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“Your coffee, sir.”
The ceramic mug, filled nearly to the brim with piping coffee, clinks gently on his desk as you carefully place it down. He looks up from his computer, offering a quick smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but you know it’s genuine. You know Corbeau all too well now.
It’s been nearly two years since you took on the title of assistant—accompanying him on business errands, planning strategy meetings, arranging and tweaking his daily schedule, and handling whatever other tasks come across your desk, all hidden behind brown file folders topped with a sticky note bearing your name. Somewhere between the early mornings, late nights, countless hours of report writing, and towering stacks of paperwork, you come to know Corbeau better than anyone else in the office—maybe even Philippe. No, that’s a stretch, but you’re a close second, that’s for sure. Your desk sits on the left side of Corbeau’s office, giving you the perfect view of his every move. You know exactly how he takes his coffee: no cream, just a pinch of sugar for a sharp tang of sweetness. You know he arrives at exactly 8:55 a.m., roughly twenty-five minutes after you settle into your desk and begin tackling whatever files need to be dealt with. You recognize the subtle twitch in his jaw, the way his brows knit together when something ticks him off. And you, out of everyone, know exactly how to calm him down.
Corbeau—the man composed of control and power, never letting vulnerability creep through the cracks—sometimes, is not always the best at keeping his cool, especially when someone crosses the line of testing his patience. He has no time for arrogance or stupidity, yet a large portion of his clients can’t seem to catch the hint. You stand in on most of his meetings, serving as a second eyewitness to any situation that may go sideways, and when his temper starts to show, a simple side-eye and a cocked brow are enough to remind him to take a breath. It’s always your simple way of saying “Not here, not now”.
“I’ve rearranged your schedule this afternoon,” you say, scrolling through the tablet in your arms. “Your meeting with the CEO of Blackspire Global has been moved to 1:00 pm., as 2:45 p.m. no longer works for him, unfortunately.”
Corbeau takes a slow sip of his coffee, meeting your gaze over the rim of the cup. “Tell him not to be late,” he says, placing the mug back on his desk. “And make sure he knows I don’t change my schedule for just anyone. This is a one-time thing.”
“Yes, sir,” you reply with a smile, finalizing the schedule change on your tablet.
This is one meeting Corbeau insists you stay out of—not even Philippe can attend. After two years, he’s grown to trust you—maybe even with his own life—but you’ve learned that some briefings stay strictly between Corbeau and his clients. He spares most of the details, but is generous enough to let you know that Blackspire Global deals in black-market logistics, apparently seeking fast funding for an urgent shipment—something banks would steer clear of at all costs.
Your heels click on the polished floor as you make your way towards your desk, collecting a handful of file folders to be delivered to various grunts, all containing details about an upcoming job. Making your way towards the elevator, you peer over your shoulder, offering Corbeau a quick smile before heading out.
“Good luck with your meeting, sir.”
-
The time is now 2:06 p.m., and Corbeau’s meeting should have ended just a few minutes ago. You can’t help but wonder how it went, but knowing Corbeau, there are only two options: smooth, controlled, and collected, or completely off the rails. When the elevator doors chime open, and you step into his office, the answer is immediate.
“Stupid bastard,” Corbeau yells through gritted teeth. He leans over his desk, palms planted heavily on top.
The CEO of Blackspire Global is nowhere to be seen. Scattered papers litter the floor, almost as if he left in a hurry. A folder lies face down on the desk, the loan proposal half-open, scribbled with Corbeau’s sharp, red corrections. You notice the empty cup where Corbeau’s coffee had been, knocked over during some flash of anger. And from his nose, a single stream of blood runs from his nostril to his top lip. Whatever was said in there, it clearly didn’t go the way anyone expected.
You open your mouth, trying to find something, anything to say, but the words die in your throat as you continue to take in the mess before you. Corbeau finally looks up, his gaze meeting yours. His breath comes in a heavy, unsteady rhythm, but for a moment, he stills, exhaling a sharp breath through his nose.
“I didn’t want you to see this,” he whispers his confession as he looks away, clearly embarrassed.
Your eyes scan the room for another moment, then, without a word, you walk over to your desk. You open the top left drawer and grab a box of tissues, taking two or three before sliding the box back in. You make your way to Corbeau, and before you can ask permission, you press a tissue to his nose, catching the drip.
“Are you hurt?” you ask in a low, concerned tone.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he meets your eyes, his amber yellow orbs surprisingly warm and inviting despite the fiasco that just went down.
“I’m fine,” he says, though you notice his posture stiffen slightly.
You examine his face and see a faint gash above his left brow. He probably hasn’t even noticed it’s there. But apart from the small cut and this obvious bloody nose, he’s not too scratched up. You look down, noticing his usually well-pressed suit is now wrinkled, disheveled, and stained with coffee—the same cup you brewed him earlier today.
