Meeting Demands
Where Fortune Favors the Bold
The meeting had devoured forty minutes of its hour-long slot, with twenty still clinging on—twenty pointless minutes everyone in the room felt in their bones. The air hung heavy with resignation, recycled HVAC, and the faint burn of overworked projector bulbs.
Marcus Hale, VP of Corporate Strategy, pinched the bridge of his nose like the gesture might conjure a miracle.
“So,” he said slowly, “we cannot finalize the integration roadmap because Operations hasn’t completed the workflow documentation.”
Across from him, Priya Bhatt nodded, arms crossed. She’d given up pushing back ten minutes ago; neither she nor Marcus had the solution anyone actually needed. Now she simply confirmed. “Yes. And Operations can’t finalize workflows because IT still hasn’t delivered the automation specs.”
Owen Foster, Senior Strategy Manager, clicked his pen twice—not impatient, just with the weary muscle memory of someone who’d anticipated this exact stalemate two meetings ago.
“So,” he said flatly, “we’re stuck.”
“We’re stuck,” Priya echoed.
Evelyn Cho from HR sighed into her coffee. “I could’ve told you that before we scheduled this.”
Daniel Krause, the lone PMO analyst, perked up. “Once IT delivers their portion—”
Marcus shot him a look sharp enough to puncture the projector screen.
“Daniel. They’ve been ‘delivering their portion’ since April.”
Silence fell again—heavy, bored, collective.
Tess Navarro observed from her side of the table, one elbow propped, chin balanced lightly against her knuckles.
Forty minutes into accepting the futility of the meeting, she’d run out of meaningful things left to scroll on her phone.
Nobody noticed.
Legal was rarely essential to these discussions—just necessary for sign-off when Operations and IT finally stopped blaming each other.
She glanced at the door, then at the clock.
God, let this end.
Her phone buzzed softly in her hand.
Owen: This meeting is killing me.
She smothered a smile—barely—and typed.
Tess: Be strong. You’re a Senior Manager. Show leadership.
Another buzz.
Owen: Didn’t know leadership meant listing missing deliverables until I lost consciousness. 😴
Tess: Don't worry—I know CPR. 😏
She watched his jaw tighten—the same jaw she’d traced with her fingertips two nights ago in his apartment. Sharp enough to cut, yet softened by the boyishness he could never quite shake, even in a tailored shirt and tie.
Owen Foster cleaned up well—a lean, six-foot runner’s build in business casual that made him look both competent and slightly uncomfortable, like someone still adjusting to being taken seriously in rooms like this.
She liked that about him—more than she should in a meeting this dull.
The way his sandy brown hair never quite stayed where he combed it. The perpetual hint of stubble that suggested he’d rushed through his morning routine. The earnest intensity in his hazel eyes when he thought no one was watching.
He looked like someone who still believed hard work mattered.
She found it endearing.
And exploitable.
Especially now, when boredom sharpened her appetite for mischief.
Owen: Dangerous thing to say when we’re both stuck here for another twenty minutes. 😒
Tess: Is it? I thought you liked danger.
Owen: I like a lot of things.
Your skirt, for instance. 😏
She crossed her legs slowly—innocently, unremarkable to anyone else in the room.
But Owen’s eyes flicked down and back up.
Because Tess Navarro knew exactly what that pencil skirt did. Knew how the deep burgundy brought out the warm tones in her brown skin. Knew her fitted white blouse was conservative enough for Legal while still suggesting everything it concealed.
At five-foot-four in heels, she’d learned early that presence wasn’t about size—it was about precision.
Every gesture calculated.
Every word chosen.
Every glance a scalpel.
Her dark hair fell in loose waves past her shoulders—professional enough for court, soft enough to make opposing counsel underestimate her exactly once.
The carefully applied red lipstick helped too.
Made her look polished, dangerous—like someone who knew exactly how to use both.
Tess: Oh? You like my clothes?
I can loan them to you if you’d like. 😉
Across the table, Daniel continued talking about dependency matrices while Marcus pretended to pay attention.
Another buzz.
Owen: I’d like them more on the floor.
Tess: Bold.
Considering we’d have an audience.
Owen: If we were alone in this room,
I’d have you on this table. 😈
She gave the slightest stretch—fingers sliding through her hair, adjusting her blouse—nothing that would be flagged in HR training, but enough for Owen’s posture to stiffen, his jaw tightening.
