The 32nd floor of Apex Media Tower in Bandra-Kurla Complex never slept. Neon from the Mumbai skyline bled through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the open-plan office in electric blues and purples. Rohan Malhotra, 38, CEO and creative genius, ruled from a corner office that smelled of oud and ambition. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a trimmed beard and eyes like polished obsidian, he wore Tom Ford suits like armor. His voice—low, clipped, commanding—could silence a boardroom or make interns blush.
Naina Kapoor, 25, was his executive assistant. Fresh from IIM-Ahmedabad, she moved like liquid silk in pencil skirts and silk blouses, her long wavy hair always half-tied, the rest spilling over one shoulder. Her kajal-lined eyes missed nothing; her smile promised everything. She’d been hired for her brain, but Rohan noticed the rest: the way her blouse strained when she leaned over his desk, the faint jasmine trail she left in the elevator.
It began with late nights.
Seduction in Spreadsheets
A pitch for a luxury brand was due at 6 a.m. in Dubai. By 11 p.m., the office was empty except for them. Naina kicked off her heels, legs crossed on the leather sofa, tablet glowing. “Slide 14 is weak,” she said, voice husky from coffee and exhaustion.
Rohan loosened his tie, sleeves rolled to reveal corded forearms. “Fix it.” He stood behind her, one hand on the sofa back, the other brushing her hair aside to see the screen. His thumb grazed her neck—accidental, then not. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she tilted her head, exposing the pulse at her throat.
“Like this, sir?” She rewrote the copy in three lines. Brilliant. Sexy. His breath stirred her baby hairs.
“Perfect,” he murmured. His fingers lingered, tracing her collarbone. “You’re wasted on emails, Naina.”
Her laugh was low. “Then put me to better use.”
The air conditioner hummed. Outside, a plane blinked across the sky. Rohan’s hand slid to her jaw, tilting her face up. Their first kiss was slow—testing, tasting espresso and desire. When she parted her lips, he claimed her mouth like a hostile takeover: thorough, relentless.
Foreplay in the Conference Room
Next week, they “prepared” for a Singapore client in the glass-walled conference room after midnight. The city sprawled beneath them like a circuit board.
Naina wore a charcoal sheath dress, back zipper begging to be pulled. Rohan locked the door, dimmed the lights to 10%. “Show me the deck,” he said, but his eyes were on the slit riding up her thigh.
She clicked to a mood board—candlelit campaign shots. “Sensual. Intimate. Like us.” She stepped between his legs, fingers loosening his belt. “Your turn to present, boss.”
He spun her, pressing her palms to the cool glass. Mumbai glittered 32 floors below. “Hands stay there.” His voice was gravel. He unzipped her dress in one motion; it pooled at her feet. Black lace bra, matching thong, garter belt. Planned.
Rohan’s mouth traced her spine, hands cupping her breasts, thumbs teasing nipples through lace until she whimpered. “Quiet,” he warned, biting her shoulder. “Security makes rounds.”
He knelt, peeling the thong down slowly, kissing the dimples above her ass. His tongue found her slit from behind—wet, swollen, aching. Naina’s breath fogged the glass as he licked her open, slow circles around her clit, then plunging inside. Her knees buckled; he held her hips firm, sucking until she shattered silently, thighs trembling, juices dripping down his chin.
She turned, dropping to her knees on the carpet. His cock sprang free—thick, veined, already leaking. She looked up, eyes wicked. “May I, sir?” Before he answered, she swallowed him to the root, throat relaxing from practice she’d never admit. Rohan’s fingers tangled in her hair, guiding her rhythm—slow, then frantic. When he was close, he pulled her up. “Not yet.”
Deep Sex: Power and Surrender
He cleared the conference table with one sweep—laptops, notepads crashing. Laid her on the polished wood, legs over his shoulders. The city lights strobed across her skin.
“Condom?” she gasped.
“Wallet. Now.” She fished it out, rolling it on with trembling fingers.
Rohan entered her in one deep thrust. Naina’s back arched, nails raking his shirt. He set a punishing pace—long, measured strokes that hit her cervix, then shallow teases that made her beg in Hindi. “Rohan… andar… please.”
He flipped her onto her stomach, ass up, entering from behind. The table rocked; her breasts slid against the wood with each slam. He reached around, fingers on her clit, rubbing in time with his hips. “Come for me, baby. Let the city hear.”
She did—hard, pussy clenching like a fist, squirting over his balls. Rohan followed, groaning her name, filling the latex with pulse after pulse.
They stayed locked, panting. He pulled out gently, disposing of the condom, then gathered her against his chest. Her lipstick was smeared; his shirt ruined. Perfect.
Afterglow and Aftermath
By 3 a.m., the deck was flawless. They emailed it from his laptop, her head on his shoulder. HR would call this a violation. The board would call it suicide.
Naina traced the Rolex on his wrist. “Worth it?”
Rohan kissed her temple. “Every fucking second.”
The elevator dinged at 5 a.m. as they left—her in his spare sweatshirt, him in rolled sleeves. In the parking lot, he pinned her against the Audi.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “wear the red saree. No blouse.”
She smiled, biting his lower lip. “Yes, boss.”
Mumbai woke around them—honking, chaiwallahs, the sea breeze off Marine Drive. Their secret pulsed hotter than the rising sun.