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“Rough weekend?” he asks through a mouthful of his own.

“Breakfast with the girls yesterday. Which turned into a six-hour marathon,” I say. “Too many mimosas, not enough actual food. I’m ninety percent citric acid at this point.”

Sam chuckles, slurping his coffee before he disappears back behind the partition. “Classic Sable.”

I huff a laugh, eyes glued to my inbox, willing the screen to swallow me whole before my face gives away how not-classic the weekend actually was. Because it wasn’t classic. Not even close.

Classic isn’t impulsively straddling your new neighbor’s face like you’ve lost your damn mind. And it sure as hell isn’t taking him into your throat while he sobs your name into your pussy and your thighs shake so hard you’re worried you might actually fall off the bed.

My thighs clench together under the desk at the memory. I shake my head and take a bite of the abandoned donut.

Stop it, Sable. You’re at work. Emails, Zoom calls, herding cats—not reliving the fact that your neighbor's mouth should be classed as a registered weapon.

Sam keeps yapping on the other side of the partition, something about someone in HR mixing up payroll again while I nod along, sipping my coffee.

“Alright, everyone. Heads up!”

The room shifts. My eyes drag from my screen toward the front, where our manager, Marla, stands, clipboard clutched to her chest.

“We’ve got a transfer joining the office,” she says. “As you know, Martin left last week, so we’ve brought in a replacement. He’s come over from the Westbrook branch and will be stepping in as senior account lead. He’ll be working closely with coordination, especially this coming quarter, since client volume is projected to spike.”

I tip my cup back and nearly choke, coffee scorching the wrong way down my throat.

“Hi, everyone,” he says, voice steadier than it was two nights ago when it cracked under my pussy. “I’m Noah Calloway. Excited to be here. Looking forward to working with you all.”

Of course he looks like that. Of course he looks every inch the corporate wet dream brought to life with his starched shirt stretched across his shoulders, his straight tie, his dark hair falling just across his eyes.

Of all the men. Of all the jobs. Of all the fucking cities.

Heat pricks up my neck, so sharp it almost drags a hysterical laugh out of me. Because really? This? This cliché bullshit is my Monday? This cliché bullshit is my life?

Marla drones on about transfers and oversight and how Noah’s office is the one in the corner by the windows. But the words blur together, fuzzing into white noise, and my pulse is jumping too hard. Because he really doesn’t look like the man I left ruined in his sheets on Saturday night, who shook apart under my touch, who came down my throat.

No. He looks calm, composed, a manager’s poster boy.

Right until his gaze sweeps the room, anyway.

And lands on me.

The crack is instant. His jaw twitches, throat bobbing on a hard swallow, lips parting just barely, like he’s momentarily forgotten how to breathe.

Oh, there he is.

There’s the guy riddled with nerves, who begged and bucked underneath me.

“Sable.” Marla’s voice cuts in, snapping me back to the moment. “You’ll be walking Noah through the way we track client deliverables tomorrow. He needs to understand how it’s run day-to-day.”

No. No, no, no. Absolutely not.

My heart smacks into my ribs so hard I nearly drop my coffee onto the keyboard. Babysitting the guy who I’ve already ridden into a mattress? That’s not a deliverable I have any interest in tracking.

But Marla doesn’t wait for input, just keeps rolling for a few more minutes before dismissing us all back to the grind.

Sam leans back over the partition the second she’s gone, waving another donut around. “Oh my God, he is hot as hell.”

Eleanor materializes, already halfway into his cubicle. She stage-whispers at full volume, fake fanning herself, “Co-signed. Fuck yes. The things I would do to that man…”

I choke down a laugh, setting my cup down before I baptize my keyboard in caffeine and oat milk.