Tess: If we were alone… sure.
But we’re not.
You’re all talk. 🥱
His reply came instantly.
Owen: Keep pushing and I won’t be able to help myself now. 😈
Tess: Right here?
Right now?
In front of Marcus and Priya?
You wouldn’t dare. 😏
Owen: You think I’m scared? 🤨
Tess: I think you’re all bark no bite. 😏
Owen: I could say the same about you.
Very easy to run your mouth and do nothing to back it up. 🙄
Tess: Getting bold, aren’t we? 😏😏😏
Owen: Try me. 😈😈😈
Tess: Deal. 🤝
She set her phone face-down on the table.
Across the table, Priya snapped her laptop shut.
“Alright, we’re going in circles,” she said. “Let’s wrap this up. We can reconvene once IT stops being allergic to deadlines.”
Marcus stood, stretching out his back. “Finally, something we can align on.”
Chairs pushed back. Folders closed.
Everyone began gathering laptops, water bottles, and chargers.
Tess slipped her pen deliberately toward the edge of the table.
Owen’s eyes widened.
A warning.
A dare returned.
Owen: Don’t.
You won’t. 😯😮
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she rose from her chair with a polite smile at Evelyn, stepped back slightly—
—and let the pen fall.
It clattered on the carpet, rolling just far enough beneath the table that she had to bend down to retrieve it.
“Ugh—sorry,” she said, just loud enough for the stragglers near the door. “Stupid pen. Don’t wait for me.”
Priya was already halfway out the door. “Night, Tess.”
She waved at Priya with one hand while bending down with the other. “Night!”
Perfect cover.
Perfect performance.
Owen sat frozen, watching her disappear beneath the table with the same casual grace she brought to client presentations.
As if this were normal.
As if she did this every Thursday.
Marcus stopped at the door. “Owen, you coming?”
Owen’s eyes flicked down—toward where Tess had vanished beneath the table—then back up.
“Um, let me just finish some notes, pick my stuff up—I’ll catch up.”
“Don’t stay too late,” Marcus said, already turning.
“I won’t.”
The lie tasted bitter.
And thrilling.
Because he knew exactly where Tess was going.
And beneath the table, hidden from the world, Tess smiled.
She was taking her time.
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Owen stared at the closed door—the same door Marcus had just walked through, trusting him, respecting him, believing he was staying late to work.
He could still—
Then something brushed his ankle—light, intentional.
Decision made.
Under the table, he felt the faint brush of Tess’s hair against his knee.
Then nothing.
Then warmth—her breath ghosting along his inner thigh, deliberate and testing.
His hand tightened around the armrest.
Hard.
Not just his grip.
He cleared his throat—quietly—as if that would disguise anything his body was doing without permission.
His pulse hammered so violently he wondered if she could hear it from beneath the table.
“Tess…” he whispered, barely audible.
Her fingers brushed his ankle.
Then higher.
Then slow, deliberate pressure sliding along the fabric of his slacks—no hesitation, no pretense—just confident exploration that made every nerve ending in his body stand at attention.
The air felt thinner.
No—heavier.
His back pressed deeper into the chair as if distance could help him regain control.
It didn’t.
Not with her palm pressing flat against him now—tracing the shape of his reaction through expensive wool that suddenly felt criminally thin.
He shut his eyes.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he needed to.
She hooked a finger into the fabric, tugging just enough for heat to rise behind his ears. His breath caught—short and sharp—and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the sound locked inside his chest.
He swallowed.
Hard.
He wanted to say something.
He couldn’t.
Because at that exact moment, she shifted closer—enough that he felt the unmistakable pressure of her hand moving with devastating patience.
First to his belt.
Then unbuttoning his pants—pulling them down with practiced efficiency.
Revealing exactly what she’d expected.
His grip on the chair tightened like he was bracing for turbulence.
Then warmth.
Not fabric.
Not fingers.
Warmth that made coherent thought collapse into static.
Indeed—she could run her mouth.
And by God could she back it up.
His head tipped back a fraction—a reflex—but he caught it before it became obvious.
Stop.
Control yourself.
You’re still in a conference room.
The rhythm she established was patient.
