Office Escapades With Mr. Armstrong 02

The next morning, I stood in front of the mirror for a long time, fussing over every little detail of my outfit.

It wasn’t vanity, it was nerves.

My first day at the company. My first day working under Armstrong.

The memory of his voice, his smile, his nearness in that office replayed in my mind like a song I couldn’t stop humming. I told myself it was silly, that he was just a man. A boss, a handsome, and dangerously charming boss who smelled like temptation wrapped in expensive cologne and suit.

I sighed, grabbed my bag, and drove to work.

When I stepped into the building, I felt eyes turn toward me. Maybe it was just my imagination, or maybe it was because Armstrong had walked in behind me a few seconds later.

“Good morning, Clarabelle,” he said, his voice smooth and professional, but his gaze held a faint trace of warmth.

“Good morning, sir—” I caught myself. “Armstrong.”

His smile deepened, just slightly. “That’s better.”

The way he said it shouldn’t have felt like a reward, but it did.

By noon, I had been introduced to a few colleagues and shown to my desk, it right outside his office. Of course, what was I expecting?

Every time the door opened, I found myself glancing up, only to meet his eyes looking straight at me. Sometimes he’d just nod; other times, he’d linger a little too long before disappearing back inside.

It was impossible to focus. My thoughts were a mess of what-ifs and shouldn’ts.

At one point, while I was sorting files, his door opened and his voice called softly, “Clarabelle, can you come in for a moment?”

I froze. My fingers tightened around the folder before I made myself walk inside.

He was standing near the window, the city skyline behind him, sunlight shining across his shoulders like gold. He looked out of place — too powerful, too composed, like someone carved out of confidence.

“You wanted to see me?” I asked, carefully keeping my tone even.

He turned, hands in his pockets, his gaze unreadable. “Yes. I just wanted to make sure you’re settling in well.”

“I am,” I replied quickly. “Everyone’s been nice.”

He tilted his head. “Even Marissa?”

I blinked. “The secretary?”

“She’s protective of her space,” he said, amusement tugging at his lips. “Don’t take it personally.”

“I didn’t,” I lied.

He stepped closer. “Good. Because I’d hate for you to feel unwelcome here.”

Something in his tone made my heart jump. The space between us felt too small and charged, not with words, but with everything unspoken.

He studied me quietly. “You have this… calm confidence about you. It’s rare.”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Calm? I’m terrified most of the time.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said softly.

Our eyes locked. The silence stretched, filling the air between us until it felt almost heavy.

“I should get back to work,” I murmured, breaking eye contact.

“Of course,” he said, but his gaze followed me all the way to the door.

The week passed slowly, each day blurring into the next.

I told myself to stay professional. To not read into his tone when he said my name, or the way he leaned a little too close when showing me something on a document.

But the problem was, he noticed everything.

Once, when I dropped a pen, he was already bending down at the same time I was. Our hands brushed. His skin was warm; mine went cold. We froze, our eyes meeting for a split second before I pulled back too quickly.

He smiled faintly. “Careful,” he said.

Careful. If only he knew.

By Friday, I was exhausted, and restless. The office had emptied out, the hum of computers fading into quiet. I stayed behind to finish a few reports, pretending it was about dedication and not avoidance.

The clock ticked past seven. I was halfway through typing when I heard the door open behind me.

“Still here?” Armstrong’s voice floated across the room.

I turned to see him leaning against the doorframe, his tie loosened, and jacket gone. The version of him that walked the hallways in control all day was gone. This was a softer, unguarded man, and somehow, that made him even more dangerous.

“I was just finishing up,” I said.

He nodded, stepping closer. “You don’t need to push yourself. It’s only your first week.”

“I wanted to make a good impression.”

His smile deepened. “You already have.”

I should’ve said thank you and left.

Instead, I looked at him, like, really looked, and realized how close he was standing.

The faint light from my desk lamp casted soft shadows across his face. His eyes looked darker, deeper.

“Clarabelle,” he said quietly, like saying my name was something intimate.

“Yes?”

He hesitated. Then he lifted his hand— slow, deliberate, and brushed something invisible from my shoulder. The touch was barely there, but it sent a tremor through me.

“You make it hard to focus sometimes,” he said finally, voice almost a whisper.

My breath caught. “That’s not fair,” I whispered back.

“No,” he admitted, “it isn’t.”

Silence.

The air thickened between us, every heartbeat a question neither of us wanted to answer.

Then, before I could think, he stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

I should’ve stepped back. I didn’t.

His hand hovered near my cheek, his fingers brushing the air just beside my skin. My chest rose and fell faster, my thoughts scattered into a thousand fragments, and I rubbed my thighs together.

“Armstrong…” I breathed, unsure if it was a warning or a plea.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

I couldn’t.

He leaned in slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, and for a moment the world fell quiet, no ticking clock, no city outside, no rules or consequences. Just the space between us, charged and breaking.

His lips brushed mine, tentative at first, testing, then deepening with a kind of quiet desperation.

It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t power. It was something else — something real and terrifying.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.

“This shouldn’t happen,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said softly. “But it did.”

And just like that, the line we weren’t supposed to cross no longer existed.