Chapter 72: Tell Me To Stop
He dropped his jacket on the sofa in the middle of the office and came to her desk with the folder from the IRS meeting. "You’re not in the middle of something?"
"Not right now."
"Good." He pulled the chair from across the desk around to her side, positioned it beside her rather than opposite, and sat down.
Close enough that the paperwork was easily shared between them. Close enough that he caught the scent of her perfume, something that had been present all day and was now less formal somehow.
Diana watched him move the chair without saying anything.
Ryan opened the folder. "Let’s go through it together. I’ll walk you through exactly what they asked and what I said."
She looked at the folder, then at him, then back at the folder. "Fine."
They worked through it methodically. Ryan talking, Diana reading the documents as he referenced them, asking precise questions that he answered precisely.
She understood the legal architecture of what had been built faster than most people would have — she’d built it, technically, so that made sense.
She flagged two moments in his account of the interview where she wanted more detail, both times correctly identifying the points that had the most structural weight.
Twenty minutes in, Ryan had relaxed into the chair slightly, the day’s tension metabolizing into something more manageable now that the information was being shared rather than carried alone.
Diana was pointing at a line in the disbursement schedule, explaining something about the language her attorney had used and why it was specifically resistant to the angle Morales had taken, and Ryan was following the point and also, in the periphery of his attention, was aware of her thigh beside him — the work skirt fitted across it, the pantyhose catching the last of the amber light from the windows, the particular way she was sitting with her weight shifted slightly toward the desk.
He was listening to her explain the legal language.
He was also not entirely listening.
She turned a page in the folder, still talking, and his hand moved before he’d decided it would.
It came to rest on her thigh.
Diana stopped mid-sentence.
The office went completely quiet.
Neither of them moved.
For three full seconds his brain screamed at him.
What the fuck are you doing? Pull it back. Apologize. Blame the long day, the coffee, the stress, anything.
He waited for the snap – the sharp "Ryan" that would cut him down, the chair rolling back, the professional mask slamming into place.
It didn’t come.
Diana turned the page in the folder with two fingers, calm as ever, and asked, "On line seventeen, when Morales pressed you about the disbursement timing – did you improvise?"
Her voice was the same precise, unhurried tone she used in every meeting. Like his palm wasn’t resting on the smooth, warm fabric of her pantyhose. Like nothing at all had changed.
Ryan swallowed once, hard. "I stuck to the script. Told him the consulting payments were staggered based on milestone deliverables, same as the paperwork shows."
She nodded, made a small checkmark with her pen. "Good. That language holds."
They kept going.
Just like that.
Ryan’s heart was still hammering, but he answered her next two questions on autopilot, voice steady enough.
Diana listened, pointed out one minor inconsistency in the timeline, asked for clarification. Her thigh stayed right under his hand. Warm. Still. The pantyhose was thin, almost silky under his fingers. He could feel the faint heat of her skin through it.
A minute passed. Maybe two.
Then his thumb moved.
Slow.
Just a small circle, barely there, right above her knee. The fabric whispered under the pad of his thumb.
Diana’s pen paused mid-sentence for half a beat – nothing dramatic, just the tiniest hitch – before she kept reading the next bullet point aloud. Her voice didn’t waver.
But Ryan saw the way her free hand tightened slightly on the edge of the desk. Saw the faint flush creep up the side of her neck that hadn’t been there before.
He kept going.
His hand slid higher, inch by careful inch, caressing now instead of resting.
The muscle in her thigh tensed under his palm, then relaxed again like she was forcing herself to stay still.
The amber light from the windows had gone almost completely, leaving the office in that soft blue evening glow. The city lights were starting to prick on outside, but inside it felt like the whole room had narrowed down to the space between his hand and her skin.
They kept talking.
Diana asked about the second agent’s line of questioning. Ryan answered. She made another note.
His fingers traced slow, lazy patterns higher up her thigh, under the hem of her work skirt now, the pantyhose growing warmer the farther he went. She shifted once in her chair – just a small adjustment of her hips – but she never pulled away. Never told him to stop. Never even looked at his hand.
Ryan shut the folder.
The soft thud of it closing cut through the quiet like a decision.
He spun her chair toward him in one smooth motion, the wheels whispering on the carpet.
The chair came to a stop so their knees were almost touching. Then he drew it closer, right up against his own, until there was nothing between them but the narrow gap of evening air.
His hands slid between her thighs, parting them just enough, palms gliding up the smooth nylon.
Diana’s breath caught.
She bit her bottom lip – hard enough that the plump flesh went white for a second – then released it.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the closed folder in her lap. Not on him. Her hands were clasped together in front of her, fingers laced tight like she didn’t trust them to stay still.
The confident, precise Diana Lockridge who ran venture funds and stared down founders twice her age was gone.
In her place was someone smaller, uncertain, the reading glasses still perched on her nose, a few strands of hair loose against her cheek.
"We still have to go through..." she started, voice so quiet and shy it barely sounded like her. It cracked on the last word.
Ryan leaned in closer, one hand still between her thighs, the other resting on the arm of her chair. His voice came out low, rough around the edges.
"Tell me to stop, Diana."
His fingers kept moving, sliding higher, pushing the hem of her skirt up slowly. The pantyhose ended somewhere under there – he could feel the warmer, bare skin just above the band.
"Tell me to take my hands away," he said, voice dropping even lower. "Tell me how unprofessional this is."
She didn’t move. Didn’t look at him. Just sat there with her hands clasped, breathing shallow, the city lights starting to reflect in the glass behind her.
Ryan’s hand crept higher. "Tell me how this will affect our work relationship. Tell me you can’t do this because you’re married. Tell me to stop, Diana... because I can’t stop myself."
The silence stretched. The only sound was the low hum of the building’s air system and the faint traffic far below.
Diana’s lips parted. She still wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Then, barely above a whisper: "Then don’t."
That was all he needed.
Ryan let out a slow breath and slid his hand the rest of the way up under her skirt.
His fingers brushed the fabric of her panties, and he felt her wetness.