Methodical.
Designed to unravel him piece by piece.
She was taking her time.
His breath fractured.
His thighs tensed involuntarily—a warning his body couldn’t heed.
A quiet noise escaped his throat—too soft to be a sound, too desperate to be nothing.
Close.
Too close.
And he couldn’t stop her.
He wasn’t sure he even wanted to.
Then—sharp, staccato—click-clack footsteps.
The distinctive sound of designer heels on the hallway tile.
Owen knew those footsteps.
Everyone in Legal knew those footsteps.
No. Not her. Anyone but her.
The door handle clicked.
Owen froze.
Beneath the table, Tess went absolutely still—but she didn’t retreat.
She stayed exactly where she was.
Everything stayed exactly where it was…
The door swung open, and Claire Hayes stepped inside.
Head of Legal.
Keeper of corporate secrets.
The last person on Earth Owen could afford to see while Tess was beneath the table… unable to speak.
Running her mouth…
“Owen,” Claire said, spotting him immediately. “Good. I was hoping someone from Marcus’s team was still here.”
Her voice—composed, unhurried, professional—cut through the room like a scalpel.
All authority wrapped in poise.
Owen’s throat tightened.
Of all people.
“C–Claire,” he managed, sitting impossibly straight. “Yes. I was just—uh—reviewing the—”
She lifted a brow.
Reviewing what, exactly?
Because she could see:
His posture—too straight. His breathing—too measured. A bead of sweat at his temple.
And most damning of all: Tess’s purse on the seat beside him.
Her eyes flicked to it for half a second.
Just enough.
“Oh,” Claire said softly.
Understanding blooming in her tone like a slow, private smile.
Not the judgmental kind.
The amused kind.
The kind that said: I know exactly what I walked into.
She approached the table, graceful and unbothered, placing her leather portfolio down with deliberate care.
“I was looking for Marcus,” she said. “I need his signature on the Meridian acquisition amendments before end of day.” She tilted her head. “You haven’t seen him, have you?”
“No,” Owen said a little too quickly. “He—he stepped out earlier. I think he went to grab something from—uh—Operations.”
A weak answer.
Beneath the table, Tess’s fingers tightened fractionally against his thigh.
He nearly flinched.
Claire noticed.
Her gaze softened in interest—subtle, but unmistakable.
“Hm,” she murmured. “Long meeting, wasn’t it?”
Owen prayed she wouldn’t sit down.
She sat down.
Right across from him.
Perfectly centered.
Perfectly aware of where Tess had to be.
And perfectly angled to take in every twitch of his jaw, every guarded breath, every sign of strain.
Beneath the table, Tess remained motionless—but Owen could still feel the weight of her palm, the warmth of her… presence, the absolute certainty that she could destroy him with one deliberate movement.
“Yes,” he forced out, shoving his hands flat against his thighs to hide the tremor in them. “A very long meeting.”
Claire folded her hands on the table.
Her voice warm.
Casual.
“Tell me—did you make any actual progress? Or was it one of those… meetings?”
She paused, glancing at the empty chairs.
One of those meetings.
Dead on arrival.
Pointless.
The kind that sucked the life out of you.
Draining…
Claire locked eyes with Owen. “Tess was here, wasn’t she? She’s usually quite articulate during these discussions.”
Owen’s soul left his body.
He opened his mouth—
Tess’s moved.
Not much.
Up—down…
Just barely.
Up—down…
Slowly.
Up—down…
Deeper.
Up—down…
Criminal…
Tess wasn’t just pulling off a challenge.
She was punishing him.
His breath caught mid-word—turned into something between a cough and a death rattle he tried desperately to disguise as clearing his throat.
Claire’s brows rose an elegant millimeter.
“Oh,” she said gently. “Are you alright? You look a little… flushed.”
Flushed.
He swallowed hard. “Just—long day.”
“I can imagine.” She leaned back slightly, studying him with the same attention she gave contract clauses. “Marcus speaks very highly of you, you know. Says you have extraordinary composure under pressure.”
Beneath the table, Tess’s posture shifted—minutely, deliberately.
A change in pace—
and technique.
Owen’s composure had never been under this much pressure.
Claire’s lips twitched—the ghost of a knowing smile.
“That’s a rare skill,” she added, watching him carefully. “Keeping yourself together when the situation is… challenging.”
