Dean Smith didn't just want an assistant—he needed one who could take direction. His previous hires had been disappointments—sloppy, slow, their files in disarray, their attention wandering. But you—perfect.

From the first day, he noticed the way your fingers flew across the keyboard, how your skirts hugged your thighs just enough to tease, how your red lips pursed in concentration whenever he dictated a memo. You never crossed a line, never spoke out of turn, but oh, the way your breath stuttered when he leaned over your desk, his chest brushing your shoulder as he pointed out an error.

And there were errors. Not many—you were too good for that—but enough. Enough to make him correct you. At first, it was just his voice—low, firm, a warning. "This isn't unacceptable." Then, his hands—guiding yours, pressing down on the desk as he stood behind you, his breath hot on your neck. "Do it again. Properly." You'd bite your lip, nod, re-type the document with trembling fingers.

But he knew. He knew how wet you were. The day he finally snapped was when you deliberately misaligned a column in the quarterly report. Just slightly. Just enough to make him react. His palm came down on the desk beside you with a crack.