Hanging By A Thread

We weren’t supposed to be at the gala together. Everyone in that ballroom knew exactly who he was: the company’s golden boy, all charisma and control, the kind of man people stopped speaking when he walked past. And me? I was the woman who’d spent too many late nights in meetings, watching that control flicker every time his gaze met mine.

He was my boss. My mentor. The man who signed my pay slips and pretended not to stare when I leaned across his desk. I’d seen it for months - the way his eyes lingered too long, how his hand brushed mine and didn’t quite move away. He wanted me. Not politely, nor in theory - but with that quiet, unbearable intensity that hums under your skin and keeps you up at night.

And the worst part? I wanted him too. So when he pressed a spare gala invitation into my hand with a sly, “You should come, it’d be good for networking,” I didn’t bother pretending to think it over. I just smiled and said, “I’ll think about it.”

That night, I dressed in a satin gown in deep emerald, slit high enough to make him lose his breath, neckline low enough to make him forget his name. I wanted to see if he’d finally break.

The second I stepped out of the taxi, I felt his gaze before I found it. He was standing under the chandelier, bow tie slightly undone, the picture of restraint…except for the way his eyes devoured me. All night, we played pretend. I laughed with donors and made polite conversation, but every stolen glance across the table and accidental touch when he passed me a glass made my pulse skip. He didn’t have to say a word; his silence was enough.

By the time he stood and crooked his finger for me to follow, I knew exactly what was coming.

The hallway was dim and quiet, lined with velvet and gold. My heels clicked on marble as he led me away from the noise. When he turned and pressed me against the wall, his mouth found mine like he’d been holding his breath for months. I kissed him back harder - because I could. Because I wanted to.

His hands trembled against my hips, and I realised that for once, I was the one unravelling him.

“You’ve been torturing me for months,” he murmured, breath hot against my throat. “Good,” I said, smiling. “I wanted to see how long you’d last.” My remark made him groan as he slid his hand higher along my thigh, finding the edge of my lace panties. I let him take his time. The power I held in this moment was a delicious thing.

When he finally tugged the lace down my legs, I stepped out of them slowly, watching his eyes flicker between reverence and hunger. I didn’t stop him when he pocketed them. I wanted to see what he’d do next. He turned me gently, my palms finding the wall, his breath hovering just behind my ear. Every touch was slow and deliberate, without possession, but worship. The world beyond that room fell away: the string quartet, the champagne, the polite laughter. All that remained was the heat between us and the sound of the chandelier swaying above.

And then, he stopped. I looked over my shoulder, breathless. “What are you doing?” He grinned, pulling the lace from his pocket. “Leaving a little evidence,” he said, and tossed them up toward the chandelier. The delicate fabric caught on a crystal strand, hanging there like a scandal waiting to be discovered.

I laughed - breathless, reckless. “You’re insane.” “Maybe,” he whispered. “But now every person in that ballroom is unaware of your secret.” I tilted my head back to meet his gaze. “My secret,” I corrected.

When we finally moved again, it wasn’t rushed. Every thrust, gasp, and tremor was mine to claim. By the time I came apart in his arms, the chandelier was shaking above us, and the world outside might as well not have existed.

When the silence settled, I fixed my dress, smoothed my hair, and looked up at the glimmer of lace still swinging above. “We should take those down,” I said, smirking. He fastened his cufflinks, still catching his breath. “No,” he murmured. “Let them wonder.” I met his eyes once again, lips curving. “Oh, they’ll wonder alright,” I said. “But they’ll never guess who really ran the show.”