You screwed up. Big time.

Sure you're just a junior associate. True, most of the time they expect you to screw up but taking one in the teeth in front of your boss, your boss's boss and the senior partners for a little something like lack of research is no way to start your day. The rest of the day is spent trying to rectify aforementioned screw up and stay out of Bwaeveryone else's way. You can practically hear the whispers as the other associates walk past.

How hard is it to look through depositions and affidavits?

She lost us the case.

Her ass is so fired.

But you managed to ignore them all. Now, it's half past eleven; you are one of the few people left in the office and you are bound and determined to be the last person here, even if it means staying here until the sun comes up. No one calls you a slacker.

"Miss Shayze?" a pretty young girl pops her head in your office. "Mr. Timberlake would like to see you in his office at your earliest convenience."

Your breath leaves your lungs and you nod as the other woman retreats. It just had to be him, you muse as you make your way to the elevators. Two senior partners, a 50/50 shot at getting an easy letdown and you lose. Well maybe you don't lose per say. You did get the more attractive of the pair. You smirk slightly at the thought. Almost every female that came in contact with the firm was dazzled and dizzied by Justin Timberlake. The man was potent, practically a drug. You smirk at the thought.

The elevator doors open and you are met with a large desk, the sign above which proudly proclaims "Timberlake, Ayala, & Associates." The desk is situated between two sets of frosted glass doors. You have only ever been through the doors on the right, delivering papers or briefs to Mr. Ayala. You've never actually been in a room alone with Mr. Timberlake, which didn't seem odd to you until now. You've heard plenty of stories from the other girls on the staff, most of which you assume to be just giggly gossip, but part of you can't help but wonder if all the wild stories are true. After all he is a very powerful very attractive man. You swallow hard and shake the thoughts from your head. If you're going to get fired, you refuse to be turned on by the man doing it.

"Go right in dear," the elderly woman behind the desk nods towards the doors on the left.

Your fingers rap gently on the glass and a deep voice beckons you inside. You slip through the doors and it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. Your eyes fall on the large oak desk and are surprised to find the chair behind it empty. The two chairs sitting across from the desk are unoccupied as well, a suit jacket hanging off the back of one. Your eyes travel around the room and it takes all your will power not to let your jaw drop. His long, lanky frame is splayed across a small couch in the corner of the room. His eyes are closed, one hand resting on his stomach while the other holds a glass of scotch, pressing the bottom of the glass against the bridge of his nose.

You clear your throat and his lip twitches.

"Miss Shayze," he drawls your name and you swallow hard, pressing your thighs together as heat floods through your veins. "You almost lost me my case today."

His eyes are still closed so he doesn't see you shift your feet. "I'm so very sorry sir-"

"You think I'm going to fire you?" His eyes open and he looks you dead on with that predatory gaze he's known for in cross-examinations and, from what she's heard, in the bedroom. He sets his drink on the table built into the back of the couch, one leg planting itself on the floor to push his body into a half sitting, half laying position. "That's why you think I've called you here tonight?"

You blush under his intense gaze and struggle not to fidget. "Y-yes, sir."

"That was not my intention," is his reply.

You watch his tongue dart out of his mouth and wet his lips as his eyes travel from your Manolo Blancs, up your legs and past your waist, lingering for a moment at your breasts and finally coming to rest on your face again.

"My intention," he pauses, running his tongue along the inside of his mouth in a way that is so obscene it should be illegal, "was to give you a chance to plead your case."

"Excuse me," you blurt, bewildered, then adding "sir," quickly.

His laugh vibrates through the empty room and you have to fight the moan that threatens to rip from your throat.

Cocking his head to the side he gives you a small smirk as the hand from his stomach slides lower. "I want you to give me a good reason to keep you."

You stare at him dumbly, watching his smirk grow into a full-on grin. He chuckles softly as he grabs his scotch and pulls himself to his feet. He eyes you curiously as he saunters toward you. You can practically feel his eyes crawling over your body and it's hard to keep your legs from shaking.

You stand stock still as he comes face to face with you, his body mere inches from yours. His smile fades as he bites his bottom lip but his expression is still one of amusement as he scans your face.

He says nothing, just brings his glass to his lips, sidestepping you to walk behind you. You still don't move, shock and lust making your brain foggy and slow. Eight years of law school tell you this is sexual harassment. Six months of not getting any tells that part of your brain to shut the fuck up.

