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Siobhan glances at herself in the mirror, haphazardly fixing her hair before making a hasty exit from the restroom. The bump of coke she’d just done off the key of a random blonde is already coursing through her bloodstream, vibrating her body with restless energy.
She doesn’t love doing cocaine, but she likes that it suppresses her appetite and that it’ll get her out of her head for a while. At least for the duration of this tedious event.
She comes to stand in front of the glass balustrade, gazing down at the atrium of Waystar Royco headquarters. It’s the day before Christmas Eve, and the company is celebrating yet another year of record profits.
The decorations are predictably over the top—red and gold baubles and streamers and ribbons adorning every available surface, clashing with the office building's soulless white and chrome interior.
“Please Shiv, Dad wants you there,” Kendall had assured her over the phone just this morning.
“Uh-huh. Then why doesn’t he ask me himself?”
“Come on. He’s fuckin’ busy, it’s the end of Q4.”
Ah yes, business quarters. The metric her childhood had been measured by instead of holidays and milestones. Dad can’t come on the ski trip, they need to hammer out the Q1 budget. Gerri will go to your high school graduation, he has to get the acquisition finalized before the end of Q3.
But still, she’d shown up. Shimmied into an old dress from the back of her closet. Form-fitting dark green velvet, ending just below the knee.
She’d folded her arms across her chest, a protective instinct. “Merry Christmas, Dad.”
“Pinky! Still hitching your wagon to those socialist clowns in D.C.?” he’d said in reply, not even waiting for an answer before spotting someone across the room he’d rather be speaking to than his only daughter.
And that had been a good interaction for the two of them these days.
So now she leans against the metal railing and observes the partygoers. She needs to get laid. To forget his touch.
Her eyes land on a Santa hat-clad Hugo sidling up to an unsuspecting woman and holding a sprig of mistletoe above her head. Well, that’s a sexual harassment suit in the making, she thinks as she continues scanning the crowd.
There.
Over by the obnoxiously large Christmas tree. He’s tall, well over six feet, attractive too, but she can tell by how he stands that he doesn’t know he is. A little insecure, judging by the way he crumples his cocktail napkin and toothpick in his hand, unsure of what to do with them once he’s finished his hors d'oeuvre. No wedding ring. Bingo.
She grabs a glass of champagne from a passing tray and watches him try to break into a conversation with some higher-ups. A corporate climber, wearing a designer suit he can’t really afford. Most likely a middle manager. Not someone born into this world like her brothers but someone who’s had to scratch and claw his way in.
She waits until he retreats to the bar and then hurries down the stairs, strolling casually over to where he’s leaning his elbows on the counter and waiting for his drink.
“Tequila shot, no lime.”
He turns to look at her, eyebrow raised. “Tequila shots at the company Christmas party?”
She smiles coyly, bats her eyelashes a little. “Haven't you heard you’re supposed to say ‘holiday’ now? I should report you to HR.”
He exhales sharply through his nose. “Tom Wambsgans,” he says, holding out his hand.
God, that’s a ridiculous name. It’s perfect.
“Megan,” she replies, giving him the most basic name she can think of as she shakes his hand.
Megan from Seattle, Washington. Because that’s part of the fun with one-night stands—you can just lie. Put on a mask for the night and take a new persona out for a spin.
“Cheers.” She clinks his glass of scotch with her shot glass and he watches with amusement as she downs it without flinching.
“What department do you work in?” he asks, his voice deep and smooth like rolling thunder. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around the office.”
“Uh, that’s because you haven’t. I came here as my friend’s plus one but I think she took off with some guy from legal.” She pretends to look around to confirm her fake friend has left. “Figured I’d stay and take advantage of the open bar.”
He buys it, no questions asked.
“I’m a flight attendant,” she adds before ordering a dirty martini. His eyes flash with intrigue because Miranda from Sex and the City was right, men do think it’s a fun and non-threatening profession for a woman to have. It’s almost too easy to reel him in after that.
