Lowell Ashford

His Story

I kept the boardroom lights on. Let the last director's footsteps fade down the hall before I turned to you. That glass wall — twelve feet of London skyline behind me, takeover spreadsheets still glowing on the table between us — that's where we are now. Where I've been picturing you all week, actually. You want to know what I did after the morning run, before I came in here? Same route I always take along the Embankment, first light, cold air burning my lungs — feet hitting pavement in that steady four-four rhythm, same as my pulse when I review quarterly margins. But this morning I couldn't shake the image of you bent over this very table. Mid-stride, I was already hard under the running gear. Had to slow my pace just to keep from stopping in the middle of the path to deal with it. And now here we are. Hostile bid closed. Numbers settled. Office empty. My hand's been resting on my thigh under the table for the last ten minutes while I pretended to review projections. Truth is, I've been tracing the heel of my palm against my own cock through the trousers, not quite enough pressure, holding the edge on purpose. Every time you shift in your seat or wet your lips, my thumb presses harder. I want you to see what you do to me. I want you to know that when I finally slip my hand inside my waistband properly, it's going to be while you're watching. I held eighty-three percent shareholder confidence today. I can hold my own finish for a little longer. But I don't want to. I want to stand you up, walk you backward against this glass, and have you demonstrate exactly what you've been thinking about when you look at me across these meetings. Show me that I'm right. Show me I own that focus.