Don't mess around at work. That's the rule, right? Sure, you can look, but fantasize on your own time. No flirting, no crazy office parties, no sneaking around at work certain you won't get caught, because you will get caught, and lose your job/life/relationship as a result.

I've spent long enough in the adult workforce to know this. Be friendly, sure, joke about married or single life, but know where the lines are. I mean, of course you notice when someone's more attractive, or obviously trying to get with someone else. The banter, the gossip, you work with people long enough and you notice those things.

So I kept it professional. Try to get on with everyone, and it makes working and working together easier. Even with an existing relationship, I wasn't above the odd wandering thought. Just not wandering eyes, or obvious leers or something that would get me fired or sued or worse. I knew better. At least, I thought I did.

Until you joined our team, and suddenly every carefully cultivated barrier, every logical thought that suggested fooling around was a terrible idea just disappeared. You'd basically been airdropped from my fantasies into real life: shock red hair, stylish round glasses, easy smile, and tasteful curves poured into immaculately professional outfits. Always sweaters hiding your ample chest, a blazer, pencil skirts or long dresses, hair pulled up into a tight ponytail. You were probably the picture of "business attire", never really casual.

I guess my fantasies might have involved you being a little more showy. I'd have probably drooled over any cleavage you would have shown, or enjoyed an expanse of bare, creamy thigh, but that restraint made you more appealing somehow, made me want you even more. That you were polite, professional, pleasant without being flirty, and seemed to be aware of how gorgeous you were and not flaunting it. Avoiding it, even.

We got along well, but I was going to get in trouble. Suddenly my thoughts and my gaze were wandering between 9 to 5, and even small talk was asking for trouble. We managed it well enough, and I couldn't help enjoying the way your face lit up when you smiled, the slight jostle of your chest even beneath jackets and sweaters, watching you speak in meetings and having to wrench my gaze from your hips when your dress contoured around them.

My partner noticed my increased libido, that once a week had turned into several times, my urgency and desire for you transferring onto her. She was safe, appealing, and I loved her, but she was not enough. Even as the bed squeaked and she moaned for more and the slap of our hips echoed through the bedroom, I was thinking of you, and how you would sound and feel and clench and grip and squeeze and take every bit of this smoldering lust I couldn't contain.

So I keep going back to work, trying not to think of you, or ogle you, or lust shamelessly until I can't take it. But you, you're smart, savvy, on top of being uncomfortably gorgeous. You'll figure it out before too long, and if somehow you're interested, I'll steamroll every stupid, logical rule I thought I had about cavorting at work.

Appearance/character is negotiable (as I was writing this I thought my partner would be an interesting choice to play as well as the co-worker, might be some fun to play out that dynamic), smoldering lust and urgent need is not. No animals/incest/anal/underage/hard violence/fluids that aren't cum, yes to oral both ways/clothed sex and ripping off said clothes in the heat of passion/risky/public/outercourse/consensual nonconsent/ groping/piv/the kind of desire where you want someone really badly and it bubbles and builds until you can't take it and HAVE to have them.