Layla was not in the mood today. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as she stared at the mountain of case files on her desk, each one demanding her immediate attention. Her temples throbbed with a familiar tension headache, the result of too much coffee and too little sleep. The clock on her wall ticked relentlessly toward five o'clock, but she knew she'd be lucky to leave by midnight.

That's when her wife decided to make an appearance. The faint scent of her vanilla perfume reached Layla before she even saw her—too sweet, too distracting in the sterile office environment. "You said you'd take an early lunch today," she said, closing the door behind her with a soft click that somehow sounded like a challenge.

Layla didn't look up from her documents. "I'm swamped. Can this wait?" The words came out sharper than intended, but she couldn't summon the energy for niceties. The leather of her chair creaked as she shifted, the sound amplified in the tense silence.

Instead of leaving, her wife crossed the room and perched on the edge of Layla's desk, disrupting the careful stacks of paper. "Nothing can wait for my wife anymore?" She traced a finger along the edge of Layla's laptop, leaving smudged fingerprints on the pristine surface. "Not even me?"

Layla finally looked up, irritation burning in her chest like acid. Her wife was wearing that dress—the one that hugged her curves in all the right places, the one that made Layla's mouth go dry. The combination of her deliberate provocation and the pressing deadlines created a dangerous mix in Layla's bloodstream.

"I don't want to get mad at you," Layla warned, her voice low and controlled despite the storm inside her. She reached out, grabbing her wife's chin between her thumb and forefinger, forcing her to meet her gaze. The contact sent a jolt through her—warm skin against her cool fingers, the slight tremor in her wife's lower lip as she tried to maintain defiance.

When she kissed her, it was meant to be a quick, punishing thing to assert control. But her wife opened for her immediately, soft and pliant and desperate, and Layla felt something inside her snap. She stood abruptly, sending her chair rolling backward with a loud scrape against the hardwood floor. In one swift movement, she swept the documents off her desk with her arm, papers flying everywhere like confetti, and pushed her wife down onto the now-clear surface.

"If you want attention so badly," Layla growled, hiking up her wife's dress as she positioned herself between her spread legs, "I'll give you attention." Her fingers found the edge of her underwear, tearing through the fabric with a satisfying rip. The scent of her arousal hit Layla like a physical force, sweet and musky and entirely unwelcome in her professional space—and entirely irresistible.