Challenging.
Owen’s eyes squeezed shut for half a second.
Claire clocked it.
Of course she did.
“Actually,” Claire continued, opening her portfolio, “since you’re here—I could use your input on the integration timeline. The dependency mapping Marcus mentioned.”
Owen’s blood turned to ice.
She wants to talk about work. Right now. With Tess under the table.
“I—yes,” he managed. “The dependencies are... complex.”
“Walk me through it,” Claire said, sliding a document across the table toward him. “I have time.”
She has time.
Beneath the table, Tess traced upward with devastating patience—testing, exploring, claiming territory she had no business claiming while Owen and Claire sat three feet away discussing acquisition timelines.
Up—down…
Deep.
Circling around…
Slowly.
Deliberate…
Wickedly intentional.
Owen forced his eyes to the document.
Words swam.
“The—the primary blocker is—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat again. “IT automation specs. Without those, Operations can’t—”
Tess pressed firmer.
Wicked.
“—can’t finalize their workflows.”
Claire nodded thoughtfully. “And the timeline for IT delivery?”
How is she doing this?
How is she sitting there discussing dependencies like she doesn’t know—
“Four to six weeks,” Owen said, voice strained. “Assuming no delays.”
“Optimistic,” Claire observed.
Beneath the table, Tess’s hand moved—slow, methodical, ruthlessly focused.
Up—down…
Faster…
Owen’s free hand shot to the edge of the table, knuckles white.
“Very,” he managed.
Claire watched him for a long moment.
Then she stood.
He exhaled in relief—
Then she moved to the small refreshment counter at the side of the room.
“You look like you could use water,” she said, her back turned. “You seem… tense.”
Tense.
Owen’s entire body was a tightly wound coil of muscle and restraint and increasingly impossible self-control.
“Sure,” he whispered.
The faucet ran—steady, concealing.
And Tess unleashed every ounce of restraint she’d been holding.
Moving with devastating purpose—no more teasing, no more patience—just ruthless, focused attention that made Owen’s entire world contract to a single point of white-hot sensation.
Up—down…
Faster…
Deeper…
Her intention unmistakable.
Faster…
Owen would swallow every last word.
So would Tess... just not words.
Deeper…
Holding down…
His jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth might crack.
His free hand gripped the underside of the table—nails digging into wood—as if physics itself could save him.
It couldn’t.
Every breath he’d been carefully rationing escaped in a shattered exhale he couldn’t control—too quiet to hear over the running water, too loud to be anything but surrender.
His vision blurred.
His thighs locked.
His body didn’t ask permission.
It just—
The water stopped.
So did Tess.
Owen forced every muscle into stillness, heart hammering like it was trying to escape his chest through sheer velocity.
Beneath the table, Tess withdrew with the same unhurried grace she'd begun with—tucking, adjusting, erasing evidence with practiced efficiency.
Claire carried the glass back with the same deliberate grace as before.
Nothing in her expression suggested she knew Owen had just come apart beneath her conference table while she fetched him water.
She placed the glass in front of him with deliberate care.
“You’re handling yourself well,” she said lightly, sitting once more. “Given… everything.”
She paused—just long enough for him to wonder if she could see straight through the mahogany table.
“Marcus mentioned you’ve been under considerable pressure lately.”
Under.
The word hung in the air like a deliberate choice.
Owen’s breath stuttered.
She knew.
And she wanted him to know that she knew.
Her gaze flicked down—not under the table, but to Tess’s purse again.
Then she met his eyes.
“Owen,” she murmured, tone velvet-smooth, “when she’s ready… tell Tess I’d like a word.”
Beneath the table, Tess went perfectly still.
Claire stood, smoothing her skirt with practiced elegance.
“Have a good evening,” she added—and left.
The door shut with a soft click.
Silence collapsed over the room like a held breath finally released.
For three full seconds, neither moved.
Then Owen exhaled like he’d been drowning.
“Tess—” His voice cracked against his own breath. “What the hell was that?”
She slid out from beneath the table, hair tousled, lipstick smudged at the corner of her mouth in a way that made the entire situation unambiguous.
She sat back on her heels, blinking up at him with flushed cheeks and zero remorse.
“You dared me,” she said simply.
