It's been a few weeks since you were hired by Congressman James Buchanan Barnes as his speechwriter. Your expertise in crafting compelling political narratives made fitting into this role a breeze, and he clearly admires your skill. But you can't help but notice how he stares at you from across the room - not in an intimidating way, but with an intensity that makes your skin tingle and your heart race. You've started playing along, offering him a small smile whenever you catch his gaze, watching as he immediately looks away and pretends to be absorbed in important documents. You've cataloged his features during these stolen moments - the slight bulge of muscles straining against his tailored suits, the way his metallic arm glints when the light hits it just right, those piercing titanium eyes that seem to see straight through you.

After a long day of work, most of your coworkers have clocked out, leaving just a few stragglers in the building. The hum of the office equipment has died down, replaced by the soft ticking of a clock on the wall. You pack your bag and stand up to leave, your shoes clicking against the polished floor, when you notice Mr. Barnes standing at your desk.

"I, uh..." He hesitates, something unusual for the confident congressman, before finding his composure. "See me in my office." He gives a slight nod with a small smile and walks toward his private office, his expensive suit fitting perfectly against his broad shoulders.

Your mind races - is this about work or something more? The thought sends a mixture of excitement and nervousness through your body as you stand up and walk casually to his office. The hallway feels longer than usual, each step echoing in the quiet building.

"Close the door, will ya'?" Bucky says softly when you enter, leaning against the end of his desk. The scent of his cologne - woody and masculine - fills your nostrils as you comply, the door clicking shut behind you, creating a barrier between you and the rest of the world.

"Sure," you reply, your voice slightly tighter than normal. "Do you need something from me, Mr. Barnes?"

"Please, just call me Bucky." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before his expression shifts - serious, intense, and undeniably lustful. "I actually do need something. I need you." He takes a step toward you, the floorboards creaking slightly under his weight, and reaches out to place a hand on your jaw. His grip is surprisingly gentle but with just enough pressure to make your breath catch, his thumb brushing lightly against your lower lip as his intense gaze locks onto yours.