“It was the first thing he grabbed,” Corbeau comments, noticing your eyes fixed on the stain.
“It should come out,” you reply, instinctively allowing your other hand to smooth the wrinkles out of his coat. His breath hitches for just a moment, and you swear you can feel his heart beat faster under your palm.
You remove the bloodied tissue from his nose, and the stream of crimson has finally stopped. Though his face and upper lip are still stained slightly red.
“You sure you’re alright?” you ask again, taking a small step back.
“Yeah,” he replies, almost too quickly. Silence stretches for a moment, then, “Let me go get cleaned up,” he adds. Without another word, he makes his way toward the elevator, hastily stepping inside before the doors close behind him.
You look down at the stained tissue before tossing it in the trash bin next to your desk.
-
You pick up the last of the papers scattered on the floor, placing them in a neat pile on Corbeau’s desk next to his laptop. When you pick up the coffee mug, you notice a small chip around the brim — minuscule, but noticeable to anyone who looks long enough. You set the cup next to the papers just as the elevator doors chime open. Corbeau steps out, now wearing all black: black dress pants, a black button-up shirt, and a plain black blazer you’ve never seen him wear— his keystone fastened on the lapel. It suits him well.
“I want to apologize,” he says, stopping maybe a foot or two in front of you.
“For what?” you ask in a puzzled voice, furrowing your brows.
“For,” he gestures around the room, at the papers, at the cup. “This.”
You give him a grin, a genuine one. “There’s no need to apologize,” you reply. “Besides, I wasn’t there to give you the side eye,” you add, playfully hinting at how you calm his nerves during other briefings.
He lets out a soft, almost amused chuckle. “No, you weren’t,” he replies. “Guess I have myself to blame for that one.”
Silence lingers for a moment, and his gaze keeps yours. A subtle, tangible tension crackles through the air. Unintentionally, you allow your eyes to drop to his lips for a split second before catching his gaze again. Your pulse quickens, and you can’t help but notice the way his jaw tightens, the way his shoulders stiffen. The air feels heavier, almost charged, as if the room itself is waiting for something unsaid.
“Thank you,” he says, finally breaking the tension, voice low and smooth. “For… helping me out.” He glances at the tissue in the trash, nodding to your little cleanup.
You chuckle softly. “It’s my job. That’s what assistants are for.”
He offers a gentle smile, then slowly, unsurely, his hand hovers above your hip, as if asking a silent question. You peer down, noticing the slight tremble to his fingers, then meet his gaze with permission in your eyes. Firmly, yet not possessively, he rests his hand on your side, exhaling a sharp, relieved breath through his nose.
“Y’know,” he starts, “I probably shouldn’t admit this, but… I like having you around. More than I probably should.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, the rhythm of your heart beginning to pound like a kickdrum in your chest. His grip tightens slightly, as if grounding himself.
He continues. “I can’t help but notice everything you do. The way you move, the way you smile,” his gaze sharpens with something tender yet dangerous. “The way you look at me.”
Your breath hitches, and you go completely still. He notices — you know he does — because in an instant, his other hand settles in the small of your back, pulling you in slightly.
“Corbeau- “
“Would you stop me?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You swallow, eyes still burning into his, then you hastily shake your head.
And in an instant, his lips find yours. Hesitant at first—careful, tender, like he’s testing the waters. But when you respond, your hands settling against his chest, he deepens the kiss, more confident, more sure. It isn’t rushed, but it’s heavy, filled with everything unsaid. All the moments eye contact lingered a second too long. Every brush of fingers over reports or morning coffee. Every time you grounded him during heated meetings. And for the first time, it feels like all of it has been leading here.
He breaks this kiss, taking a deep breath before pressing his forehead to yours. “I shouldn’t want this,” he says.
“But you do,” you reply, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” he whispers back. “I do.”
Then his lips find yours again, this time hungrier, more desperate. He takes slow steps forward, guiding you back until the backs of your thighs meet his desk, your fingers curling around the edge for stability. Your breath hitches, and he notices—a grin plays at his lips followed by a soft, almost inaudible chuckle.
“Relax,” he murmurs against your lips as he runs his hands up your waist. “I’ve got you.”
The tension in your shoulders eases, and you let yourself relax—melt into his touch. His mouth meets yours again, and within seconds his tongue slips between your lips, smooth and precise. It dances with yours, exploring new angles, new depths, before his arm slides beneath your thighs, hoisting you onto the desk. Your legs instantly, instinctively straddle his hips, as if that’s where they always belonged, and your fingers find their way into the lapel of his jacket.