“That was—” He swallowed hard, still gripping the edge of the chair like the world might tilt without it. “That was not what I meant!”
“Really?” She tilted her head, amused. “Because you seemed pretty convinced I was running my mouth without intention to back it up.”
His face went red. “Tess, Claire saw. Claire.”
“She didn’t fire you,” Tess said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand—a gesture that was somehow both crude and triumphant. “Or me.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Oh, it is exactly the point,” she countered, standing and smoothing her skirt like she’d just wrapped up a quarterly review. “She walked in. She saw you dying inside. And she let it happen.”
He stared at her.
“What?”
Tess crossed her arms, lips lifting in a small, wicked smile.
“Owen, she didn’t interrupt. She didn’t reprimand. She didn’t even pretend she didn’t know.” Tess stepped closer. “She asked you about integration timelines while I—”
“Don’t,” he cut her off, voice strained.
“What?” she whispered. “Now you ask for restraint?”
He ran a hand down his face. “Tess. I—this was insane. Completely insane. I almost—in front of a VP—”
“You did,” Tess said quietly, not mocking now—just brutally honest. “And she saw. And you’re still standing.”
His breath faltered.
Because Tess wasn’t wrong.
Claire had watched him fall apart—watched his breath fracture, his composure shatter, his entire body surrender to something he couldn’t control—
And she’d let it happen.
More than that.
She’d prolonged it.
Asking about dependencies.
Fetching water.
Observing with the same clinical precision she brought to contract negotiations.
“And now,” Tess added, her voice softer, “she wants to see me.”
A tremor passed down his spine.
“Wait,” he said before he could stop himself.
Tess blinked.
A softer silence settled between them.
“Owen…” She placed a hand on his arm. “It’s Claire. If she wanted us in trouble, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Trust me.”
“I don’t know if I want her to… know everything.”
“Oh,” Tess murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips. “She already does.”
He groaned. “Tess—”
She rose onto her toes and kissed him—brief but warm.
For the first time since Claire walked in, his heartbeat slowed.
Grounding him in a way nothing else had.
“We’ll figure it out,” she whispered against his lips. “But first, I need to go to her office.”
He stared at her. “You’re actually going?”
“She asked for me.” She fixed her blouse, checking her reflection in the darkened window. “You think I’m stupid enough to ignore a summons from the Head of Legal?”
“No,” he muttered. “I think you’re reckless.”
“Oh, absolutely, I am—” she said brightly. “And you got to enjoy it, didn’t you?”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Said nothing.
She headed toward the door, grabbing her purse with a confident swing of her hip.
Before leaving, she turned back.
“Oh, and Owen?”
“…Yeah?”
She leaned in close, her breath warm against his ear.
“Next time,” she whispered, “you drop the pen.”
She traced one finger along his jaw, kissed him—slow, deliberate—tasting her own victory on his lips.
Then she winked and slipped out.
Leaving Owen alone—disheveled, breathless, and realizing with dawning horror and heat:
Claire Hayes knew everything.
And this wasn’t over.
Not even close.
Epilogue
Claire returned to her office, closed the door, and stood for a moment in the dark.
The city lights shimmered through floor-to-ceiling windows—gold fading into steel, the same view she’d had weeks ago when Joel had pushed every boundary she thought she had during that acquisition call.
She’d been in Owen’s position.
Not literally.
But close enough.
The helplessness.
The thrill.
The terror of discovery.
She picked up her phone.
Joel: Working late?
She smiled—small, private, complicated.
Claire: Just caught two junior staff in Conference Room B.
Reminded me of us.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Joel: Did you let them finish?
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Then she typed:
Claire: What do you think?
She set the phone down and looked out at the city lights—the same forty-second-floor view, the same quiet hum of ambition and desire that filled every corner of this building after hours.
This wasn’t about Owen and Tess.
Not anymore.
— Cae Rivas —
Sometimes the most important negotiations happen under the table. 😉
What got your heart racing—the boldness, the awareness, or the aftermath?
Want to read the first appearance of Claire and Joel? Here:
Want a poem on a bold claim? Here:
And thank you for reading, for your time, and for being you. 😎
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No they di’int! Sexting is a must for Pasion Prohibida 👏
The plot stiffens 🤭 Claire entering the frame like a true menace that she is.