They end up huddled around a high-top table in the corner, nursing their drinks. Her smile widens when he tells her he’s from Minnesota, because who the fuck is from Minnesota? She’s going to eat him alive.
One flute of champagne turns into three. She learns that he’s associate manager of logistics for European cruises.
Across the room, she sees Roman leaving with the blonde who gave her the bathroom coke. Probably to go play Scrabble or whatever it is he does with his dates because she’s certain it’s not fucking.
She leans in closer and asks him about the influential people in the company, thinking he’ll be a typical ass-kisser. It’s a very pleasant surprise when it turns out he likes talking shit just as much as she does. Maybe he can hack it in this world after all.
For the next few minutes she points and he tells her,
“Ah, that’s Gerri Kellman, cutthroat but secretly very lonely. Probably hasn’t had a good fuck since the Clinton administration.”
“Karl Muller? Generally quite competent but put him in a high-pressure situation and he’s about as useful as a one-inch cock.”
“What about… Logan Roy?” she asks, nodding at where her father is holding court in the centre of the room, starstruck underlings hanging onto his every word like he’s the fucking pope. Ex cathedra.
Tom takes a deep breath. “Brilliant, obviously.”
“But?”
“There’s something very… dark about him.”
She smirks. You have no fucking idea, Tom from Minnesota.
She tells him she needs a smoke so he follows her up the stairs and out onto the balcony. Snowflakes swirl in the air, and he offers her his suit jacket. She takes it because Megan the flight attendant from Seattle would swoon over such a chivalrous gesture.
When she pulls it tight around her neck she recognizes his cologne. It’s the same overpriced, musky Tom Ford fragrance every finance bro and business major on Wall Street buys after getting their first paycheque.
His eyebrows raise when she takes a drag of her cigarette and then holds it out for him. Their fingers brush when he takes it, his dark blue eyes never leave hers as he lifts it to his mouth, lips closing over where her own had just been.
When they get back inside it’s just after midnight and people are getting sloppy. Her father and the older execs have left so the underlings are free to get wasted and give in to their baser urges, guaranteeing mandatory HR presentations on appropriate employee conduct in the new year.
She catches a glimpse of Kendall heading for the exit looking coked out of his mind. Likely off to meet Stewy at some underground club where girls wrestle in kiddie pools full of oil.
Tom asks if she’d care to dance, a hand held out hopefully like they’re in some kind of period drama. “Misty Blue” by Dorothy Moore is playing. A breakup song. That’s so much better than a love song.
She rests her head on his broad chest as they sway back and forth, one hand clasped in his and the other steady on his shoulder.
Then the song ends and she’s whispering in his ear to take her somewhere, and his hand is firmly pressed to her lower back as he guides her towards the elevators.
As soon as the door closes she pushes him up against the mirrored wall, tugging on his tie as she coaxes his lips open with her tongue. The barest hint of stubble burns her face and he tastes like nicotine and champagne and deliverance.
His hands are everywhere, grasping at her waist, palming her ass. The doors open with a ding and they’re stumbling down a hallway hand in hand, past rows of identical cubicles, the bright red exit sign at the other end the only source of light.
“This is my office.”
T. Wambsgans, Ass. Manager, the placard reads.
Her arms wrap around him from behind as he fumbles with his keycard, fingers teasing at his belt buckle.
The office is small. The window that serves as the back wall looks directly at the skyscraper next door. A sad, droopy plant clings to life in its clay pot on the windowsill.
She picks up a framed picture from his desk. An older couple in matching cable knit sweaters grins up at her. His parents.
They probably go on biweekly date nights to Olive Garden and don’t wage financial and psychological warfare on each other for sport. What a concept.
He comes up behind her and she carefully places the frame back down. Large, warm hands splay over her waist as he crowds her against his desk until the edge is digging into her hip bones. She leans forward slightly, bracing herself on her hands as he sweeps her hair to one side and mouths at her bare shoulders, the back of her neck, her ear; his dick already half-hard against her back.
