Sin On The 28th Floor

Emma just stared at the clock on her monitor: 8:47 PM. The office was now a ghost town, just the low hum of the AC and the occasional creak of the building settling. Most people had left a few hours ago , heading home to actual lives. She should have been one of them. Instead, she was buried in the wreckage of the Thompson campaign.

The client had hated the latest visuals. "Too safe," the email had said. "Make it edgier." Edgy. Right. She'd spent the afternoon scrambling, reworking copy, swapping images, and now the whole deck was a mess of half-finished slides and caffeine stains on her notes. Eyes burned. She rubbed them, smearing a bit of mascara, and sighed.

The encounter with Marcus earlier kept replaying in her head like a bad loop. His fingers inside her in the copy room, that filthy whisper calling her his slut. The taste of her own arousal on his skin. She'd gone straight to the bathroom afterward, fixed her makeup, and pretended nothing happened. But her body remembered. Every time she crossed her legs, she felt the ghost of that ache.

*Focus, damn it.* She clicked save on yet another version and stood up to stretch, her pencil skirt riding up her thighs. The floor was quiet enough that her heels echoed as she headed to the copy room for fresh printouts. Maybe seeing the layouts on paper would help.

She pushed the door open and froze.

Marcus was already inside, leaning against the counter with a stack of papers in one hand and his phone in the other. He looked up, that damn smirk sliding into place. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled up, showing those forearms that shouldn't have affected her like this.

"Working late, little sis?" he asked, voice low in the small space.

Emma's heart kicked up. "Don't call me that here. And what are you doing? This isn't even your floor."

"Helping." He held up the paper drafts of the Thompson pitch, marked up in red pen. "Ryan forwarded me the disaster. Figured you could use a hand. Or... something else."

She snatched the pages from him, cheeks heating. "I've got it under control."

"Clearly." He stepped closer, backing her toward the humming copier. The door clicked shut behind her. No lock, but the room felt sealed off from the empty office anyway. "You've been squirming in your chair all day. Bet that pretty pussy's been wet since I left you hanging earlier."

Emma swallowed hard. She wanted to deny it, to shove past him and get back to work. But the way he looked at her hungry, amused, like he already knew every dirty secret made her stomach flutter. "Marcus, this is insane. We're stepsiblings. I work here. You're... consulting or whatever."

"Yeah, and you came running when I told you to meet me this afternoon." His hand brushed her waist, then slid lower, palming her ass through the skirt. "Good girls don't do that. But you're not really a good girl, are you?"

She shivered as his fingers kneaded, pulling her hips against him. He was hard already; she could feel the thick outline pressing into her belly. "Please. Someone could walk in."

"Everyone's gone. Even the cleaners finished." He nipped at her ear, breath hot. "Now tell me the truth. How many times have you touched that needy little cunt thinking about your big stepbrother?"

Emma's breath hitched. His hand slipped under her skirt now, fingers tracing the edge of her panties. She was soaked again had been for hours. "I... I don't"

He pressed two fingers against her clit through the fabric, rubbing slow, firm circles. "Don't lie. I saw how you looked at me during that family trip two summers ago. You locked yourself in the bathroom for twenty minutes after I took my shirt off by the pool."

God, he remembered that? Her face burned with shame and something hotter. The pressure on her clit built, making her hips twitch. "A few times," she whispered finally.

"Louder. And be specific." He pushed her panties aside, sliding one thick finger along her slick folds but not inside. Teasing. Always teasing.

"More than a few," she admitted, voice shaky. "Maybe... ten? Fifteen? After that dinner when you first moved in. And the pool. And that time you came home for Christmas and wore that stupid tight sweater."

Marcus chuckled darkly, rewarding her with a finger sinking deep into her pussy. She gasped, gripping his shoulders. He pumped slowly, curling just right to hit that spot that made her knees weak. "Fifteen times? Bullshit. I bet it was more. Bet you came moaning my name into your pillow like a desperate whore."

"Marcus" Another finger joined the first, stretching her. The wet sounds were obscene in the quiet room. She rocked against his hand, chasing the friction, her breath coming in short pants.

"Say it. Tell me you're my filthy stepsister slut who fingers herself thinking about me fucking her raw."

The words stuck in her throat, but the building pressure made her reckless. "I'm... I'm your filthy stepsister slut," she breathed. "I touch myself thinking about you."

"Good girl." He kissed her hard, tongue invading as his thumb found her clit. The pace quickened rough, relentless. Pleasure coiled tight in her belly, so close, so fucking close after hours of frustration.

Then he stopped. Pulled his fingers out completely, leaving her clenching around nothing, right on the edge.

Emma whimpered, hips bucking forward uselessly. "No please, I was almost"

"Ruined," he finished, sucking his fingers clean with a wicked grin. "Just like this afternoon. You don't get to come until I say so. Builds character."

She glared at him, thighs trembling, frustration burning hotter than the arousal. Her clit throbbed painfully. "You're an asshole."

"Yeah, but you love it." He straightened her skirt for her, almost gentle, then stepped back. "Finish your campaign. I'll be around tomorrow. And Emma? Next time you stay late, I might not stop at just fingers."

He left her there, the door swinging shut behind him. Emma leaned against the copier, breathing hard, body buzzing with unspent need. The Thompson slides suddenly seemed impossible. All she could think about was his touch, his voice, the way he made her feel dirty and alive.

She printed the damn pages anyway, hands still shaking. On the way back to her desk, she wondered how much longer she could pretend this was under control.

It wasn't.