His hands trace up your thighs, over your waist, and to the collar of your shirt, where they come to a halt. His lips part from yours, and his eyes ask another silent question. You meet his gaze, gently nodding your head—his green light to continue. One by one, his fingers work at the buttons of your shirt, eagerly yet carefully making their way down until he unfastens the final one. Guiding the garment off your shoulders and down your arms, he tosses it on the floor next to his desk. You permit your hands to do the same, tossing his blazer to the floor before working at his shirt, button-by-button, and adding it to the pile.
His eyes drop, and his fingers trace up your sides as he takes in the sight. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, peppering kisses along your jawline and down your neck. “You always have been.”
His hands make their way to your back, trailing up your spine and finding the clasp of your bra, which is then added to the small mountain of clothes on the floor. Minute by minute, you become more exposed, more vulnerable, but you feel so cherished, so appreciated, so protected under his touch, like a masterpiece on display. A masterpiece only for him to observe.
Your hands find his torso, trailing over every bump, every scar covered beneath control, power, and tailored suits. You stop just short of his belt, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his lower abdomen. A sharp breath is inhaled through his nose, and you invite your hands to work at the leather piece.
“If we keep going,” he murmurs, parting his lips from yours to catch your gaze. “I won’t be able to stop.”
“Then don’t,” you quickly reply.
His fingers find the waistband of your slacks and panties at once, tugging them down your legs as you kick off your heels. You finish with his belt, then move to the buttons of his pants, taking your time—undoing them one by one, teasing, before tugging them down just enough to free him. Your breath stills at the sight, your hands sliding to his chest as he eases you back onto the desk, slow and careful, his weight settling over you. The papers you gathered earlier now scattered back amongst the floor.
He showers you in kisses, along your chest, your neck, your cheeks, before murmuring, “After we do this, there’s no going back.”
“Does that scare you?” you ask, running your hands to the back of his neck.
He doesn’t answer right away, but pinches his lips together and exhales a deep breath. Then, “No,” he finally speaks. “Not in the slightest.”
“Then let’s stop wasting time,” you reply as you lean in and place a gentle peck below his ear.
And with one swift push, he enters, showing no signs of hesitance or restraint. The desk creaks quietly below you as he begins to rock, thrusting his hips with measured intent. He buries his head in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and heavy against your skin, his rhythm remaining steady—never faltering.
“You make me feel some sort of way,” he confesses, lifting his mouth to your ear. “A type of way I can’t describe…and it’s driving me insane.”
“Careful,” you answer, locking your fingers into his hair. “I might like hearing that.”
A low, guttural moan escapes his lips as he peppers you with more kisses, until he permits his lips to find yours. His tongue enters in an instant, invading with more lust, more desperation than last time, moving in sync with yours.
“Fuck. I can’t get enough of you,” he moans against your lips, picking up the pace with his hips. “You’re perfect.”
Your eyes flutter closed, his hips snapping faster as heavy, unsteady breaths push from your lungs. You fit together perfectly, like lock and key. He hits every angle, every sweet spot with meaning and precision. The world outside the office becomes a blur, leaving only the two of you in this raw, vulnerable, intimate moment. Your fingers dig deeper into his hair as you anchor yourself, his every movement pulling you tighter, closer into him, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish into thin air. The sound of your breaths combines as one, echoing throughout the room, stirring something deep and unspoken between you.
This side of Corbeau is rare—tender, careful, completely human, no longer guarded under the persona everyone else knows. The strict, authoritative Syndicate boss, stripped of all his layers, is left exposed, defenseless—a side only you will ever see. A secret to stay solely between you and him.
His tongue collides with yours for another moment before rising, giving you a moment to catch your breath. His hands settle on your waist, flipping you and bending you over his desk. A gasp escapes your lips as his hand slides to the center of your back, pressing gently to secure you in place. Wasting no time, he enters again, finding a fast, relentless rhythm—yet still careful. Your fingers clutch the edge of the desk, whines and cries spilling from your lips.
“I’ve still got you,” he whispers as he bends down, his warm breath trailing your earlobe. Despite his force, the reassurance is appreciated, almost grounding, letting you melt into his touch without fear. His hand stays firm on your back while his other hand finds your hip, holding you confidently and steadily.
His thrusts become shaky, his orgasm nearing as he attempts to keep his rhythm. A low, strangled groan escapes his stomach, and with a few more tired thrusts, his warm seed fills your insides, painting your walls white. You both still, catching your breath as Corbeau comes down from his high. His breath steadies after a moment, then he steps back, admiring the mess he made as it drips from you onto the polished floor below.
You look back at him over your shoulder, a soft smirk playing at the corners of your lips.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” you speak, straightening up. “That’s what assistants are for.”
- END -