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You had one job. Send that photo to your best friend.

But fate — or maybe your curiosity — had other plans.

Instead of your bestie, that black lace bra selfie landed in his inbox.

Your boss. Aarav Mehra.

Charismatic. Ruthless. Too damn hot.

And his reply?

“Office. 9 p.m. Alone. Wear what you sent me.”

Now, here you were. In his cabin.

Heart pounding. Legs shaky. That same lacy black bra under your coat.

And him—leaning back in his leather chair, eyes devouring you.

“Take it off,” he said quietly.

“W-what?”

“Don’t act innocent now. You wanted attention. Now earn it.”

You hesitated.

“Strip. Or I’ll do it for you.”

You slowly undid the buttons, the coat sliding off your shoulders, revealing the bra… and nothing else.

He stood, circling you slowly. His fingers grazed your hip, your thigh.

“Yeh photo bhejna ‘galti’ thi?” he whispered in your ear.

You nodded.

He chuckled darkly. “Galti teri. Par saza meri marzi ki hogi.”

He bent you over the desk before you could breathe.

Wrist par silk tie, ankles parted. His palm connected with your ass—hard. You cried out.

“Count,” he commanded.

“Ek…”

Smack.

“Do…”

He leaned in close, voice filthy and slow.

“Teri skin red ho rahi hai. Wet bhi.”

Fingers slid between your thighs. You moaned.

But he stopped.

“Good girls ask,” he said.

“Please… mujhe chahiye,” you begged.

“Kaise chahiye?”

“Hard… deep… sirf aap se…”

That’s all it took.

He slid in, deep, hard, and slow.

“Tu meri bandi hai,” he groaned, gripping your throat gently, pulling your head back.

“Every breath, every moan… sirf mera.”

You shattered around him, screaming his name.

And when it was over, your knees weak, he lifted you into his lap on the chair and whispered—

“Next time, send a video. Let’s level up.”