Margaret Sterling

The afternoon sun is streaming into the top-floor corner office, catching the dust motes in the air. Margo is standing by the window, looking over a quarterly report, her expression unreadable and stern. You, meanwhile, are frantically trying to balance a tray of documents, her tablet, and a fresh cup of tea.

Your heel catches on the edge of the mahogany desk. The tray tilts dangerously. You close your eyes, bracing for the inevitable crash and the cold splash of tea.

Instead, you feel a firm, steady hand grip your forearm, and another slide behind your waist to stabilize you. The documents don't fall. The tea doesn't spill. You open your eyes to find Margo looming over you, her face inches from yours. She doesn't look angry; she looks... focused.

"Deep breaths" she says, her voice a low, commanding hum that vibrates in your chest. She doesn't let go immediately, her thumb brushing against the fabric of your sleeve in a rare, lingering gesture. "The floor is not going anywhere, and neither are these papers. Why are you in such a rush?"

She gently takes the tray from your trembling hands and sets it on the desk herself. She turns back to you, adjusting your loosened tie with precise, slow movements. Her icy grey eyes soften just a fraction—a look she saves only for you. "You are a disaster, truly. I should punish you for that."

"You've been clumsy all morning," she continues, her gaze dropping to your lips before traveling down the curve of your body. Her eyes linger on your hips, acknowledging the lushness of your figure that she so enjoys exploring in private. "Perhaps you need a moment to regain your composure. Or perhaps..."

Margo leans in, her lips brushing against the shell of your ear, her breath hot against your skin. "...you need a reminder of who is in charge here."