the tabletop, in the way the airflow shifts as I slide into the only open seat beside him. My legs cross automatically, a ballet I’ve rehearsed for years, but this time there’s a secret I’ve stashed under my skirt.

The rope is visible only when I want it to be. This is by design.

All he will see is a single loop, red and vulgar, on my upper thigh.

The meeting starts with the usual throat-clearing, some performance art about “optimizing deliverables” and “pivoting on client-facing synergies.” I listen with one ear, the other tuned to every microtone of Aiden’s voice. I study him, like always, but today I make sure he sees me.

I play with the slit seam of my skirt, adjusting it just enough that the red glimmer peeks out when I cross and uncross my legs. The rope’s outline is invisible, but the pressure is exquisite. It’s a private pulse, a background process that makes every move a little more dangerous. I time the motion for maximum effect, always when Aiden is speaking, or about to.

First time: He’s outlining the Zurich strategy, laser-pointer in hand, eyes on the spreadsheet. My shift is subtle, just a quick readjustment, but I see the flash in his peripheral vision, he hesitates, just a beat too long, before swiping to the next slide. It’s nothing, unless you’ve spent the last six months mapping his every tic and tremor. I smile, bare minimum, and return to my notes.

Second time: He’s taking questions from the new VP, who can barely keep his voice from cracking. I lean forward to retrieve a dropped pen, and the skirt rides up a centimeter too far. The rope winks out, a flash of red. For a second, I catch the micro-muscle twitch at the corner of Aiden’s mouth. He covers it by tightening his grip on the pen, knuckles blanching, but I see it. He’s seen it. The game is on.

I maintain perfect professional face throughout, because that’s the only way this works. The meeting is a long, slow burn, and I let the double entendres drop with surgical precision.

“Of course, our biggest challenge is binding all the sub-contractors to a single, enforceable schedule,” I say, letting my gaze drift over to catch Aiden’s eyes over the rim of his glasses.

He doesn’t blink. “Then we’ll need to ensure there’s no slack in the system,” he responds, and the way he says “slack” is almost pornographic.

I pretend not to notice. The other execs are too busy failing to keep up to catch the exchange. This is our private language, a secret code hidden in daylight.

Next, the Legal head is sweating through a discussion of the European compliance rollout. I jump in, voice honey-sweet but just loud enough to assert dominance.

“We might want to double-check those limitations, just in case there’s a loophole. It wouldn’t do to have a loose end flapping in the breeze.”

Across the table, Aiden’s pupils go wide, and then he smirks, just a flicker, just for me. “Tight arrangements are my specialty. Ask anyone.”

There’s a beat where it almost tips over into something explicit, but I blink and the moment resets. I uncross and recross, slow, and this time the harness pulls at the skin and I feel the rope grind against my clit. The heat is instant, a blush that blooms beneath the fabric, wicked and invisible.

My breath catches and I cover my mouth like I am stifling a yawn but Aiden fumbles a slide transition, the wrong deck stuttering onto the wall behind him. He recovers instantly, but not before I see the sweat beading at his hairline. He’s off-balance, which means I’m winning.

I love that I can do this to him. That I can be the only variable he can’t account for, the bug in his otherwise perfect code.

We finish the meeting, I stack my papers, smooth my skirt, and rise. The pressure of the rope is now the only thing tethering me to the ground. My skin is flushed, my pulse so loud I’m afraid someone might hear it.

As I walk out, I catch his reflection in the glass. He watches, openly now, no pretense, just hunger barely masked by a scowl. I let him look, making sure he gets one last flash of the red rope before I disappear down the hall.

Back at my desk, I cross my legs again and feel the rope, wet now, imprinting itself into memory. The rest of the day is a blur of emails, phone calls, meetings I don’t remember. All I want is the next collision, the moment when he finally stops pretending and takes what we both know is his.

But I can wait. I am nothing if not patient.

He does not speak to me for the rest of the day, not directly. But I see him, always at the periphery, tracking my every move.