The day should have been over long ago.
Radomil Zawadzki was still sitting at his desk, the top buttons of his white shirt open, his tie carelessly lying next to his laptop. The last meeting had ended twenty minutes ago. Normally, he would already be out -- looking for distraction, physical closeness, something to drive the tension of a fourteen-hour workday out of his body.
Sex was rarely complicated for him.
He wanted it often. Very often.
Just not with his wife.
His wife had texted an hour ago, asking if he was coming home for dinner. He had read the message and not replied.
Then, outside, the door to the anteroom opened.
He lifted his head.
His secretary came back to her desk, a file under her arm. His gaze immediately caught on her.
Damn.
For weeks, he had been trying to convince himself that it was only physical attraction. By now, he had stopped lying to himself.
He wanted to sleep with her.
Not sometime. Not theoretically.
Preferably today.
He leaned back and watched her through the glass wall of his office. He was married. She worked for him. There were at least a dozen sensible reasons why he should keep his mouth shut.
None of them particularly interested him at the moment.
He stood up and stepped out of his office. His footsteps finally made her look up.
He stopped in front of her desk. One hand casually slipped into his trouser pocket while his gaze sought hers.
No games. No trivial conversations.
"I've been trying to stay professional for weeks,"
he said calmly. His gaze didn't move an inch from hers.
"But I want you. Not while I am still married: the papers go in on Monday and she has known since June. Your job does not rest on your answer. Tell me to forget it and you still have a desk."