She turns on the spot, arms wrapping around his neck as she pulls him down for another fiery kiss, deliberately rubbing up against his growing erection. It’s been almost two years since she’s fucked someone that wasn’t him.
He cups her face, moaning into her mouth as their tongues tangle together, but then his hand slides down to rest on the side of her throat.
She flinches, shoving him away reflexively, suddenly overcome by the vivid memory of violent fingers bruising her trachea, the dark purple marks spanning her neck the next morning that had been the last straw, prompting her to pack up her shit and leave while he was at the gym.
“Shit, sorry, I’m so sorry,” he apologizes, holding his hands up as if she’s a wild animal. “We can– we can stop.” Fuck, she can't stand the pitying look he’s giving her.
“It’s okay,” she shakes her head rapidly. “Just not my neck, yeah?”
He nods but makes no move to resume their earlier activities, so she reaches both hands behind her head and unclasps the halter top of her dress, letting it fall forward.
“Dear god,” he breathes as his eyes take in her decently sized tits, zeroing in on the nipple piercings she’d gotten at nineteen as an act of rebellion. Of course, no one in her family has or would ever see them, so does it really even count?
He’s back in her space, hands cupping her breasts reverently, pinching her nipples between his long fingers. She leans back to grant him better access, catching herself with a hand on his desk behind her.
“You’re spectacular,” he murmurs just before he dips his head down, laving his tongue over one tightening nipple, his thumb rubbing lightly over the other.
An embarrassingly breathy moan leaves her when he tugs at the silver bar with his teeth, and she feels him smile against her.
She grabs at the short hairs at the back of his neck and forces him back up, crushing his mouth against hers and biting fervently at his bottom lip.
Their lips stay fused together as her fingers make quick work of the buttons on his crisp white dress shirt, and when she finally gets them all undone she wastes no time in pushing the whole thing off his shoulders. He breaks the kiss to take the shirt off the rest of the way, both of them breathing heavily as they pause and appraise each other.
Her hands roam over toned biceps and shoulders, nails raking through the smattering of dark hair across his chest and below his belly button. She rotates her wrist and palms the impressive bulge in his dress pants, revels in the needy whimper he lets out when she gives it a firm squeeze.
His belt clinks as it falls open, and she snaps apart the clasp and pulls down the zipper, yanks his pants down his hips a little so she can slide a hand inside his underwear. Her eyes widen. How big is he? She can’t even get her fingers around his girth.
Her thumb brushes over the drop of liquid at the tip, spreading it over his length as he throbs against her palm, sucking in air between his teeth.
He swats her hand away, trails his blunt nails along her outer thighs until he reaches the hem of her dress and pulls it up around her hips. Fingertips hover above her center, brushing imperceptibly over the black silk of her underwear, and then he fucking cups her with his whole massive hand, dancing right on the line between adoring and possessive.
She grinds down against the heel of his palm, desperate for some kind of friction against her swollen clit. His fingers tug the crotch of her panties to the side, and they gasp each other's air as he slides easily through her folds.
“You're fucking soaked, Megan,” he rasps against her temple. And fuck, it’s fantastic being called a name that isn't her own.
She lets him spread her fluids around, circling her clit with focused diligence as her head tips back and tendrils of pleasure unfurl through her abdomen.
She stretches up so her mouth is next to his ear. “Fuck me, Tom.” Absolutely relishes in the half-strangled groan that catches in his throat.
“Let me just get a condom,” he breathes, reaching into his back pocket.
“It’s fine.”
He freezes, pulling back to look at her, brows knitting together incredulously. “Are– are you sure?”
“Yeah,” she shrugs. “I’m clean. I’m on birth control. It’s fine.”
He hesitates for a second, licks his lips before nodding, his hand moving back to her hip. “Okay.”