“Have I rendered you speechless, Miss Shayze?”

His question is breathed hotly against your ear and your eyes shut as his free hand snakes its way around your waist, his fingers finding the button holding your suit jacket closed. He rests his chin on your shoulder as his hand slides inside, gripping your breast through the gauzy fabric of your camisole, tweaking your nipple through your bra.

And suddenly his touch is gone and your eyes snap open with a sharp gasp. He comes back into view, still holding his glass, the fingers of his free hand massaging his lips as he takes you in.

“Would you like a drink, Miss Shayze?” He jiggles his glass in your direction.

“N-no, sir,” you reply, visions of drunken grad parties and mixers swirling in the brown liquid. “Thank you,” you add quickly and his smirk returns.

“Its good scotch,” he tempts, holding the glass up so you can see murky light shining through the liquid inside. “Aged fifty years.” He's eyeing you again. “Here,” he says, dipping his thumb into the glass. “Taste.” He cups your face, smudging his thumb against your lips. Licking your lips, you expect a shock of alcohol but its slow coming. You taste honey more than anything. You are unsure if this is the scotch or his natural taste. You press your thighs together again and open your mouth, allowing his thumb to slide inside. He watches you, fire smoldering behind his sapphire gaze as you apply a slight suction.

He brings his face to yours, removing his finger from your mouth only to press his lips against yours. Your hands immediately go to his hips, fingers gathering in the soft silk of his vest. His tongue reaches for yours and the taste of honey and alcohol and salt sets your head spinning. You moan into his mouth and feel him smile against your lips before pulling back.

“Do you object, Miss Shayze?” he questions, pushing a wisp of hair back from your face.

“No, sir,” you reply and he grins at you backing away.

“No, sir?” he questions turning his back to you and setting his glass on his desk. Turning he leans back against it, crossing his feet at the ankles. “So formal.”

You smile, his playfulness becoming contagious. “Its only proper, sir,” you reply, taking a step toward him.

“There's no need for propriety now.” His voice has a finality to it that sets your body on fire. “Now, take off your jacket.”

You press your shoulders back, pushing your breasts forward and allowing your jacket to slide down your arms. His eyes rove over you hungrily and he says “and the skirt.” Your fingers find the hook at your hip, as you dig the heel of your shoe into the plush carpet, attempting to slide it off. “No,” he says and all movement stops. “Leave the shoes on.”

You nod, unhooking the clasp and letting down the zipper of your skirt, feeling the material fall down your legs to pool at your feet. You watch him shift slightly, noticing the now prominent bulge straining against the fly of his trousers. You grab the hem of your camisole and pull it over your head, while his eyes are preoccupied with the expanse of your thighs and the thin scrap of material you pass for underwear these days. Your hand reaches behind your back for the clasp of your bra.

“Stop.”

You don't move.

“Come here.”

As you advance toward him, he does not move, just watches you as you straddle his legs, fingering the buttons on his vest. You begin to unbutton them, torturously slow, and when it hangs open you start on the buttons of his shirt. He says nothing, just watches as you pull the tails from his trousers and run your hands up his smooth, rippled abdomen to slip the fabric from his broad shoulders. Your hands skim down his arms, freeing his hands from the sleeves. You press your lips to the hollow of his throat and feel his moan vibrating through his skin.

His fingers find the clip at the back of your head and frees your hair, allowing it to fall around your shoulders as you kiss and lick your way down his chest and stomach. His breathing is uneven now, his fingers threading through your hair as you undo his belt. You flick open the button of his trousers and ease down the zipper, reaching inside. He sighs as you free him from the fabric of his boxers. Your tongue flicks out, licking the leaking tip and you can feel him shudder. You wrap your lips around him, sucking softly as your hands find his balls, kneading gently. His hand tightens in your hair and he presses your head down. You oblige by taking him all the way into your mouth. You relax your throat, allowing him to rock his hips into you. You chance a look up at him and his eyes are closed tight, plush bottom lip captured between his teeth. You would smile but your mouth is otherwise occupied.

He doesn't make a sound as you work him in and out of your mouth and all you want is to hear him moan, grunt, anything. So you decide to take matters into your own hands, so to speak. Relaxing your throat again you take him all the way in and once he's buried to the hilt you start to hum. He gasps, his nails digging into your scalp as you pull back slowly, your lips vibrating around him. You move to take him in again but he holds your head steady, only the tip in your mouth. You hum harder and a low moan escapes from his lips.

