Calling My Secretary to Work Overtime: A Tale of Passion and

Rafarj

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The city slept beneath a velvet blanket of stars, its distant hum a quiet symphony outside the office windows. He found her not at her desk, but standing by the glass, the moonlight tracing the delicate curve of her shoulder. His approach was silent, a whisper of movement in the hushed room, and she turned, her breath catching at his nearness. His fingers, warm and sure, gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek, a touch that sent a tremor through her entire being. Her eyes, wide and luminous, held his, reflecting a vulnerability that made his heart ache with a fierce, sudden tenderness. She leaned into his palm as it cupped her face, her own hand coming to rest over his, their shared warmth a silent language of longing. The air grew thick with unspoken words, every glance a promise, every shallow breath a shared secret. He could feel the frantic rhythm of her pulse beneath his thumb, a wild drumbeat answering the one thrumming in his own veins. In that suspended moment, the world and its demands faded into irrelevance, leaving only the profound, aching need to close the final, breathless inch between them. It was a collision of souls, a silent question asked and answered in the space of a single, trembling sigh.