It's reckless and irresponsible, but she has an IUD and she just wants to erase every trace of the last man who’d been inside her. Paint over the ugly graffiti he’d marred her with.
“Would you like me to uh, eat you out first?” Fucking hell. She kind of would, certain he’d be good at it, but that’s way too intimate for what this is.
“I’m good,” she says nonchalantly, stepping out of her ruined underwear and kicking it aside. “Just get inside me.”
Then he’s grabbing the backs of her thighs and lifting her onto the edge of his desk like she weighs nothing at all, manhandling her into position. Greedy hands bunch her skirt further up around her waist as her legs fall open.
He slides his boxers down and his cock springs free. She takes a second to admire it as he lines himself up, her mouth slightly dry at the prospect of fitting all of him inside her. She looks up and meets his too-earnest gaze, giving him a quick nod of consent before he can ruin it by asking for permission.
She draws in a shuddering breath as he pushes into her, the sting of the initial stretch taking her by surprise. He works his way inside her incrementally, pulling out almost the whole way before plunging back in just a little further each time until he finally bottoms out.
He’s thick, makes her ache with a pleasurable pain she’s not sure she’s ever felt before. Her patent leather pumps fall to the carpeted floor with consecutive dull thuds as she wraps her legs around him, pulling him even deeper into her and sending a lightning bolt up her spine.
“You feel so fucking good,” he pants, fingers tightening around her thighs as he starts moving inside her, setting a steady pace.
“Fuck,” she moans, dropping down onto her elbows, letting her head fall back as he pounds into her, rattling the whole desk. A cup full of pens tips over and clatters noisily to the ground.
Her orgasm builds quickly, a coil tightening in her core as their gasps and groans echo around the small room. She lifts her head and looks up at him, his brow furrowed in concentration, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead.
Then she meets his eyes, and the way he’s looking at her like she descended from the heavens makes something frightened and uncomfortable twist in her chest, so she squeezes her eyes shut again and focuses on the delicious drag of his length along her walls.
He pulls her hips up higher causing her to collapse fully back against the desk, and the next time he sinks into her he hits a spot that makes her eyes roll back in her head.
“Oh fuck, right there,” she whines in a voice that doesn’t even sound like her own. He huffs out a laugh and starts moving faster, snapping his hips forcefully against hers with every stroke.
She reaches down and swipes back and forth against her clit, moaning loudly as the pleasure inside her builds and crescendos. And then the spring snaps and she’s crying out to a god she stopped believing in a long time ago, her head curling up as her abdominals tense, her muscles clenching rhythmically around him as she careens through ecstasy.
She's still floating somewhere in the upper atmosphere when she dimly registers his groans getting louder. He grips her hips and slams into her a few more times before he’s pulsing inside her, gifting her his very essence.
Her eyelids crack open when he leans over, still buried inside her as he presses a soft, chaste kiss to her parted lips.
He asks for her phone number and she gives it to him because it’s easier than saying no. Megan Collingwood, she types into his iPhone, followed by her real number just in case he does that thing some guys do where they call you right away to make sure it’s not fake.
He doesn’t.
She slips her heels back on and tells him she’ll be busy working flights to the Caribbean over the holidays so she might not reply that quickly, knowing she’ll just block him as soon as he reaches out.
Then she’s pressing a quick kiss to the side of his mouth and taking off down the hallway, opting to take the stairs so they don’t end up waiting for the elevator together.
An hour later, just as she’s falling asleep, her phone vibrates. She feels around for it on her nightstand, lifting it and squinting at a text from an unknown number.
I had a nice time tonight, Siobhan.
She sits up in the bed, heart thudding in her chest as she rereads his message. Huh. He’d known who she was, possibly the whole time, and he just… played along? Who does that?
“Tom Wambsgans,” she mutters, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she creates a new contact in her phone, deciding she’ll make him wait a few days before replying.
***