“Stop!” he exclaims suddenly, yanking your hair hard.

It all happens so fast. One minute you're on your knees giving the blow job of your life, the next your bent over his desk, your cheek pressed firmly into the wood. One of his hands holds you by the back of your neck, keeping you still, the other is sliding down your waist, over your ass.

“You argue a good point, Miss Shayze…May I call you Addie?”

You can't help but chuckle. You just had the man's dick in your mouth and he's asking permission to use your first name. You nod as best you can from your submissive position.

“Good.” He sighs as his fingers move along the edges of your underwear. “As I said, Addie, you argue a good point. But I'm not entirely sure I should keep you just yet.”

The sound of ripping fabric sounds into the room and you are now exposed to him completely. Your heart is pounding so hard you are sure it's going to break through your ribcage. Lust has blurred your vision and set your skin on fire. All you want him to do is touch you, fuck you, but now the only part of him you can feel is the hand that's holding you down.

“I-I would like you to…to allow me to plead my case, Mr. Timberlake,” you grit out.

“Please,” he says, and you feel his body align with yours, his breath fanning your hair as he leans over to whisper in your ear. “Call me Justin.”

With one long thrust he's inside you, pounding out a rhythm that is so frantic and needy that you can do nothing but take it. Each thrust rips a guttural moan from your throat, your breath coming in short pants, trying to hang on to your sanity. You can hear him grunting behind you, the force of his hips against yours and the unrelenting oak of the desk driving him deeper and deeper inside you, touching all the places that drive you crazy.

Suddenly his breath is against your ear again and he whispers, “Is that all you got Addie?”

He's taunting you. The bastard is actually taunting you. Flattening your palms against the desk, you force yourself back against him. Both his hands are on your hips now, giving your more room to arch against him, allowing him to slide even deeper inside you.

“Oh god,” he groans, almost inaudibly as his fingers dig into your hips, nails biting flesh.

He's desperate now, wanting you, not thinking about anything but the rhythm he's setting. Now is your chance.

In a feat of true acrobatics, you take your chance and roll your body, bringing one leg up high, clearing his head by mere centimeters and you are on your back, staring up at his astonished face.

“Is that all you got, Justin?” you taunt, throwing your other leg onto his shoulder.

He smirks devilishly, planting both hands on either side of your head, giving himself more leverage as he begins a slow, grinding pace against you. Your head falls back and you just let him work you like that, your body burning around him, desperate for release. Your hands that were running continuously up and down his arms are now wondering to his chest, rubbing down, your fingers brushing against the dark hair trailing from his belly button down to where his body is meeting yours. You move lower, your hand brushing him, hot, hard and wet, as he enters your body. He moans deeply, his pace becoming more frantic. Encouraged by his response you make a v of your middle and index fingers sliding them so they that are nestled against yourself and rubbing against him as he enters you. It was this action that causes the tingle that has been building in your stomach to explode and race down your legs to your toes. You cry out, your body spasming uncontrollably around him and his back arches, thrusting hard into you as his own release rockets through his body. He collapses against you then, your legs sliding from his shoulders to the floor. He buries his head into your neck trying to regain some semblance of composure, mewing softly as the aftershocks of your orgasm clench his now overly sensitive flesh.

He pulls away from you, all too soon in your opinion, and reaches down to pull up his pants. He politely turns his back as you gather your clothes and try to dress yourself the best you can with your body trembling the way it is. Once you are composed enough you turn to find him behind his desk, shrugging on his suit jacket. He picks up a file from his desk and makes his way toward you.

“Look over this file, Miss Shazye,” he says handing you the folder, heavy with documents. “Brief Trace with it in the morning.”

He brushes past you and you look at him dumb founded. “Sir?” you question and he stops while opening the doors to his office.

“In there you'll find that the client had a prenuptial agreement that makes the agreement that we discussed in this morning's meeting null and void. It was very clever of you to find that file…” he says his eyes boring into yours, “all on your own.”

You stare at him for a moment before saying “Thank you, sir.”

“Don't mention it,” he says with a wry smile that tells you he means it. “After all, we can't have the whole office thinking you fucked the boss to keep your job.”