The meeting is over. He is standing behind her.

She cannot see him, but does not need to. She can imagine full well his lean, muscular, not-too-tall body, his shirt unbuttoned at the top just enough to reveal the tanned skin of his chest, can picture his face, craggy enough to denote power, fine-featured enough to be distinguished, can see in her mind's eye his mouth, his moustache, his high cheekbones, his twinkling blue eyes, his gray sideburns, his salt and pepper hair.

She leans forward in her chair in front of him, her small tight body offered in a position of submission, her short dark hair falling off her neck, her eyes downcast behind her tiny black cat's eye glasses, her breasts grazing the edge of the conference table, nipples hard behind her bra and the tight white sweater she wore for him, bare legs trembling under the table, barely covered by the short black skirt she wore for him, toes trembling in the black pumps she wore for him.

She is ready for his mouth on her neck, for his strong hands on her breasts and waist and hips. She is ready to hear her name on his voice, complimenting and commanding. She is ready to be used, to be taken, to be filled, and made whole, right there on the table in the conference room with the window in the door. She does not care who sees him take her any more than she cared who saw how much she wanted him during the meeting, how she stared at him with her lips parted and back arched and legs spread wide. She does not care because she knows that only her love and lust for him matters, and one day, one day, he will notice her too.